I got a heavy heart: a "The Twelve Tribes of Hattie" review

Much like Maggie Stiefvater's The Raven Boys before it, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie was on my to-read list for the longest time. I remember when Oprah relaunched her book club with this as the first title, a family saga where each chapter explored a mother and each one of her children amidst the rise and fall of notable moments in Black history from the 1920's to the 80's. Thirteen-year-old me was fascinated and put it in the back of my mind for future reading, but I didn't jump on the chance to actually read it until I found it at a library book sale last year. Now that I'm in college, I'm aspiring to read more adult fiction, and this seemed like one of the first things I could scratch off the list. I have always been fascinated by the idea of a book exploring a complete family tree, and those that have done more intimate portraits (Celeste Ng, for example) have been some of my favorites. Why not give this novel a shot and see how it goes? Besides, Ayana Mathis's status as an Iowa Writers' Workshop graduate greatly interested me because I want to pursue that at some point.

Despite divisive reviews on Goodreads, I found myself really enjoying The Twelve Tribes of Hattie. I listened to the audiobook and read the physical book, which was interesting because it slowed down the pacing of the story and really allowed me to understand the characters and their situations. There's also so much to unpack from each of Hattie's children, their emotional turmoil and views of the world collecting into heavy chapters that, although hard to read, end up being worthwhile. So much of the human experience in the 1900's is brought to light: racism, homophobia, class, and mental illness, and Mathis writes about it unflinchingly, with enough simple eloquence to land a punch. Traits between Hattie's kids may get repetitive, the writing may only care about the children in their own chapters, and they may feel underdeveloped, but for those brief moments in the spotlight, Mathis showcases the struggles of one family trying to stay salvaged despite all their fears, all their anger, beautifully. It's a gripping and haunting read that I feel would be wonderfully translated to a TV miniseries just because it would be so potent and evocative. But by itself, it still packs quite the punch and makes its presence known.

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In 1925, seventeen-year-old Hattie Shepherd gives birth to twins, Philadelphia and Jubilee. Not long after they enter the world, they die of pneumonia, something they could've been saved from if only the family had enough money to pay for medicine. After this, the Shepherd family shifts into a bleak shell of what it could have been. Hattie is disappointed with her husband, August, a man barely able to find work yet able to comfort his children and cheat because he believes his affairs don't mean anything. As a result, Hattie's mothering lacks the tenderness her nine children desperately need, and this loss starts to bleed into their lives. It affects who they date, their emotional states, and how they cope with the world around them. None of it's ever easy, but when you're a Black person living in a world that barely accepts who you are, what else is there to do? The years pass, hearts breaking and tragic promises being fulfilled along the way. Will the Shepherd family ever regain what they've always longed for? Or are they doomed for hopelessness?

As you can see, this novel is a difficult read. Nothing really seems to work out for these characters, who we hear from mostly in third person except for two, which are in first person. A lot of that has to do with the depressing scenarios Mathis has them occupy and explore. Floyd, the oldest child following the death of the twins, enjoys being a womanizer but balks once he realizes he has feelings for a guy he meets while on tour for his trumpet-playing (seeing as he lives in 1940's America, you can see how that goes). Ruthie, the product of an affair between Hattie and another man, starts a re-evaluation of everything Hattie knows about herself and what she's willing to sacrifice in order to have the ideal life. The same happens with Ella, an actual product of Hattie's marriage that comes right when they are slammed with the worst of poverty. Pearl, Hattie's well-off sister, volunteers to take Ella, and although she'll enter a world of splendor, Pearl forgets that she can be targeted just for the color of her skin. And Cassie, the oldest daughter, bows under the weight of schizophrenia, voices convincing her that her parents are trying to poison her own child, a girl named Sala. Everything feels well-represented and detailed enough to allow readers to appreciate what's on the page and expand off of that. Rich characters result, and despite repeated motifs throughout each chapter (romance, gambling, and impulsiveness), their brief time in the spotlight allows readers to fully come to terms to all that happens to them in the significant moments of their lives.

Mathis's writing is another highlight of The Twelve Tribes of Hattie. At some points dialogue felt repetitive (I've never been a fan of "said" being constantly used to refer to characters talking) and the writing perhaps simplistic, but Mathis is aware that her story is anchored in her characters. As such, the prose bears their experiences in all their glorious sadness. It's incredibly effective and goes to show that not all novels require a gripping plot to keep going. Sometimes you just need a cast of characters to get invested in and supportive writing to back them up. It makes their tales so much more gripping.

The issues Mathis decides to explore also carry great weight. In particular, the way she writes about sex is fascinating. I was surprised to find that some of the content in this novel revolved around falling in love and the art of sexual activity itself. Some of it wasn't the most necessary, but I couldn't help but admire the way Mathis took it (it was incredibly daring to have one of Hattie's daughters end up in a relationship with the exact same man Hattie had an affair with). Mathis bore a lot of sad truths about the nature of sex; unfortunately, not all of it is passionate and loving. It can be aggressive, desperate, and even an obsessive necessity.

But I think the biggest gripe I had with this title was that it was slow. For a 243-page novel, it didn't exactly move at the speed of light. At points I fell in and out despite the captivating characters just because nothing seemed to be happening (this was especially true for characters reflecting). Yet when the climatic events happened, I was right back in. I'm curious to see how Mathis's pacing will be affected in her next novel, where she'll only be following two characters. I hope it's a little bit faster than it was here, especially because some of the actions that happened in this book could have benefited from faster pacing.

At the end of the day, though, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie is still a great book. Mathis writes poignantly on one family's struggles with the world and within themselves and on a variety of topics relevant to not only Black people but all people. Definitely consider this if you like family sagas, want to pick up more work by graduates of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, or want a taste of Black history from an African-American fiction writer's perspective.