Red at the Bone

Red at the Bone

by Jacqueline Woodson

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Overview

AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

"An exquisite tale of family legacy….The power and poetry of Woodson’s writing conjures up Toni Morrison." – People

 
"In less than 200 sparsely filled pages, this book manages to encompass issues of class, education, ambition, racial prejudice, sexual desire and orientation, identity, mother-daughter relationships, parenthood and loss….With Red at the Bone, Jacqueline Woodson has indeed risen — even further into the ranks of great literature." – NPR
 
"This poignant tale of choices and their aftermath, history and legacy, will resonate with mothers and daughters." –Tayari Jones, bestselling author of An American Marriage, in O Magazine

An unexpected teenage pregnancy pulls together two families from different social classes, and exposes the private hopes, disappointments, and longings that can bind or divide us from each other, from the New York Times-bestselling and National Book Award-winning author of Another Brooklyn and Brown Girl Dreaming.

 
Moving forward and backward in time, Jacqueline Woodson's taut and powerful new novel uncovers the role that history and community have played in the experiences, decisions, and relationships of these families, and in the life of the new child.

As the book opens in 2001, it is the evening of sixteen-year-old Melody's coming of age ceremony in her grandparents' Brooklyn brownstone. Watched lovingly by her relatives and friends, making her entrance to the music of Prince, she wears a special custom-made dress. But the event is not without poignancy. Sixteen years earlier, that very dress was measured and sewn for a different wearer: Melody's mother, for her own ceremony-- a celebration that ultimately never took place.

Unfurling the history of Melody's parents and grandparents to show how they all arrived at this moment, Woodson considers not just their ambitions and successes but also the costs, the tolls they've paid for striving to overcome expectations and escape the pull of history. As it explores sexual desire and identity, ambition, gentrification, education, class and status, and the life-altering facts of parenthood, Red at the Bone most strikingly looks at the ways in which young people must so often make long-lasting decisions about their lives--even before they have begun to figure out who they are and what they want to be.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780525535294
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 09/17/2019
Sold by: Penguin Group
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 208
Sales rank: 476
File size: 490 KB

About the Author

Jacqueline Woodson is the bestselling author of more than two dozen award-winning books, including the 2016 New York Times–bestselling National Book Award finalist for adult fiction, Another Brooklyn. Among her many accolades, Woodson is a four-time National Book Award finalist, a four-time Newbery Honor winner, a two-time NAACP Image Award Winner, and a two-time Coretta Scott King Award winner. Her New York Times–bestselling memoir, Brown Girl Dreaming, received the National Book Award in 2014. Woodson is also the 2018–2019 National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature and the recipient of the 2018 Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award and the 2018 Children’s Literature Legacy Award. In 2015, she was named the Young People’s Poet Laureate by the Poetry Foundation. She lives with her family in New York.

Read an Excerpt

1

 

But that afternoon there was an orchestra playing. Music filling the brownstone. Black fingers pulling violin bows and strumming cellos, dark lips around horns, a small brown girl with pale pink nails on flute. Malcolm's younger brother, his dark skin glistening, blowing somberly into a harmonica. A broad-shouldered woman on harp. From my place on the stairs, I could see through the windows curious white people stopping in front of the building to listen. And as I descended, the music grew softer, the lyrics inside my head becoming a whisper, I knew a girl named Nikki, guess you could say she was a sex fiend.

No vocalist. The little girl didn't know the words. The broad-shouldered woman, having once belted them out loud while showering, was now saved and refused to remember them. Iris wouldn't allow them to be sung and Malcolm's brother's sweet seven-year-old mouth was full. Still, they moved through my head as though Prince himself were beside me. I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine.

And in the room, there was the pink and the green of my grandmother's sorority, the black and gold of my grandfather's Alpha brothers-gray-haired and straight-backed, flashing gold-capped teeth and baritone A-Phi-A! as I made my entrance. High-pitched calls of Skee-wee answering back to them. Another dream for me in their calling out to each other. Of course you're gonna pledge one day, my grandmother said to me over and over again. When I was a child, she surprised me once with a gift-wrapped hoodie, pale pink with My Grandmother Is An AKA in bright green letters. That's just legacy, Melody, she said. I pledged, your grandfather pledged-

 

Iris didn't.

 

A pause. Then quietly, her lips at my ear, That's because your mama isn't legacy.

This, I whispered back to her, quoting her sorority mantra, is a serious matter.

