Tell Me a Story

Tell Me a Story

Although I’m ashamed to admit it, my knowledge of United States history and politics is embarrassing and poor at best. As an elementary student, I did average in social studies, and as a high school student, I can even say that I did well. I’m enormously grateful to my intense-attention-to-detail and good memory. However, ask me about the Spanish Indian War or about the Cold War, and you’ll be greeted with a blank stare. I even just struggled coming up with historic events to mention right there. Consequently, I’m angered by the way that history is taught to children, focusing on the memorization of dates and names. I’ve never been sure how to get around that… until now. Tell me a story.

Prior to reading Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson, I was intimidated by the historical fiction and had very little exposure to the genre. I was convinced that I wouldn’t like it simply because I would be grasping for understanding the entire book. I didn’t want to gloss over countries and politics that I didn’t understand, like I usually do with newspaper articles and journals. I wanted to learn something. Surprise! I liked the novel, AND I learned something.

The year 1776 came to life in the pages of Chains. As the British invaded New York City, the tension between the Patriots and Loyalists took my breath away. Told through the eyes of a 13 year old slave, Isabel, the story is both heartbreaking and realistic. Raw emotions flow like water from the “Tea Water Pump,” and hope is set ablaze like the great New York fire, as war is waged throughout the city. There may be only one Revolutionary War being fought on the surface, but the talons of war claw and tear at the relationships of all who live during this time - Patriots and Loyalists, men and women, children and adults, blacks and whites. No one is spared.

Touched by Isabel’s courage and determination, I became emotionally invested in her relationship with Ruth, her only sister, and her ability to survive against insurmountable odds. She is an enchanting character who sees beauty in the simplest of things. Even as she faces her cheek being branded with an “I” for insolent, Isabel fights against her tears and focused her eyes on life: “In betwixt me and the brazier, dandelions grew in the mud” (147). She sees not a weed but a beautiful flower: “The dandelions were lemon yellow with bright green leaves and thick stalks pointing at the sky” (148). Her senses are alive, and so is she.

Laurie Halse Anderson writes with glorious, descriptive detail that truly captures the reader and places him/her alongside Isabel and her quest for freedom. The story opens up with Isabel at her mother’s grave, describing the moment: “I could smell the honey that had dripped on my hands, the damp ground under me, and the salt of the ocean. I could hear cows mooing in a far pasture and bees buzzing in a nearby clover patch” (6). As the story continues, Isabel describes the ghost of her mother on the shores as they journey to an unknown destination: “They kept moving us over the water, stealing us away from our ghosts and our ancestors, who cried salty rivers into the sand. That’s where Momma was now, wailing at the water’s edge, while her girls were pulled out of sight under white sails that cracked in the wind” (25). Anderson requires few words and yet invokes sparkling clear, vivid images. Even as Isabel is being slapped across the face by Madam, it’s “Craaack! Lightning struck from a blue sky” and simply the act of being hit. My heart raced with every stolen biscuit and soared with every row across the river. I wasn’t just a passive observer but an active participant from beginning to end.

I found myself completely incredulous at the history of the United States, even asking myself, “did this really happen?” As a white American, I am plagued by the guilt that exists in an unjust society where the privileged are given rights simply by birth, in honor of the “right” skin color. I feel so far removed from the world of racism, as I was raised sharing Thanksgiving dinner with the homeless and celebrating multicultural Christmases. Just this past summer, my mom threw a party in celebration of diversity. Numerous countries were represented – Mexico, Ghana, Jamaica, West Indies, Kenya, and Nepal to name a few. History is an important part of culture, and too often the truth is lost amidst facts and dates. Perhaps dull history books should be coupled with historical fiction because everybody loves a good story.