The Water Dance (2019)

Buy here or go to your local library (don’t order from the Jeff Bezos site).

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By the time Coates wrote The Water Dancer, his debut novel, you could make the claim that he was the most important American non-fiction writer of this century. So, when you hold that book in your hand and get ready to crack it open, you’re probably ready for it to change your life. 

The ideas behind it are strong enough to possibly change someone’s life, sure. And the story’s interesting enough to get you to the end. 

Ideas are Coates’ strength, and I wonder if the best place for superlative ideas and conviction to meet is in reality. But we all know how restrictive reality is, and if you love comic books and get inspiration from MF Doom, both of which he does, then maybe you just want to see how your ideas do outside of those barriers.

The Water Dancer is about a boy, Hiriam, who was born into slavery and as a child is given some privileges over his peers because he is the not-so-secret seed of the property’s master. He accidentally discovers he has a magical ability to basically teleport from one place to another (the book refers to it as “conduction”). Eventually, he escapes and joins an organization of resistance liberators while trying to understand how to evoke his powers. 

The most engrossing parts are a bit heavy handed, and the parts that aren’t heavy handed are creep ever so close to boring. A great novel is ideally neither of those things. But the beauty of Coates is that if you make it to the end of anything he writes, you will come to understand the idea he wants you to leave with, and again: His ideas are powerful. 

Memory is the theme of The Water Dancer. The way out of the worst times that we can possibly endure is through our memories. Memories of each other, our perseverance, our joys and our rituals. It’s a call to preserve the intangible; art, relationships, community, and love. And it’s a straightforward plea to never erase history. 

I’ve been thinking about tools for memory and what they’re worth, if anything. I don’t have an Instagram account, but I imagine it to be a poisoned tool for memory for obvious reasons. About 18 months into my relationship with my now-wife, I thought about writing down every fun thing we do, no matter how small. It seemed like a great idea.

We did too many fun things. I petered out. Last year, we went to 71 concerts (we both write about music, know a lot of musicians, and finagle our way into a lot of free tickets). We shared moments with friends. We always complemented our passions with experiences. It started to feel like I wasn’t even writing it down for myself, like it was for some imagined other who asked for my Instagram handle and I could say “I don’t have one, but flip through this.”

When I gave up, it felt good to let experiences slip through my fingers and accept that it’s all ongoing.

It’d be nice to believe that memory is our way out through anything, but I still worry that I am not taking the proper steps to safeguard my memories.

I’d rather believe that we will never forget the things that determine who we are unless we actively try, that memories are inherent, and you don’t have to protect them. But probably, you do. Not from time, but from people or circumstances stripping them from you. 

Last March, we saw the powerful folk singer Kyshona perform. She talked and sang about her genealogy and her ancestors - both enslaved and freed - and asked everyone in the crowd what they were holding onto that they never volunteered for, generational trauma or fears instilled in us. Powerfully, she sang to let it go, demanding we participate in harmony. 

In October or November, my first child will join the world. My memories up to this point are just preparation to understand what I value and to practice it intentionally for him. Community, curiosity and supporting people who make art in the face of (emotional and literal) vulnerability. If memory really is generational, then maybe putting an emotional name to the ones you want to pass down is good practice.

The experiences can blend together in my memory. Each concert - each song - can slip through my fingers. I just want to remember what drew me back to the things that have always felt the most real to me. I just want my child to know that there’s something other than work and beyond hobby, and in that space is where he can feel safest.

Someday, I hope he remembers that.

‘Till next time buckaroos…