The once venerable industry of publishing has not covered itself in glory in recent years with many writers finding their reputations tarnished or careers destroyed by activists who place ideology over art.
Jeanine Cummins was one of the most high-profile victims of these witch-hunts when her novel, American Dirt, was published in 2020. Following the journey of a Mexican woman fleeing to the United States in fear of her life, the book was initially lauded before questions were raised about its authenticity.
In one of the worst examples of literary bullying I’ve ever witnessed, 142 writers signed a letter to Oprah Winfrey demanding its removal from her book club, while making it fawningly clear they did not blame the host and still held her in the highest possible regard.
A weaker person might not have survived such a public mauling, but Cummins is clearly made of strong stuff and returns in triumph with her fourth novel, Speak to Me of Home, whose central character’s name – Rafaela Acuña y Daubón – will doubtless infuriate the scolds.
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Set across three generations of a Puerto Rican family, the novel opens with a storm that leads to 22-year-old Daisy being knocked off her bicycle and landing in hospital in a coma. From here, we explore the two maternal figures that preceded her: her mother Ruth and her grandmother Rafaela.
[ American Dirt author Jeanine Cummins’ book tour cancelled after threatsOpens in new window ]
Much of the novel is constructed around women either leaving, missing or returning to Puerto Rico. Rafaela is the first to be exiled, when a financial scandal leaves her family no longer able to afford their privileged lifestyle.
At home she had fallen for their maid’s son, Candido, but in her new life she chooses a clean-cut Irish-American, leading to a marriage with its share of troubles, not least because of an unforgivable act this otherwise decent man commits at a country club. Mirroring this, Ruth, their eldest daughter, eventually finds herself also choosing between two suitors and wondering whether she made the right choice.
As the second generation is mixed-race, there’s a constant sense of being outsiders. Rafaela experiences racism when she arrives in the US because she’s not white enough while, ironically, 20 years later, Ruth is effectively rejected from a Puerto Rican society in college because she’s too white. Racial purity, it seems, matters to everyone, no matter which side of the divide you’re on.
This is a novel rich with story and family history. A genealogy map at the start is unnecessary as Cummins creates such singular identities that one never forgets who’s who. Added to that is her skill at character development. Rafaela is likeable when she’s young, becomes a virago in adulthood, and is a total hoot in old age, playing video games, going on dates and making inappropriate remarks.
She’s a deliberate antecedent to her grandson Carlos, the sort of gay teen who listens to the conversation around him but remains silent, before offering a hilarious remark that reduces everyone to laughter.
Loyalty and love are important throughout. Family members might snap or argue, but there’s no doubting they would throw themselves in front of a train for each other, even those from whom they’ve long been divorced, which is why the storm that prevents them from immediately gathering by Daisy’s bedside is so hard for them to bear.
There’s a line at the end of Stephen Frears’ movie The Queen, where Elizabeth II, still bristling from her treatment during that fateful week in 1997, tells her prime minister: “You saw all those headlines and you thought, one day this might happen to me. And it will, Mr Blair. Quite suddenly and without warning.” He stares at her in utter disbelief, convinced a person as virtuous as he could never meet such a fate.
And look how that turned out.
Should the 142 people who signed that reprehensible letter to Oprah read this novel, they might recognise Cummins’s skill and empathy, and reflect upon the late queen’s imagined words when they next fire arrows in the direction of a fellow writer. After all, if their moment of literary opprobrium ever comes – and it will, quite suddenly and without warning – they might hope their peers would rise to their defence instead of seeing a colleague’s distress as an opportunity to express their moral superiority.
I don’t know whether Cummins is from Puerto Rico, has ever visited Puerto Rico, or could even pick out Puerto Rico on a map. Nor do I care. She’s a novelist, a job that involves using one’s imagination to invent lives different from one’s own, and making the reader believe in and care about them. She achieves that goal magnificently here.
