The Town Where the Men Are All Marked

A Q&A with Jesmyn Ward, author of the hard-hitting new memoir Men We Reaped.
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Jesmyn Ward has lost five male friends and relatives in as many years—all of them under 30. Ward grew up in the working-class town of DeLisle, Mississippi but escaped the conditions of her youth—the “wolf” plaguing the area’s poor, black residents, as she thought of it—by heading to the University of Michigan for college, and then to New York for the publishing world. In her absence, her 19-year-old brother Josh was hit by a drunk driver, her cousin C.J. was killed in a horrific train accident, and three other men died through drug addiction, murder, and suicide. Then came Hurricane Katrina.

After winning the 2011 National Book Award for her novel Salvage the Bones, Ward decided to write about her life in Mississippi and pay tribute to the men who died. The result, Men We Reaped, is out this week in American bookstores. Ward sees all five tragedies as being connected, products of the poverty and racism that marked her community. I called Ward to discuss her experiences and goals in writing the memoir.


What made you switch to nonfiction?

I was aware that I had this book in me, that something momentous and awful and complicated had happened to me, but I wouldn't commit to writing it. Writing creative nonfiction versus fiction is complicated. You have to deal with real life and some people don’t want to be written about. It wasn't until I actually had conversations with both of my sisters that I decided to at least try. They thought it was a story people needed to read, and to hear—and I needed to hear that to believe in power of the narrative, and believe it was worth all of the pain and possible ramifications.

Did you feel pressure to portray your hometown in a certain way?

My issues were more closely tied to family and how I portrayed them. If the narrative could stand without certain facts, I didn't include them—but I knew I had to tell the truth. For example, I knew it would be problematic to reveal that my brother sold crack on and off. I struggled with that. I knew that my mom would hate it, and she did. But I felt like if I was honest about the fact that he sold crack and how he sold it, I would hopefully reveal something about young black men from poor communities who feel like this is their most attractive choice. I want that revelation to raise questions: Why would he feel like this was his best option? Why was it even possible for him to think that this was viable? When people hear about a black kid selling crack, the conversation immediately demonizes him. I reveal what my brother did at the end of the book—after you've seen him on the day he’s born, up through when he’s 19 years old—and he’s a person for you. I hope the reader’s response is complicated in that moment. That it’s harder to call him a thug, or say he’s scum, or whatever way we throw people away in conversation.

Five young men that you knew well—all black—died in a four-year period. You argue that this wasn't coincidental. What does that mean?

That I don’t think what happened to them is unrelated. I think there’s a reason that five young, black men, from poor and working-class communities in the South died so close together, versus this happening in a well-to-do, white, suburban neighborhood in the North. That was the conclusion I came to at the end of the book: That larger things make it possible for an epidemic like this to happen, even though their deaths were very different. For my cousin C.J., what made it possible for there to be no railroad crossing, for the signals to malfunction, and for there not to be a barrier before the tracks, or enough reflective tape to see in a fog? Who gives a damn about infrastructure and safeguards in a poor, black neighborhood? To me, these deaths are related because they don’t take place in a vacuum. They come from a culture that tells us, over and over, we are less.

In the past, in the context of Salvage the Bones, you've said that you’re interested revealing the universality of stories. But the argument you’re making in Men We Reaped is that the experience of these men is not universal—and that’s the problem. How do you negotiate between the universal and the specific?

I hope that by the end of the book, the power of my characters’ development makes them human. That’s a large part of what I was doing with Salvage the Bones and part of what I’m trying to do here—make readers that don’t share anything with the people I’m writing about see these characters as complicated and complex. Then, that will then make them change their minds about their perceptions of being black and poor in the South. I know it’s really naïve, but that is my hope.

I was pleasantly surprised with Salvage. I went to Australia and New Zealand for the novel and met a lot of people who had experienced the earthquakes in Christchurch. They responded very strongly to the book because they had been through these natural disasters and were trying to figure out how to rebuild. Like my characters, they were human beings dealing with something greater than themselves. Here were people that didn't know anything about where I’m from or what it’s like, and they still found something to respond to. I hope that that will be the case with Men. Even though some people won’t agree with the conclusions I come to at the end of the book, we all face death and coming to terms with losing the people we love. If that’s the universal truth some readers find in this narrative, that’s great. I’ll go for that.

Presented by

Judith Ohikuare is a former producer for TheAtlantic.com.

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