My grandmother laughed and laughed.

Look back at me on that last day in May. Finally sixteen and the moment like a hand holding me out to the world. Rain giving way to a spectacular sun. Its rays speckling through the stained glass, dancing off the hardwood floors. The orchestra's music lifting through the open windows and out over the block as though it had always belonged to the Brooklyn air. Look at me. Hair flat-ironed and curling over my shoulders. Red lipstick, charcoaled eyes. The dress, Iris's dress, unworn in her closet until that moment. Already, when it was time for her ceremony, I was on my way. Already, at nearly sixteen, her belly told a story a celebration never could. My grandfather's oversize dress shirts backdropping the baby fat still pouting her cheeks, the fine lanugo hair still clinging to the nape of her neck. Still, that afternoon, the years that separated us could have been fifty-Iris standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me. Me looking away from her. Where was I looking? At my father? My grandparents? At anything. At anyone. But her.

Earlier that day, she came into my room as I pulled stockings over my thighs, attempted to clip them to an ivory gartered corset. These too had once belonged to her-unworn, still boxed and wrapped with tissue paper. The fragile stocking struggling against being locked into the garter-this I had learned from my grandmother-and she from her mother and on back-mine the only ceremony skipping a generation of mothers showing daughters. This-the corset wearing, the garters, the silk stockings-was as old as the house my father and I shared with my grandparents. This ritual of marking class and time and transition stumbled back into the days of cotillions, then morphed and morphed again until it was this, some forgotten ancestor's gartered corset-and a pair of new silk stockings, delicate as dust.

I guess you win this round, she said. Prince it is.

I looked up at her. The evening before she'd twisted her hair into tight pin curls, and standing before me, she began to pull them loose, her thick reddish hair springing into coils down over her ears. The baby fat long gone from her cheeks, replaced by high, stunning bones. I pressed my hand against my own face, felt the same structure beneath my skin.

I didn't know it was a competition, Iris.

Once, a long time ago, she was Mommy and I held her neck, her arms, her belly tight with dimpled baby hands. I remember that. How I reached and reached and reached for her. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.

The dress, white and unworn, lay spread out on the bed beside me. Behind it, a framed poster of Rage Against The Machine's 1997 concert. My father and I went because Wu-Tang was opening. I was twelve then and the two of us yelled and rapped and cheered so hard, we both stayed home the next day drinking lemon-honey tea to nurse our sore throats. The poster was professionally framed-the red letters against a gray matte, the oversize black frame picking up the muted colors of the black-and-white photograph. Beside it, another poster. If someone said choose between your mom and dad, I wouldn't need to blink. Wouldn't stutter. I'd run like a little kid and jump into my daddy's arms.

Feels like it's always a competition these days. Somewhere along the way, I became your enemy. She pressed her hand to her throat and held it there, her fingers gently moving across her collarbone as though she were checking to see if it remained intact. A gold bracelet slid down away from her wrist. Tiny diamonds catching the light. I swallowed, at once envying and adoring all the ways in which the word lovely could refer to my mother. So strange still, how different we were.

I had given up on trying to negotiate the stockings into the ridiculous garters and was just sitting there staring at her, elbows on my thighs, hands hanging down.

I don't get it. This is my ceremony and you're trying to be stuck about the music. You blew yours, remember-

No, the baby in my belly blew mine. Remember?

Don't even, Iris. Then for a moment, like so many times before this, I lost the words. Watched them drop . . . No. Dissipate . . . from the air between us. Dissipate. The word had shown up on my SAT prep tests again and again until it landed in this room with us. Between my mother. And me. Don't even. I didn't ask to be born. I didn't say-I didn't say do what you and my dad were doing. You could have waited.

Iris raised an eyebrow at me. I know you're not trying to have some kind of abstinence conversation with me.

You could have. There wasn't some rush to do what you guys did.

You mean have sex? Can you really not even say it? Sex, Melody. It's just a three-letter word.

I can say it. I just don't need to right now.

And if we had . . . waited, as you say. Where would you be?

You regret the hell out of me.

Don't curse. I don't regret you. I couldn't imagine this world without you in it.

Then what is it?

She came over to the bed, sat down on the other side of the dress, and ran her hand longingly over it. There were crocheted white flowers at the wrist. The attached train had alternating silk and satin panels. The seamstress had already been working on it for months before my grandparents found out Iris was pregnant. By the time she started showing, the dress was almost done and paid for.

