A Study in Character: Dedra Johnson on the “Real” Voice in Fiction

A nine-year-old girl wakes up on the morning she is to leave her mother’s New Orleans home. Sandrine Miller will spend the summer with her father, and she will visit her grandmother, who she adores most of all — who lets her bring the collard greens in from the garden, teaches her to make jam, takes her to the library for more of the books she loves. Sandrine can already feel the strength in her grandmother’s fingers as she works cornrows into her hair. Even so, anxiety dilutes Sandrine’s excitement. Will her mother discover her? She is standing on a stool, wiping down the tops of the kitchen cabinets, early, before her mother (Sandrine hopes) is awake, righting an oversight, that, if caught, would be considered a grave one. Will her mother keep Sandrine in New Orleans as punishment?

“I stopped in the doorway, my clothes for the drive still on the floor where they had fallen off when Mama picked up the suitcases; I tucked the clothes under my arm. ‘You keep your mouth shut. He asks you about me or this house you just say ‘fine,’ hear me?’ When I left, she was muttering, ‘He don’t want to live with me, he don’t get to know what goes on in my goddamn house…’” (Pg. 3)

So begins “Sandrine’s Letter to Tomorrow,” Dedra Johnson’s impeccable first novel; hopeful and hurtful by turns, where reader and narrator walk together along a path of prose that wends its way through Sandrine’s troubling childhood.

Through Sandrine we encounter the quandaries of adult authority, explore the specter of loneliness, and observe unusual resilience in the face of trouble, all of which compels us to examine questions of responsibility: of adults to children, of children to themselves, of readers to the characters they learn to love.

“Mama cooked breakfast every morning before work and I ate just enough to stop the pains in my stomach. Soon I’d be eating biscuits and grits and hard-rind bacon and homemade jelly every morning for the rest of my life. In church on Sunday I stood, kneeled, said words without thinking about them until it was time to go home and even though I usually couldn’t wait for Lent each year because once a week our class did the Stations of the Cross and I could look at the stained-glass windows showing the Mysteries up close, the paper-white Jesus, the drops of blood, Mary’s face turned up to heaven, begging God to save her son just for her, no other reason, just because she loved Him and wanted Him, I didn’t even glance at the windows and didn’t care about any of it. (Pgs. 67 – 68)”

We come to know Sandrine as we know the interior angles of our own assumptions. Yet we also know her as we know the child who sits beside our son at school, the girl we see, day in and day out, at the library — the one we caught once out on the sidewalk admonishing her sister. Dedra Johnson has affected a difficult, disconcerting, yet delicious writerly effect: the unreliable narrator. Sandrine tells us what’s happening, accurately renders her encounters, but does so in a voice that reflects a child’s vision of the world. It is us, Dedra Johnson’s readers, who recognize another layer of meaning: we know Sandrine’s challenges should not be hers to face alone. Thus we are bound to her, and to each other, by our concern. Will anyone step in? Are we the ones who must do our best to help?

It is in this way we recognize the power of fiction — that it compels us to care for those who are, in fact, imagined, that it shows us the most difficult things and makes it possible to look. Fiction is a window through which we view the experience of others, those whose lives may be different from our own, but who we are drawn to through the fact of our mutual humanity. It is this gift that Dedra Johnson gives her readers: a character that elicits our compassion, who reminds us that that the power for change lies in what draws us beyond the borders of the self.                 —  Carlin M. Wragg, Editor