A letter written to an illiterate mother. A confession that is designed to never reach the ears it is meant for. An attempt at a confession doomed to fail. Tackling class, sexuality, transgenerational trauma, violence, love and so much more, this novel is unforgettable experience.
Little Dog (the son and the narrator) is writing a series of letters to his Ma, in which he described his youth and childhood, knowing she will not understand a word he puts down on the page. The power and importance of language is a constant theme throughout this novel, as well as how it connects people and breaks boundaries, yet also its ability to build walls between those who understand and those who don’t.
The name chosen for the narrator carries a lot of weight. To most readers – Little Dog – is an odd name, but Vuong proceeds to explain his choice. It is a tradition to name a child something horrible, despicable, or useless, to protect them from evil spirits. The name acts as a shelter and a shield, so for his mother, who grew up with the horrors of war, to name her child Little Dog was a way to protect him with the only power she had.
Little Dog grew up to become a writer, so the English language became a tool for self-expression. These letters are written in a beautiful and poetic prose, with rich metaphors and sentences that stay with you long after the book is finished. This is all well and good, but the person he wishes to communicate this to, is unable to understand it. She speaks Vietnamese, which her son inherited from her. A mother tongue that was shaped by war and destruction, halted at a second-grade level. “[Their] mother tongue, then, is no mother at all – but an orphan”.
This book is very American, but please don’t let this put you of; it is an honest and vulnerable account of struggles in the lives of immigrants and refugees. His matriarchs suffer from PTSD, the war leaving a permanent scar on the mind of his mother and grandmother. Rose, his Ma, was brought up surrounded by violence and destruction, faced the horror of war from childhood. She escaped, but the war never left her. She beat her child, Little Dog, yet she loved him so tenderly. The war living inside her, passing the trauma to her son.
As we traverse the path of growing up with Little Dog, we encounter Trevor. Initially, an “impossibly American” boy, a personification of the traditional idea of masculinity. He works at his grandfather’s tobacco farm, drives a pick-up truck and lives with his alcoholic dad in a trailer. Him and Little Dog become friends, and quickly their relationship develops, alongside our understanding of Trevor. I do not want to spoil you the pleasure of reading this book, so I’m going to say just one more thing about Trevor. “Trevor too fast and not enough … Trevor I like sunflowers best. They go so high “.
This book is based on truth, the lives of Ocean Vuong and his family, similarly to his poetry collection. However, it is not an autobiographical account; it is fiction that is strongly rooted in reality. Personal and raw, it creates such a vulnerable and authentic voice that you cannot help but see the characters as real people. Laced throughout the book is a discussion on the meaning of life. It appears in different tones and colours, but by the end a conclusion is reached. “Because sunsets, like survival, exists only on the verge of its own disappearing. To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted”.