 

I don't know . . . , she said more to the dress than to me. It's Prince. It's my parents. It's your father. It's me. It's you already sixteen now. Where did all those years go? It's crazy.

There was a catch in her voice I didn't want to hear. Didn't want to deal with. Not now. Not on my day.

It's just Prince, for fuck's sake! It's not like I'm asking to walk in to N.W.A. or Lil' Bow Wow-

Stop cursing, Melody. You're better than that. And N.W.A., Lil' whatever . . . I don't even know what you're saying. She didn't look at me, just continued to run her hand back and forth over the dress. We had the same fingers, long and thin. Piano fingers, people said. But only she played.

I'm just saying it's Prince. And it's my ceremony and he's a genius so why are we even still talking about it? You already nixed the words. Let me at least have the music. Daddy doesn't care. He likes Prince too. Jeez!

For too long we said nothing. There was something moving through me like a razor in my chest-I didn't know then if it was rage or sadness or fear. Maybe Iris felt it too because she moved closer to me, rested her hand on the back of my neck, and pressed her lips into my hair. I wanted more, though-a hug, a kindness whispered into my ear. I wanted her to tell me I was beautiful, that she didn't care what music played, that she loved me. I wanted her to laugh with me about the ridiculousness of garters and stockings.

But instead, she got up, went over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. She stared down at the block as she freed the rest of her curls. It was gray out, drizzling. Downstairs, the orchestra had arrived. I could hear bows being pulled across violins. Could hear my grandfather playing Monk on the piano and imagined his dark fingers, knotted at the knuckles.

Do you like Malcolm?

She turned back to me. Her skin creased at the brow, her eyes-eyes I'd prayed for as a child, Please God let me wake up with Mommy's pretty amber eyes-red-veined now. Please God don't ever let me have eyes like her eyes are right now.

Malcolm? Sure. Yeah. He's still such a sweetie. She looked at me, her mouth turning up into a half smile.

What?

What exactly are you asking me, Melody?

Do you like him . . . for me? Do you think he's a good- I don't know.

 

I looked up at her. Who else was there to ask who had lived through it all? From beginning to baby. First kiss to hands on a body to sex. How did you even begin it? Keep it going? Wasn't it supposed to be now that she gave me the answers. Told me everything?

You guys have known each other since you were in diapers and he's always been . . . I mean, isn't he?

Isn't he what?

Nothing. Never mind. She put her hands up, surrendering. He seems, she said again, smiling. You just don't seem . . . his type.

Like you would know anything about him. Or me.

Like I said, I've known that boy since he was in diapers.

Yeah, Iris. Both of us were in diapers a long time ago.

We got quiet. Maybe all over the world there were daughters who knew their mothers as young girls and old women, inside and out, deep. I wasn't one of them. Even when I was a baby, my memory of her is being only halfway here.

I hid you from them, you know, she said-like she was looking into my head finally. Seeing something there. That's how you got here. They were hella good Catholics back then, but you would have been dust.

From who?

Whom, Melody. It's whom.

I was starting to sweat beneath the corset.

Your grandparents. Your beloved grandparents.

You didn't know. You told me you didn't know.

I never said I didn't know. I said I didn't know what to do.

She stopped talking suddenly and looked at me. Hard.

Is your period regular?

What . . . yeah! What the heck, Iris?

She exhaled. Shook her head. Okay, so if you have a regular period and then it just stops and it's not stopping because you're suddenly a super athlete or something-then you're probably pregnant. I'm just saying that to you in case no one else does-

I covered my ears. I'm good. Don't need to hear this. Not today. Not from you. Thanks.

No one ever said it to me. That's why I'm saying it to you. We can talk about this. By the time I was four months pregnant, what I didn't know was that on the other side of pregnancy there was Motherhood.

Of course it was, I said.

Of course it is, she said. I know that now.

How could you not know- You know what- Never mind. I don't get you.

The orchestra was warming up with "Jeannine, I Dream of Lilac Time." I could hear my grandfather singing the words along with Malcolm's little brother. One voice high. The other low. One voice young and unsure, the other old and clear and deep. I closed my eyes for a minute. The song was older than everyone in the house. When the trumpeter picked up a solo and the music lifted past where the voices had just been, I felt like my ribs were shattering. There was so much in all of it. Just. So. Much. I wanted to say to Iris, It all feels like it's trying to drift out into somebody's eternity. But when I looked up at her again, she was biting the edge of her thumbnail, her left eyebrow jumping the way it did when she was stressing.

