In long days after the loss of their unborn babies,
journalists Gibney and Yang began a different kind of
healing journey, looking “desperately for answers… finding
meaning in human experience.” Alas, for them, as non-white
women, it was lacking.
It was then that they began researching, specifically
seeking stories from Native women and women of color – tales
that were painful to tell, or that the tellers had
suppressed. This book is made from those stories.
Here are tales of women who knew their babies were dying;
they knew about problems, that the baby was sick, wasn’t
flourishing, wouldn’t live; they minimized news of birth
defects. Mistakes were made, maybe; guilt was involved, or a
doctor was particularly uncaring. No matter; those mothers
wanted their babies, their first or second or seventh
pregnancy that didn’t last. Their newborn that didn’t live.
They’re memories of an Anishinaabeg woman, a Thai refugee, a
black woman with white in-laws, an Asian American woman, a
wife of a Mongolian man who didn’t speak his language
enough, each left with empty arms, dealing with “a tiny
baby” in a way that makes sense at the end of something that
makes no sense at all. Each wondering what happened, and
getting answers that left them angry, stunned, satisfied
that it wasn’t their “fault,” or without answers altogether.
And yet – there’s hope in this book.
Hope in the tales of the future, and babies that will live
to hear about a missing sibling. Hope for twins, though
there should’ve been triplets. Hope, when one can’t be a
“creator of children” and instead heals by creating
something else.
Without a doubt, What God is Honored Here? may be the
most painful book you read this year – not because of what’s
in it, but because of its content.
That may seem like a contradiction, but here: the pain
doesn’t come from the stories and poems themselves, but from
what they say and what they mean for women of color.
Statistics, seen in the introduction, don’t lie. It’s what’s
told that feels like a knife.
Some of the tales are recalled in the most emotionless
voices imaginable, with flat words of decades-old disbelief.
Others brim with anger tinged with guilt, and an Everest of
grief. Every now and then, humor peeks between lines of this
book, forcing a quick lightness before plunging back in.
And then there’s that hope…
For mothers who grieve, this book is great but it’s also for
fathers, grandmas, aunties, and friends. Just know this: it
may be cathartic to cry through What God is Honored Here?
but take it slow. Give yourself time, and this book’ll be
more than just okay.
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