Heart Berries: A Memoir

Heart Berries: A Memoir

Heart Berries is a powerful, poetic memoir of a woman's coming of age on the Seabird Island Indian Reservation in the Pacific Northwest. Having survived a profoundly dysfunctional upbringing only to find herself hospitalized and facing a dual diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder and bipolar II disorder; Terese Marie Mailhot is given a notebook and begins to write he...

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Title:Heart Berries: A Memoir
Author:Terese Marie Mailhot
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Edition Language:English

Heart Berries: A Memoir Reviews

  • Roxane

    Heart Berries by Terese Mailhot is an astounding memoir in essays. Here, is a wound. Here is need, naked and unapologetic. Here is a mountain woman, towering in words great and small. She writes of motherhood, loss, absence, want, suffering, love, mental illness, betrayal, and survival. She does this without blinking but to say she is fearless would be to miss the point. These essays are too intimate, too absorbing, too beautifully written, but never ever too much. What Mailhot has accomplished

    Heart Berries by Terese Mailhot is an astounding memoir in essays. Here, is a wound. Here is need, naked and unapologetic. Here is a mountain woman, towering in words great and small. She writes of motherhood, loss, absence, want, suffering, love, mental illness, betrayal, and survival. She does this without blinking but to say she is fearless would be to miss the point. These essays are too intimate, too absorbing, too beautifully written, but never ever too much. What Mailhot has accomplished in this exquisite book is brilliance both raw and refined, testament.

  • Janet

    Terese Marie Mailhot’s poetic, shapeshifting memoir

    , a series of tiny impressionistic essays of self-exploration into the very roots of trauma and madness, is as impossible to describe as it is to shake off. Mailhot is a woman at odds with herself and the world, and her book is in a soul-searching dialogue moving towards self-acceptance by means of the creation of a new definition of self. Reading her book is a dangerous activity, as I’m sure writing it was. A First Nations woman,

    Terese Marie Mailhot’s poetic, shapeshifting memoir

    , a series of tiny impressionistic essays of self-exploration into the very roots of trauma and madness, is as impossible to describe as it is to shake off. Mailhot is a woman at odds with herself and the world, and her book is in a soul-searching dialogue moving towards self-acceptance by means of the creation of a new definition of self. Reading her book is a dangerous activity, as I’m sure writing it was. A First Nations woman, the product of equal parts early trauma and cultural fortitude, she wrestles with her need, her greed, her hunger, her longing, desperate for love and yet trying the very people she loves the most—unapologetically, cutting to the bone with it all. I wanted to protect her as she interrogated her life and her actions, examining issues of grief and prolonged trauma, the naked craving for love and acceptance, a life disrupted by mental illness and the ongoing question of identity, the rage to matter—to herself most of all.

    Here’s just a bit from the very beginning: “The ugly truth is that I lost my son Isadore in court. The Hague convention. The ugly of that truth is that I gave birth to my second son as I was losing the first.”

    The matter of factness of the voice belies a blistering grief.

    “I packed my baby and left the reservation. I came from the mountains to an infinite and flat brown to bury my grief, I left because I was hungry.... I’m a river widened by misery, and the potency of my language is more than human. It’s an Indian condition to be proud of survival but reluctant to call it resilience. Resilience seems ascribed to a human condition in white people.”

    She is both self-defining and enraged at her self-definition. ‘I feel like a squaw. The type white people imagine: a feral thing with greasy hair and nimble fingers wanting. My earliest memories, and you , and the baby, have turned earth in my body. I don’t know what I am anymore.

    You have made me feel sick of myself.”

    Her specificity eludes blame, not for an unwillingness to take responsibility but because of the sheer vividness of the description and the acceptance of pain as part of life, foundational.

    Although the language is very simple and straightforward, the mind behind them is anything but. The juxtaposition of exceptional intelligence and intense wounded need is as compelling to read as it was/is to live, and the resulting images and simple statements provides a resonant poetry, the impressionistic treatment of time and place reveals layers, circling back as memory does.

    It is a tiny book to hold such intensity—there were times I could only read a few pages at a time before needing to let what I’d read sink in. It reminded me most of Lucia Berlin’s A Manual for Cleaning Women in its depiction of messy lives that can’t be packaged and judged.

    Mailhot questions everything, and gives frank admission to the jaggedness of her nature, the passion and the yearning, the ugliness and the beauty and the desperate need, her complex and at times contradictory feelings about herself as a contemporary Native American woman and writer--pride and veneration warring with culturally induced shame and a rage against performance and trying to find an authentic way to be.