I told Aubrey, she said, moving her finger away from her mouth and studying it. And then both of us made believe it wasn't happening for a few months. Because we were kids thinking that if we ignored it, it would go away. I hid you until I couldn't anymore, wearing your granddad's button-down shirts, telling him it was the style.

Did you want to miscarry me?

I was a child, Melody. I was younger than you are now! I wanted to see you born. I wanted to hold you. I was stunned that it was true-that you could have sex with someone and that sex could make another human.

I tried to imagine her in my grandfather's clothes. Everything about her was feminine and tailored and perfect. Everything about her felt the opposite of me. I could imagine me in my grandfather's clothes. But not her.

I wanted you. I wanted you growing in my body, I wanted you in my arms, I wanted you over my shoulder-

She got quiet.

And then the wanting was gone, wasn't it?

She shook her head. More time passed before she spoke again.

It wasn't gone. Just different. You're going to learn this. I mean, I hope you learn this. Love changes and changes. Then it changes again. Today, the love is me wanting to see you in that dress, she said. I want to see me in you because Me in that dress was over a long time ago. Sixteen was gone. Then seventeen, eighteen-all of it.

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Red at the Bone: A Novel 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
Anonymous 2 days ago
I'm in shock how she conveyed so much emotion and full blown descriptions of each character in such a slim novel that covered 16 years. Absolutely a must read.
TUDORQUEEN 14 days ago
I was intrigued by the concept of this story involving a black family. It begins with a sixteen year old girl named Melody majestically descending her staircase accompanied by an orchestra, wearing a beautiful white "coming out" dress that once belonged to her mother Iris...but she never got to wear...because she got pregnant with Melody at the age of 15. Melody's father Aubrey is so overcome with pride that the tears pour helplessly down his face, and he's flummoxed as to what to do with his hands. He's my favorite character in the book. Aubrey came from meager financial beginnings, but has all the right values. He did well in school and got a job in an accounting firm, and moved in with Iris and her parents during the pregnancy. He was content with simplicity while Iris always wanted more. Ironically enough, it was Aubrey's mother that pushed Iris to continue her education, and she eventually moved away to board at college. Iris felt exhilarated to be so far away and experience the freedom of life at college. Aubrey was left behind with Melody, who (on the few occasions she saw her) called her mother Iris instead of Mom. Aubrey clearly yearned for Iris, but Iris had other designs on life. The chapters are each narrated by different characters in the book, but their names aren't posted under the chapter numbers, so it was always disorienting to try to get a handle on who was talking. Other than this downfall, the writing was of high quality. On the positive side, I was encouraged to read a story about a child that was mistakenly conceived but got to be born, and was loved fiercely by the father and Iris's parents. The irony was that although Iris insisted on having and keeping the child, she later became very detached from her. For me the redeeming force in the book was Aubrey, who rose from living with his single mother in a roach infested apartment to be a fine man. He did everything right; he worked hard at school, got a decent job and absolutely adored his daughter. The teenage pregnancy was a shock, but Aubrey was present for his family. His love for Iris was unrequited, and I mourned for this good man. I found the character of Iris to be selfish and determined, and in sharp relief to Aubrey who valued the precious gift of Melody. Thank you to Riverhead Books / Penguin Publishing Group who provided an advance reader copy via Edelweiss.
Anonymous 16 days ago
Achingly beautiful tale of family woven through time told from many points of view. Jacqueline Woodson's words stay with you long after you've finished the book.
Meag 22 days ago
That Jacqueline Woodson is a wordsmith is no secret, and her ability to tell the stories of often ignored people (and to tell them so well) is second to none. Red at the Bone jumps through time and across five different characters with five very distinct voices, and somehow it works beautifully. It is a thorough portrait of how an unplanned pregnancy affects the lives of not just the parents, but family members and the baby itself. And it manages to elicit so many emotions in only 200 pages. I repeat, it's only 200 pages, so if you're hesitant to read it, just give it a shot. It'll be over before you know it (and you'll probably be wishing for more).
DeediReads 25 days ago
