In this edition of “please don’t make me read this,” my mom chose The River We Remember for my Family Book Club, a book that falls right into that anti-sweet spot for me of mid-1900s middle America, (admittedly-often-justifiably) woe-is-me despair. It’s not quite at The Grapes of Wrath depths of misery like my father-in-law’s last pick of Demon Copperhead, but I am still giving the dirtiest stink eye come discussion time.

It’s not that the mystery surrounding the death of a not-so-beloved pillar of the community didn’t eventually grab my attention once the katamari ball finally started rolling downhill, picking up new theories, revealing truths, and switching perspectives to new narrators as the small town continued to lose itself to prejudiced demands for “justice.” And it’s definitely not that I don’t appreciate getting to explore the numerous themes author William Kent Krueger weaves throughout his narrative — the insidious vs blatant toxicity of prejudice and hate, generational trauma and the loss of innocence, how we determine what vengeance is just and righteous (and how its nature often proves indiscriminate, highly cyclical and destructive regardless of what motivates it), the balance of how we perceive undue suffering vs karma (and exactly what people are willing to forgive), the dire need of therapy — I just couldn’t help but find myself growing increasingly frustrated because of who the narrative truly centers: white men.

When all blame turns to the sole Native American man in the town, he and his wife (who is also treated unfairly for being a Japanese immigrant) choose silence instead of speaking their truth. One could argue that in addition to this choice making sense in the grand scheme of the story, it also symbolically represents the fact that even if they did defend themselves — even if they were hiding either an alibi that would exonerate them or proof that they acted in self defense — it’s unlikely that many would believe what they say anyway; but I cannot help but be frustrated in how this makes both Noah and Kyoko secondary, or even tertiary, in their own trauma. 

Something that also happens whenever any woman either reveals the pains of her past or experiences something truly horrible within the plot of the book itself. It’s never really about her, but what it can inspire in the men around her, whether that be motivation to act (not quite a “fridging” of the character, but fridge adjacent), or to inspire a moment of catharsis. To elaborate:

— Skip this paragraph to avoid TRIGGER WARNING (SA) SPOILERS —

I am not exaggerating when I say at least 60-75% of the girls/women in this book have stories that involve rape. I am more than aware that sexual assault in general is far from uncommon, but it is infuriating when it feels like writers see this as the main contribution a girl or woman can have to a story: when we finally get to sit down with the murder victim’s absentee daughter she reveals she was repeatedly raped by him, when Noah’s lawyer finally gets the truth from the murdered man’s wife she elaborates on how many women in his family shared the same fate at his hand, when Abigail shares her history of rape and forced sex work it is basically used as a catylist to inspire the idiot of a sheriff to finally share his suffering, when it is finally time for Noah to become more than a passive participant in his own story his wife is raped to spur him into action. I. Am. So. Tired. Of. This.

— End of Spoilers —

Long story short, the suffering of women and minority characters is never truly about them, so much as what it says about the people around them and/or how they react to it. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that it feels exploitative of their trauma, but it certainly still doesn’t sit right with me. And it definitely does not interest me as much as Krueger wants it to.

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Who picked The River We Remember?: My mom
Would I have read it on my own?: Definitely not
Average Rating (MIL, SIL, sister, BIL, me, mom, FIL): 3.17 out of 5
Up Next: My FIL’s pick of Shadow Divers by Robert Kurson