    For all its intensity, it is a quiet book, intimate as a confessional. The paragraphs are short, the sentences short and modulated. There is no overstatement. It’s this contradiction that makes the book so memorable. It’s as if the writer and the broken woman are working their way towards one another in front of your eyes.

    I didn’t feel ‘done’ when I was finished—it dared me to come back and see whether my initial reactions shifted in a second reading, a third, maybe more.

    will hit the bookstores in February 2018.

  • Hannah

    I don’t think I have the words. I have been trying and failing to write a proper review for days. This book has rendered me speechless, so this will be a super short review.

    Terese Mailhot packs an unbelievable punch into a book this short. I could not stop reading it: her language is hypnotic, her turn of phrase impressive, her emotional rawness painful. This book does not follow conventions, Terese Mailhot tells her story the way she wants to and needs to. She is unapologetically herself. She b

    I don’t think I have the words. I have been trying and failing to write a proper review for days. This book has rendered me speechless, so this will be a super short review.

    Terese Mailhot packs an unbelievable punch into a book this short. I could not stop reading it: her language is hypnotic, her turn of phrase impressive, her emotional rawness painful. This book does not follow conventions, Terese Mailhot tells her story the way she wants to and needs to. She is unapologetically herself. She bares her soul and hides it at the same time. I cannot wait to see what she does next.

    I have been reading and loving many memoirs the last few years, but this is definitely one of my favourites. I cannot recommend this enough.

    First sentences: “My story was maltreated. The words were too strong and ugly to speak. I tried to tell someone my story, but he thought it was a hustle.”

    You can find this review and other thoughts on books

  • Michael

    My full review, as well as my other thoughts on reading, can be found on

    .

    In

    , Terese Marie Mailhot recounts her coming of age as a Nlaka'pamux woman in a society hostile toward her existence, while questioning what it means to ethically narrate the stories of Native lives. Written in terse and fragmented prose, the memoir consists of eleven essays that span a broad range of topics: motherhood and autonomy, mental breakdown and healing, trauma and memory, abuse and addiction

    My full review, as well as my other thoughts on reading, can be found on

    .

    In

    , Terese Marie Mailhot recounts her coming of age as a Nlaka'pamux woman in a society hostile toward her existence, while questioning what it means to ethically narrate the stories of Native lives. Written in terse and fragmented prose, the memoir consists of eleven essays that span a broad range of topics: motherhood and autonomy, mental breakdown and healing, trauma and memory, abuse and addiction, resistance and hope. The nonchronological essays recall each other in affecting and stimulating ways, through interlocked narratives, leitmotifs, and shared images. The nonlinear form draws attention away from individual events toward patterns of behavior and the racist and sexist social structures that shape everyday life across time. Mailhot’s writings on motherhood, family, and history are especially moving, and her memoir’s one of the best I’ve read this year.

  • Elyse Walters

    A Canadian Indigenous woman wrote about her madness-

    The writing is poetic-a memoir in essays - but what she writes is devastating- gut wrenching.

    The writing looks the way it does ( unique- uncut- disjointed ), in my opinion because we are looking deep inside the mind of mental illness. Unfiltered. It’s a rare talent to expose the layers as deeply as Mailhot has. Her perceptiveness and language are brilliantly matched.

    Horrific things have happened to this woman: abuse, rape, etc. and what we ar

    A Canadian Indigenous woman wrote about her madness-

    The writing is poetic-a memoir in essays - but what she writes is devastating- gut wrenching.

    The writing looks the way it does ( unique- uncut- disjointed ), in my opinion because we are looking deep inside the mind of mental illness. Unfiltered. It’s a rare talent to expose the layers as deeply as Mailhot has. Her perceptiveness and language are brilliantly matched.

    Horrific things have happened to this woman: abuse, rape, etc. and what we are experiencing is the ugly manifestation of ‘as is’.

    Mailhot also looks at Indigenous women in the past and connects them to Indigenous women today.

    It’s hard to describe this book - but I’m left feeling inspired by her bravery - her resilience.....

    and in ‘aw’ by Mailhot’s ability to write so beautifully.