Wow. This book. What did we ever do to you, Jacqueline Woodson?? How can you be allowed to just swoop in there, break our hearts ten times in ten different ways, and then just leave?? So beautiful. Red at the Bone centers on one family, although it’s tough to say who the main character is. Perhaps it’s Iris, who shocked her family by having a baby at the age of sixteen. But the story opens on that child’s 16th birthday, and she and every one of her family members — her mother, her father, her grandfather, her grandmother — gets a first-person perspective, plus some third-person along the way. Woodson dives in and out of these characters’ heads and hearts, pulling at their lives and experiences in a way that gives you the most complete family portrait of all time. The story isn’t told linearly; we bounce around from past to present and then jump ahead, we get layers on layers. And while it isn’t long (only 208 pages and an audiobook run time of about four hours), this story will stay with you for a long time. It’s absolutely astounding how much of an impact Jacqueline Woodson can have on your heart in so few pages, and how full and beautiful she can make so many characters. She’s the best for a reason. The voice cast of the audiobook was also phenomenal. I usually like to listen to nonfiction and read fiction, because I like to spend more time savoring the words in fiction. But I’m so glad I listened to this one. It was emotional and very well done.
mudder17 26 days ago
Wow. So much emotion in such few pages. So hard to review right now because I'm still recovering from the emotion of the ending. Some sadness here, yes. But also love. And hope. This book is written from the point of view of five members of the family, although it begins with the youngest member at her 16th "Coming Out" party. The story does not follow linear time, and instead, each story adds another layer to this family and you feel like you get to know "their story" and who they are with every telling. There is pain, but there is also healing. Also covered are topics of racism, teen pregnancy, lgtbq, reconciliation, and life decisions and how they can change the course of your life. But through all of this, is the love this family has for each other and being able to hold your head up high. I highly recommend this book and feel like I've missed out on an amazing author. I will be checking out other books by her! Special thanks to #NetGalley, #JacquelineWoodson, and #PenguinBookRiverhead for this ARC in exchange for an honest review.
leslielb 26 days ago
I received a copy from NetGalley for an honest opinion. I've just finished this book, rather quickly. I'm not sure what to say. In the beginning, it was all over the place and I wasn't sure i would finish it. Then, it got better, and I read it in a hurry to see the end. It's all about choices and family and who really is and what makes a family. Does having a baby make you a mother? Or is it about who does the job? Are you with someone forever that you have a baby with? How do families come to terms with teenagers having babies? This one is a fairly quick read, once it gets going. Sometimes you have to read back to figure out who is talking. I recommend this as a quick read on the beach or the deck. 3 stars, because i felt it still needed some editing.
Anonymous 28 days ago
Red at the Bone is a multifaceted tale of generations of an African-American family. Woodson has created lyrical prose in its finest and adeptly moves the story back and forth through multiple time periods. The story explores multiple, powerful and poignant themes, including racism, class disparity, teen pregnancy, and family dynamics. It is a tale of what it means to grow up and how the outcome one’s rash decisions can have lifetime consequences. Beautifully told and exquisitely written. Many thanks to Netgalley, Riverhead Books and Jacqueline Woodson for my complimentary e-copy ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
Anonymous 28 days ago
Red at the Bone is a multifaceted tale of generations of an African-American family. Woodson has created lyrical prose in its finest and adeptly moves the story back and forth through multiple time periods. The story explores multiple, powerful and poignant themes, including racism, class disparity, teen pregnancy, and family dynamics. It is a tale of what it means to grow up and how the outcome one’s rash decisions can have lifetime consequences. Beautifully told and exquisitely written. Many thanks to Netgalley, Riverhead Books and Jacqueline Woodson for my complimentary e-copy ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
Alfoster 30 days ago
Lots of themes in this beautifully crafted novel by Woodson. It's the eve of Melody's party and as her parents and grandparents stand around to admire her, we move from present to past and learn the history of this family, their hardships, their failures, and their successes. And even though the novel is only 200 pages, it is filled with pathos and poignant moments as each member struggles with issues of class, identity, and sexual awakening. It's one of those books to savor long after the final page has been read. Thanks to NetGalley for this ARC!
Cortingbooks 3 months ago
“Guess that’s where the tears came from, knowing that there’s so much in this great big world that you don’t have a single ounce of control over.” Let’s take a trip down memory lane... Melody is a lost girl. Carrying a burden she never asked for. Aubrey is a lost man. Trying to make every thing right but failing again and again. Iris is a lost woman. Trying to get back the time she feels she lost. Woodson gives us glimpses of the choices made by each of these characters in the past and how it impacts their future. Red at the Bone is a beautifully haunting story about regrets, heartbreak, and loss that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page. A short but powerful read.