What Does Justice Mean in Toronto?: thirsty

downloadChalk up one more bit of work slipping into the list as I recently read Dionne Brand’s thirsty. I had meant to read her No Land to Light On, an earlier collection of poetry, but the pressure of a dissertation forced me to include this one instead. And thirsty is a great long poem. This was my second time reading it and I got way more from it than the first time around when I sped through it, looking for usefulness to my research interests. When I read it this time, I took the time to let her words soak in, to look up words I didn’t know, and to take marginal notes on what was going on throughout. In fact, those marginal notes alerted me to how carefully constructed Brand’s book is and allowed me to appreciate her craftsmanship.

thirsty is a series of 33 linked poems that follow the tragic shooting of Alan, a Jamaican, by the Toronto Police Force and the ripple effect in the lives of his mother Chloe, his wife Julie, and his unnamed daughter. Mixed throughout are poems narrated by a first-person speaker, a person at a distance from the shooting and who comments upon the events. All three women’s lives have been essentially stopped by Alan’s death as Chloe retreats into religion, Julie into a broad feeling of emptiness, and the daughter into escaping the neighbourhood on her bicycle. Yet the speaker of the poem introduces this drama in the midst of Toronto, a seething mass of strangers that is at times comforting and at times violent. In reference to the waiting passengers in the city’s subway tunnels, Brand writes:

They are the echo chambers for the voices of the gods of
cities. Glass, money, goods. They sit in a universe of halted breaths
waiting for this stop Bay and that stop Yonge and that one St. Patrick

in early morning surrender to factories in Brampton,
swirling grey into the 401 and the Queen Elizabeth Highway,
they hold their tempers, their passions, over grumbling machines
until night, dreaming their small empires, their domestic tyrannies

but of course no voyage is seamless. Nothing in a city is discrete.
A city is all interpolation … (37)

I love these lines. I love how Brand takes the city and turns it into something unfamiliar and strange, a beast that reflects our hopes and dreams, but also takes and takes from us. An earlier stanza reads:

All the hope gone hard. That is a city.
The blind house, the cramped dirt, the broken
air, the sweet ugliness, the blissful and tortured
flowers, the misguided clothing, the bricked lies
the steel lies, all the lies seeping from flesh
falling in rain and snow, the weeping buses,
the plastic throats, the perfumed garbage, the
needled sky, the smogged oxygen, the deathly clerical
gentlemen cleaning their fingernails at the stock
exchange, the dingy hearts in the newsrooms, that is
a city, the feral amnesia of us all.

Again, Brand’s ability to capture the key details of a city stand out. She portrays in broad sweeps the contour of urban life and the way that the city forces us into intimate contact with many strangers. Of course, throughout thirsty, the question of how race interpolates the urban experience looms large. And Brand provides no easy answers to this, instead giving readers the textured details of three interrupted lives. But I think what I love most about thirsty is that it is great poetry. Brand is a very talented poet, and in thirsty, she ties together themes from her whole body of work into a seamless and meaningful whole.

I highly recommend thirsty to anyone who lives in Toronto and fans of poetry.

Brand, Dionne. thirsty. Toronto: McLelland & Stewart, 2002. Print.

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