  • Emily May

    It took me a while to settle into the rhythm of Mailhot's writing in

    . It’s very poetic, dreamy and beautiful, though often fragmented and edging towards stream-of-consciousness in parts. It requires some patience and close attention - for, though short, this is not the easiest of reads - but it really does pay off.

    is a Native American woman's memoir written in short, hard-hitting essays. I'm not

    It took me a while to settle into the rhythm of Mailhot's writing in

    . It’s very poetic, dreamy and beautiful, though often fragmented and edging towards stream-of-consciousness in parts. It requires some patience and close attention - for, though short, this is not the easiest of reads - but it really does pay off.

    is a Native American woman's memoir written in short, hard-hitting essays. I'm not surprised it received praise from Roxane Gay because the style reminded me quite a bit of Gay's

    (not quite as polished, but I would watch this space).

    With stunning, introspective writing, Mailhot makes the most intimate of confessions. It's one seriously brave memoir, stripping back layer after layer and exposing all the author's pain and struggles underneath - as a woman, as a Native woman, as a survivor of abuse, as someone who has dealt with manic depression, bipolar disorder, an eating disorder and self-harm.

    Heavy with metaphor and personal meditations, Mailhot's story is unveiled. We learn about her affair with a professor, a teen marriage that fell apart and lost her custody of her first son, and her time in a psychiatric hospital. Throughout, she makes observations on human nature - on men, on Native Americans, on white people - that are sometimes darkly comic and often sad.

    I didn't love every part of the book. Sometimes the stream-of-consciousness wandered too much for my tastes, and I was relieved when we returned to a more coherent narrative. I didn't always follow the metaphors being used, even though I read them several times and tried to envision what the author wanted to communicate. But that's okay. There were so many powerful moments and quotable sentences that they vastly outnumbered the parts I had issues with.

    There's just so much pain in this book. So much honesty and humanity and abandon. Mailhot has created something special here; I hope it gets the attention it deserves.

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  • Elise (TheBookishActress)

    If you’re a fan of the writing in books like Carmen Marie Machado’s Her Body and Other Parties and Roxane Gay’s Difficult Women, you’ll probably adore the writing throughout. For me, the writing didn’t quite work until the end - but then it did.

    I found the first half of this somewhat all over the place but then the stylism becomes more centered in the second half and better yet, the odd structure is the

    . Can I just s

    If you’re a fan of the writing in books like Carmen Marie Machado’s Her Body and Other Parties and Roxane Gay’s Difficult Women, you’ll probably adore the writing throughout. For me, the writing didn’t quite work until the end - but then it did.

    I found the first half of this somewhat all over the place but then the stylism becomes more centered in the second half and better yet, the odd structure is the

    . Can I just say that the

    is really fantastic? This is a book that confuses you on purpose. The narrative begins very non-linear, and then goes to a more linear direction, and it really works in conveying the author’s state of mind.

    It’s a wonderful use of unreliable narration, in which the memoir’s author isn’t consistent on her own thoughts either about herself or about her mental illness. There were several moments in the first half that felt like too much romanticization of mental illness, but as the book continues, the book shows a subtle recognition of the biases of the author. It becomes a testament to how our heads can be embroiled in a concept of how romantic our struggles are, how common they are, when they’re not. There’s so much nuance to what’s being said here.

    Overall, I thought this was utterly magical - a tour de force of word choice with a super strong thematic core. I will be following this author and if this intrigues you, I think you should too!!

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  • Debbie

    Mailhot is an indigenous woman with a traumatic past, and her heart-wrenching, raw story starts out as cool poetry. I felt like she was sharing her soul. Her jazz was getting me all jazzed. The voice in my head was screaming: She’s brilliant! Such intense language! Will you just look at the way she can so beauteously describe her off-kilter reality?! Wow, such a unique viewpoint! I’ve never read anything like it!

    Mailhot is an indigenous woman with a traumatic past, and her heart-wrenching, raw story starts out as cool poetry. I felt like she was sharing her soul. Her jazz was getting me all jazzed. The voice in my head was screaming: She’s brilliant! Such intense language! Will you just look at the way she can so beauteously describe her off-kilter reality?! Wow, such a unique viewpoint! I’ve never read anything like it!

    I scribbled notes frantically, feeling like she was trying to turn me into a poet. Upside down, inside out, somersaults in the soul. Language standing on its head! Legs like scissors in the sky. Breathe in, breathe out. Tear apart, cling close. Yes, she had me all ga-ga. This was 5 stars all the way, baby.

