Shades and Nuances

“It makes the immigrant laugh to hear the fears of the nationalist, scared of infection, penetration, miscegenation, when this is small fry compared to what the immigrant fears.” – Zadie Smith (“White Teeth”)

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I have to say that it was with a great deal of relief that I learned that Ms. Souvankham Thammavongsa’s “Pick a Colour” won the Giller Prize. She had already received the award for an earlier collection of short stories, “How to Pronounce Knife”, and several other awards. I became a fan after reading that collection, and I did have to wonder if she could keep this streak going with a novel, or at least a novella. Any fears I had were unfounded, but I had another fear that is unique to literature written in this country. We have far too many historical novels, or books with titles that include the word “Stone,” “Wind,” and “Rock” in them to really be anything more than a bad trend. We tend to ignore too many of the stories right in front of us, especially in communities that we see every day. There is no risk of this novella being mistaken for that proud tradition. Ms. Thammavongsa is a talent we need.

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Set during one day in a nail salon named Susan’s Nail Salon, we enter into the life and voice of Ning, a former boxer who runs this particular shop with the vigilance of a fighter who knows how fast and dangerous life can be. All the staff are “Susans”; all are dressed in black; all of them have their stories. And it is interesting to see just how they interact with the customers who display all of the boring and stupid clichés of a class that thinks having people take care of their feet and hands is just another part of their day. I love this moment when Ning breaks down just how odd a name can be:

“Bob.

What a name, huh? It’s a name made up of a bunch of circles that go nowhere but into itself. A name someone can remember, and also forget. A name with letters that look like boobs, or eyes, or an open mouth. Like something a child draws up to colour in later.” (p. 99)

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As a son of immigrants, I can confirm that we do take part in this sort of analysis and break down the absurdity of the world we live in, even if we do not always articulate it as well as Ning. And the book is mainly in her own voice, along with the voices of Mai, Noi (a new hire), Annie, her old boxing coach, Murch, and other presences that come and go in her thoughts. And that last voice is the most important one, at least for her story to continue. There is the idea of her having to avoid a threat to her life that came because she was too talented a fighter; there is a missing finger – the ring one (rather telling) - that feels like a missing friend. And we begin to see this old life come out at work:

“I move up to his face.

Out of an old habit, I keep my eyes on the centre of his neck. From there, I can see everything else move. When I was in the ring, I always looked there. You could see the head, the shoulder, the hands, and what the feet were going to do. I knew where to punch, how often, to do the most damage. I didn’t like to wait around to find out. I got them first.

The pitcher tells me he just wants his hands done today.” (p. 40)

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That came at the beginning of a chapter midway through the story, and I almost forgot that she was still at the salon. This is a truth about work for the immigrant that never goes away: you cannot pretend that you do not have a past, no matter how much the world you now live in demands that you are not yet a part of it. That fighting spirit cannot go away, not without the loss of self that can destroy what little they carry.

And that leads to the final moment in the book. I will not spoil things here except to say…take a bow, Ms. T. I really did not know how she would end this book. The usual banalities of work carry the book along, as well as keeping pigeons away from the store, dealing with a girl who has a flat tire, and last-minute details and problems anyone could understand. But things are not quite done yet:

“I don’t tell her that we’re done. She knows this…

         And then, something strange happens. As I pull back my arm, she reaches out and slides her hand gently along and then touches my finger. The missing one. Her thumb presses over the space that is there. She moves to hold what is left of my finger, a little round bump, with a gentleness I didn’t think she was ever capable of and gives me a kind smile.” (pp. 179 – 180)

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And who was that? A ghost? A memory? A friend from her past? You will have to read it on your own, and appreciate just how much can be packed into one life, a life that you may have hovering around you, just waiting to be heard…

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“no one leaves home unless

home is the mouth of a shark” – Warsan Shire, poet (“Home”)

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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