In my reading of The Seven Daughters of Dupree, there’s a prayer on page 79, spoken by the character Evangeline, that has stuck with me:
“Girls got to be closer to the earth. Fertile begets fertile. Conjured by the hands of God, we come from the soil, fashioned complete in the mud. That’s why we’s known to create thangs out of nothing. To make a way outta no way.”
In that prayer, in my own reflection, I asked myself, and I ask of us:
What may the previous years gift to us, to grow?
It has been said many times before, perhaps as an immortal proclamation: We are living in some interesting times. Within that declaration, we may wonder if we as a society have always lived in such interesting times, or is it merely because we’re just now taking notice? Because, we are now the ones to live it instead of reading about those interesting times in history books?
As the protectors of our future, we now have the gift to perceive our world in all the ways it has been wonderful or wicked (for some, much more than others), often both at once. Leaving us to also wonder, just how were past, previous versions of ourselves able to survive when presently, faith for the future may feel smaller than the skinniest of mustard seeds. We may believe that our minds are too delicate, our bodies too easy to destroy, and our emotions too wild to wrestle into submission. All three, pushing us forward through various growths, franticness, and episodic moments of anger, violence. The secret is that there is no just how, only a just is. A this-too-shall-pass attitude that propels.
What may the previous years gift to us, to grow? Momentum.
In The Seven Daughters of Dupree by Nikesha Elise Williams, perspectives and time are fractured off into seven: a holy number. These seven, all originally rooting from Land’s End, Alabama: Tati, Nadia, Gladys, Ruby, Jubi, Emma and Evangeline. Through each woman, Tati (if we are to identify a main character of main characters, it may be Tati as she’s the latest of the Dupree women) is able to piece together mysteries surrounding her absent father, and secrecies regarding the women folk of the Dupree line. Like all mysteries, and secrecies to be found in a family, good or bad, shameful or worthy of admiration, they are the kind of hidden stories that add so much more complexity, beauty, and forgiveness to these seven women, linking the reader to women they may know in real life (as a reminder this book is a work of fiction). The best novels feels familiar, even if they are un-relatable to the reader because of their dedication to humanness, crafted generously with the richest of paints, the most delicate of tools.
Williams’ epic novel functions like a visual masterpiece, a Rembrandt portrait carefully sliced into surgical pieces, and when put together we are able to see that our own stories have never been just our own, but all of our own. Our, which functions as the inherit families of the past and future. We see pieces of ourselves, pieces of family folk we may favor. Within that understanding, we also recognize what we have contributed to a future that may not have been realized by our ancestors, only hoped. In their contributions to us, they live.
What may the previous years gift to us, to grow? Our individuality, and an individual piece to the overall portrait.
As in all great, epic novels, Seven includes:
Love: Through Nadia, who quickly receives love, and within its quickness—hoping for sustainability.
Shame: Through Gladys, who carries it with softness and dignity, nevertheless impacting her relationship with her daughter (Tati).
Betrayal: Through Nadia, who has only wished to be accepted even when it was never offered.
Williams celebrates womanhood in a way that gives. Womanhood, Black womanhood, is a kaleidoscopic infiniteness. Inside of its endlessness, there is the ability to be sexy, girly, desired, celebrated, married, single, educated, and oh so flawed through-and-through. Williams reminds us that Black womanhood may be pedestaled. Not for its perfection, or isolated to be a prize, and instead as a kind of glory.
Every Black woman, a preacher.
Her story, a sermon.
And us, the church, to carry on its message.
What may the previous years gift to us? That a pedestal can often serve as protection in the right home—guarded, and pieced back together if somehow we should ever fall.
Precious, always.
At its core, Seven is about forgiveness and carrying on. It is an unapologetic celebration of all the amazingness that is Black womanhood, motherhood, sisterhood, and friendship and all that we may do with it.
- To grow our hair, or not.
- Love our mothers fiercely, or not.
- Grow babies, or not.
- Go to church, or not.
- Move on and forgive, or not.
- To seek justice, or not.
- To rest, or not.
That is the awe-aspect of Seven. Like family, if you let this novel embrace you, you may find that it is one that will never loosen even well past its end, the evermore reminder that we all too will transition beyond this body. Seven may not last, like us. This body may not last, like our ancestors. But the lessons, and its blood-ties, will.
In The Seven Daughters of Dupree, Williams’ characters are not perfect women, but I’d love to think that in each of their own ways, they are good (as they can be) women and, without hesitation, they are exquisitely beautiful Black women.
Good, because without the bad we may not be able to define how to be better.
Beautiful, because the most beautiful of things have a little ugly to them, too.
What may the previous years gift to us, to grow?
The final answer: Grace.
************
Are you a Black woman writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