    I think I know where she lost me. After the initial poetry, she went more into straight narrative. I liked that too, liked the feel of a concrete story after the dreamy beginning. It wasn’t linear, but that didn’t bother me. She was giving the facts of her life, infused with emotion. I admired her willingness to share her difficult story. Her struggles with mental illness and abuse were well-told, and I could feel her pain. For a while. Because then it turned into stream-of-conscious ramblings, which seemed disjointed as she jumbled up time periods and events. I didn’t even mind that, for a while. But this is where she lost me—suddenly, her language seemed stilted and stoic, devoid of emotion. She also spent time explaining her culture. As soon as I felt like I was in class, I started losing interest. Reading her story became tedious. It’s bizarre to me that I thought she did show her emotions, and then I thought she didn’t. I don’t get it. It’s weird that mid-stream, I can change how I look at a book.

    Just to see if I could recreate the magic, I went back and reread small paragraphs, and as stand-alones, they were beauts. Little disconnected pieces of magic. But if I read the entire book again, I’m pretty sure the big magic would not return. It was like I was hypnotized at the beginning and I was in, 100 percent. But once the spell was broken, I couldn’t go back to the good place. The good place didn’t look so good any more. Now I think of the beginning part as sort of a self-conscious creative-writing-class exercise. Mailhot knows how to write, we know that. I just think she concentrated on creating perfect and beauteous prose-poetry instead of writing about her feelings. Her emotions got buried in her cool sentences. The book indeed lost its magic as a memoir, but I can swoon, if I let myself, over her many wowsy sentences.

    Lidia Yuknavitch endorsed this book. She’s the author of one of my favorite memoirs,

    . Now there’s where stream-of-consciousness worked. Poetry galore, yet emotions spilling out everywhere. So that’s what I was expecting in this book. Plus I wanted to be in the in-crowd of gushers, of course.

    On a lighter note (though it is a little traumatic for me, I must admit), I lost my innocence about ladybugs. A total bummer!!! All my life, I’ve happily thought that ladybugs were the sweetest little things. It was okay to let the beautiful orange bugs with black dots saunter across my palm, climb cutely up my fingers. We treated those little beings with the utmost respect. Parents and friends taught me from an early age that ladybugs were not like other mean, annoying, and dangerous bugs. Ladybugs were chill. They were harmless. They were charming. Well, guess what? Ladybugs BITE! Mailhot was raised in a house that was infested with ladybugs and these guys repeatedly BIT her! She is still traumatized by them. Of course, reading this sent me straight to Google, where I read that, yes, indeed, ladybugs bite. Oh god, it’s like discovering that Santa Claus doesn’t exist! I will never think of ladybugs as cute little fellas again!!! Ignorance was indeed bliss.

    The way Mailhot interprets and describes her world is unique, and it completely seduced me. But then she lost me. It turned into a disjointed dreamy thing. Even so, I admire her for living through hell and having the strength to write about it. And I liked getting a peek into her culture. But it doesn’t seem like anyone would describe their life in the way she did—she talks symbols and myths and adds a little social commentary. I know many people are okay with including this stuff, but that’s not what I want to see in a memoir. Perhaps she was intellectualizing her story, creating distance, in order to handle her pain. She obviously has this gigantic mind and a tremendous ease with poetic language. Read other reviews, please. I’m the outlier on this one.

  • Diane S ☔

    3.5 A slim book, but a powerful one. A dysfunctional upbringing on a reservation, and indeed Sherman Alexie provides a glowing recommendation. Easily understood as Alexies own upbringing had some similarities with the author. Mental illness, disrupted and failed relationship, she had much to overcome. Free flowing thoughts, often disjointed, yet her pain is often overwhelming.

    I wish I could have rated this higher, but it is no reflection on the contents of the book, but on the reader. This is a

    3.5 A slim book, but a powerful one. A dysfunctional upbringing on a reservation, and indeed Sherman Alexie provides a glowing recommendation. Easily understood as Alexies own upbringing had some similarities with the author. Mental illness, disrupted and failed relationship, she had much to overcome. Free flowing thoughts, often disjointed, yet her pain is often overwhelming.

    I wish I could have rated this higher, but it is no reflection on the contents of the book, but on the reader. This is a difficult book to read, her thoughts jumping from one place to another, often made it hard for me to follow. The main reason though is that this made me very uncomfortable, her thoughts often hitting the reader with her pain, and like Roxanne Gay, emotionally difficult to process. As I said, those are my feelings, and different readers are able to handle different things. This just took me to a place I didn't want to go.

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