Dead Woman Pickney: A Memoir of Childhood in Jamaica (review)

In many ways, Yvonne Shorter Brown’s coming of age memoir Dead Woman Pickney is my own. As a first generation American child of West Indian Caribbean parents, I gravitated to the book not only to provide insight on my parents’ upbringing, but also to capture glimpses of a West Indies outside of my childhood summer visits. Brown’s memoir gives that insight and much more as the retired teacher, writer, and social justice advocate describes her years growing up in Jamaica just as the country experiences its own coming of age. Coming off the heels of postcolonialism, Brown’s youth coincides with Jamaica’s independence from Great Britain during the years of 1943 to 1965. Part memoir, part history, part genealogical curiosity, Brown journeys through Jamaica’s tightly wound social and class structure as she seeks to uncover the history behind Jamaican race society, and more importantly, the history of her deceased mother.

Brown’s childhood is marked with the bouncing to and from relatives and other various adult entities as well as the severe abuse she suffers at the hands of these figures in her life. Brown eventually finds escape from her home life within the walls of academia (although, the abuse follows her at school). Throughout her girlhood and into adolescence, Brown also finds herself haunted by the yearning to discover what and who make a mother. Having never met her own mother, since the woman died in Brown’s infancy, Brown spends sporadic and often awkward transitional increments within the text questioning who the woman is; frequently asking at the end of each section or chapter: “what is a mother?” The title of the book even lends itself to this theme; repeatedly, a young Brown is referred to as the “dead woman pickney,” the term pickney referring to West Indian slang for child.

Yet, Brown seems to have bitten off more than she can chew by taking on the heavy task of juggling, and ultimately leaving unresolved, many integral themes, which are initially important throughout the text. First, Brown introduces the issue of child abuse in Jamaica, which she indicates is prevalent in West Indian culture. Though Brown is against the extreme abuse that she and many other children of the West Indies experienced, she also seems to downplay the issue by using religious and historical text to explain this away. She first questions the effects of the abuse and the outcome on the classmates and friends who also experienced it, asking, “I wonder now what that little boy and others like him grew up to be. Have they drowned their repressed anger and pain in rum? Do they live in a state of displaced rage? Have they become abusive husbands and fathers?” (62). However, the issue is not mentioned again in the text once Brown originally ponders the question. This instance not only introduces the reader to Brown’s inability to resolve, but also displays the writer’s passivity which is prevalent throughout the text.

Brown continues the balancing act; adding to the menagerie of these unresolved themes as she tries to negotiate the use of language. Since the text attempts to conquer so much territory, it appears as if Brown is torn between an explicitly narrative account, where she is often seen holding the reader’s hand through the text, and brief moments of indulging the reader with beautiful, lyrical, image-driven writing. The bulk of the text, mixing both history and personal account, is spent over explaining and detailing what is to come, often breaking that magical spell that holds us readers captive. There were even moments where Brown foreshadowed and then revealed all within a few lines, never allowing for moments of anticipation. It’s as though Brown does not trust the reader. Yet in rare opportunities, Brown gives the reader rich and lush images that I wish she would extend. Early in the opening chapters, Brown recalls visiting the Saturday market as a young child: “In...