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A review by writersreads
A Different Drummer by William Melvin Kelley
4.0
From the very first chapter, I knew that this book was a keeper – and, to me, even if its story didn’t unroll the way I wanted it, I knew it wouldn’t matter. Because its prose would carry me through on their own.
The images in its opening alone were weighty and powerful ones – spent with the enslaved man, kept in the belly of the boat, with shoulders “so broad he had to climb those stairs sideways.” Such power in those descriptions of him. The chains that hung from him and made him look “like a fully trimmed Christmas tree.” And when he was led off the boat there were so many chains coming off him with so many men clinging on that he was described as looking like a maypole. And then the baby … snuggled into the curl of his arm – that to the men looked like “a tumor or growth” before they realised it had eyes and arms and legs. I, too, felt chained to this man, to this book. And this scene, as an opening – a small story within a story – held a bleak grandeur that lured me in.
This book pulls up its strength from its characters. Diverse, engrossing, and unpredictable. It follows them tenderly, as their lives unravel – events crossing into each other’s stories and back out again, connecting them briefly, where they had initially thought there was no connection at all. And each of them come to play their part in the event that takes place, during that summer of 1957. When every African American citizen of Sutton, Massachusetts, abandons their homes and livelihoods. Each of them packing their cars and their bags – never to be seen again.
One of the characters at the forefront, and one I came to absolutely adore, was little Harold (known as Mister Leland). His sections were my favourite, and I waited for them to sprout up eagerly. Kelley really captured the voice and essence of this eight-year-old boy, and I would have loved a book devoted entirely to his POV. Such an endearing and innocent little one – and I especially liked his interactions with his younger brother, Walter. Just the way they’d play and speak to each other was so true and read so well. And the way he would reason with himself, as only a boy of his age could – and how he’d understand things far beyond his understanding, without even realising it.
This book is filled with so many quiet, human perceptions. They really built on the characters and their complexity. What you thought in one chapter is quickly turned on its head in another.
"Daddy never really got along with my brother. I used to watch him look at Dewey sometimes. He’d look at him for a long time, and shake his head and turn away. It wasn’t like he was disgusted with him – like Dewey thinks – more like he wanted to say something to him and didn’t know how."
Whilst reading this book, and at first examining its chapters at the head of the book, I had a feeling of circular motion, a whirlpool of sorts or, and it may sound cliché, but a spool of thread, gradually unravelling. And, with each new point of view, an extra step was taken towards the spool’s wood. I have always enjoyed books that start and end in the same – or similar – places. When, of course, nothing is the same, and everything has changed. This kind of circular movement is very satisfying to read.
The book built in its tension until the very end, and in its ending held a chilling message. One of innocence and lasting intolerance. A powerful read, and one with a message on each of its pages. One that, upon finishing, you put down and breath – still amongst it. Like climbing out of a pool and sitting on the beside the water, still dripping.
I don’t really know what else to say, that hasn’t already, I’m sure, been said. I really enjoyed this story, and at times really felt it in my heart. Sometimes a real ache. And then, eventually, I looked up and realised I was finished. I thought I would need to take my time with it, giving myself a month before its release, but I finished it within a day – come dinner time I was three quarters of the way through. It swept me up and led me off, and I was happy to have been led by it.
Its final image will stay with me. It is, like the entire book, a strong one. Bitter sweet, heart-wrenching, but in its own way – and in its own bleakness – hopeful.
The images in its opening alone were weighty and powerful ones – spent with the enslaved man, kept in the belly of the boat, with shoulders “so broad he had to climb those stairs sideways.” Such power in those descriptions of him. The chains that hung from him and made him look “like a fully trimmed Christmas tree.” And when he was led off the boat there were so many chains coming off him with so many men clinging on that he was described as looking like a maypole. And then the baby … snuggled into the curl of his arm – that to the men looked like “a tumor or growth” before they realised it had eyes and arms and legs. I, too, felt chained to this man, to this book. And this scene, as an opening – a small story within a story – held a bleak grandeur that lured me in.
This book pulls up its strength from its characters. Diverse, engrossing, and unpredictable. It follows them tenderly, as their lives unravel – events crossing into each other’s stories and back out again, connecting them briefly, where they had initially thought there was no connection at all. And each of them come to play their part in the event that takes place, during that summer of 1957. When every African American citizen of Sutton, Massachusetts, abandons their homes and livelihoods. Each of them packing their cars and their bags – never to be seen again.
One of the characters at the forefront, and one I came to absolutely adore, was little Harold (known as Mister Leland). His sections were my favourite, and I waited for them to sprout up eagerly. Kelley really captured the voice and essence of this eight-year-old boy, and I would have loved a book devoted entirely to his POV. Such an endearing and innocent little one – and I especially liked his interactions with his younger brother, Walter. Just the way they’d play and speak to each other was so true and read so well. And the way he would reason with himself, as only a boy of his age could – and how he’d understand things far beyond his understanding, without even realising it.
This book is filled with so many quiet, human perceptions. They really built on the characters and their complexity. What you thought in one chapter is quickly turned on its head in another.
"Daddy never really got along with my brother. I used to watch him look at Dewey sometimes. He’d look at him for a long time, and shake his head and turn away. It wasn’t like he was disgusted with him – like Dewey thinks – more like he wanted to say something to him and didn’t know how."
Whilst reading this book, and at first examining its chapters at the head of the book, I had a feeling of circular motion, a whirlpool of sorts or, and it may sound cliché, but a spool of thread, gradually unravelling. And, with each new point of view, an extra step was taken towards the spool’s wood. I have always enjoyed books that start and end in the same – or similar – places. When, of course, nothing is the same, and everything has changed. This kind of circular movement is very satisfying to read.
The book built in its tension until the very end, and in its ending held a chilling message. One of innocence and lasting intolerance. A powerful read, and one with a message on each of its pages. One that, upon finishing, you put down and breath – still amongst it. Like climbing out of a pool and sitting on the beside the water, still dripping.
I don’t really know what else to say, that hasn’t already, I’m sure, been said. I really enjoyed this story, and at times really felt it in my heart. Sometimes a real ache. And then, eventually, I looked up and realised I was finished. I thought I would need to take my time with it, giving myself a month before its release, but I finished it within a day – come dinner time I was three quarters of the way through. It swept me up and led me off, and I was happy to have been led by it.
Its final image will stay with me. It is, like the entire book, a strong one. Bitter sweet, heart-wrenching, but in its own way – and in its own bleakness – hopeful.