Chantel's Reviews > Indian Burial Ground

** spoiler alert ** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on substance abuse, violent crime, the death of a loved one, alcoholism, the death of a child, parental negligence, self-harm, cannibalism, the death of an animal, suicide, mental health, & others.

Great Spirit sees all, observing as the wind ruffles the newborn skin of life, day in & day out. To explain our origin in the windy world, humanity has cast spells of lore; riddles that mask our sorrow at the dark cavern from whence we came & to which we will return, giving nutrients when once we had received them. The weaver is the key element in breaching the dark; the voice whose ease at transporting the listener revives still sounds, casting them like Northern Lights to the silent sky. Without storytellers where would we be? The obsidian nature of our travels leads us back to ourselves; the storyteller lights our way.

The tapestry of creation has offered the wandering soul ample room for whispers from the Great Spirit, Creator, the Lord Himself, His Son, the Archangels, Muhammad ibn Abdullāh, Siddhartha Gautama; the list raves onward, tirelessly presenting the species with individuals who carry word from the unseen.

This statement is perhaps, as you may note, not altogether true. For many cultures, proof of holiness, or the existence of a larger entity than the self, is in the world around us. Who could think of something as beautiful as the sun whose warmth shines for all on earth? Who could have conjured a more perfect globe where land & water exist in tandem for all of existence? The small & large shapes, sounds, visuals, & tangible experiences that exist alongside humanity breathe air into the mythology that colours systems of belief.

Though, if you have made your way through my previous writing you will note a strong stance on the subject of religion, this review does not exist as a critique of schools of belief. Rather, while reading this book, I found myself earnestly, curious about the creatures who suffered the wrath of humankind.

Where was Creator when the rock was cast that killed the woodpecker? Where was Great Spirit when Johnny burned alive in the fire pit? In such a beautiful landscape how can such horror thrive? Where is the kindness riddled in stories that are meant to guide us? Perhaps this story sets in place the doubt that has long seeped into the mind of the burdened; it is not enough to believe in goodness, one must be good to see it live in the world alongside them.

In essence, this is a story about intergenerational trauma. Medina has woven two tricks into his story allowing the reader to remain nearly disengaged when torturous emotions drown children & zombie forces lure them out to pasture where their neglectful parents bury them alive. If readers feel this reality too obstructive to the view they hold of their kin, they are welcome to watch the alligator slither across the page, swallowing unsuspecting victims like stones to the riverbed. Nestled in between the detrimental, blood-soaked narrative is the truth; intergenerational wounds seldom heal.

This story is formatted in a dual narrative. In the present, Noemi experiences the sudden death of her fiancé, Roddy, & the return of her uncle Louie, whom she hasn’t seen in over a decade. Louie’s narrative explores the past, namely the year 1986 when the events that tormented him came to a head. Readers who develop an appreciation for both Noemi & Louie will revel in this approach. Both characters are adults, aged over forty, & have lived long & obscenely complex lives. Presenting readers will characters who are well-established individuals, in the sense of the years they have spent on earth, allows readers the opportunity to delve further into the material that is being presented. Unfortunately, this is my first qualm with this book.

In the introduction, Roddy is described as having committed suicide by jumping in front of a Jeep. His body is then ravaged by a coyote when the driver of the vehicle runs to get help. This approach to introducing the dual perspectives of mythology & trauma was delightful to read. To be clear, this choice of scene—the road, the wild animal, the woman, the man, their home, the land—allows readers to immediately immerse themselves in the story. The borders of the page disappeared as I wondered where the narrative would bring me; Who would I meet along the way? What insights would they give me? When would I be met with the horror I was promised by the genre?

Certainly, one may read about the terrible fate that befalls each of the characters in this story as horrible enough, that there was no need to further the torment of humanity by inducing ghastly soul-eating alligators. This would not be an incorrect decision to conclude. Indeed, this story did not need two perspectives, two narratives, & two timelines.

In reality, Louie carried the entire story & this left me grating my teeth every time Noemi was brought back to the page. I am still conflicted as to what made her so annoying. In an attempt to decode my feelings, I pondered the nature of her character & the benefit of including a forty-year-old woman who was so deeply ignorant, to a story that was emboldened by the Goliath that was her uncle.

Perhaps, I should consider myself lucky that I have such an intimate understanding of Depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, & suicide. Perhaps, I should learn to be more patient with the world as there are certainly more people like Noemi than there are who are like me. For this reason, call it a lack of patience or desire to sit in the company of someone who was troubled by their own volition, I felt frustrated every time Noemi narrated her sections.

This is primarily due to her lack of knowledge. In her forty years of life, not once has Noemi ever sought to understand the complexities of mental illness, not once has she stepped outside of herself. The death of her long-term partner, Roddy, comes to her as a shock only because it means she now has to find someone else to support her dreams.

For chapters on end, Noemi speaks about how impossible it would be for Roddy to have committed suicide because they were happy & they had plans, & his bad days weren’t that bad. This was insulting to read. It is insulting because Noemi has no clue what she’s talking about yet, she’s a grown woman, she’s an adult, in a world where children rely on adults to guide the way down the road of life, & where other adults inadvertently lean on each other to safeguard the road when it becomes too hard to walk alone.

All the while, Noemi fails at her role, in her community & life. You may deem my criticism harsh but, ignorance is violence & what Noemi states as impossible is in fact what leads so many people who are experiencing mental distress, suicidal ideation, & depression, to be burdened in silence & misunderstanding.

Why is Noemi so ignorant of the parameters of mental illness? People who commit suicide could have sat & had the most delicious meal with the most loving people & this would not be indicative of a change; this is simply one moment in time. The burden of weight carried in the spine, dousing the brain, is not swayed by one lovely meal.

This is not difficult to comprehend. In the middle of her rambling ignorance, Noemi corners Roddy’s sister telling her she’s wrong & wishing to one-up her in the pursuit of answers. Why does she do this? Are readers to believe that not once in forty years of life did Noemi ever encounter another person who was experiencing mental illness? Did Noemi never venture outside the confines of her own bedroom?

Certainly, in life, as I have said earlier, many people lack understanding of what leads a person to commit suicide. I am disheartened to know that this is the case because the solution is simple. Whereas readers are enveloped in a story that deals with the ill-structured home life of a family on the brink of collapse, the world at writ large is littered with situations exactly like the fictionalized one in the reader’s hands.

Can I fault Noemi for being a product of her existence? Will readers be more ready to forgive Noemi for her cruel self-centered ignorance regarding Roddy’s suicide?

What I have come to understand in my many years of life is that some people never learn because they are not seeking the knowledge that will set them free of their ignorance. Noemi was raised in a house with a grandmother who suffered from alcoholism—an illness that ultimately led to her death—with a mother who was crass & rarely present.

Noemi also had the opportunity to grow past the ignorance of her parent, a woman who raves love for men who are ghosts, men who are the opposite of the protagonist, Louie. Again, perhaps it is too demanding of me to assume that Noemi has the willpower or the strength to become more than what she is; few people do so, why am I so caught up in her issues?

The troubles that plague Louie left me empathetic to him. He was sixteen when the events in 1986 took place & readers will note the matured tone of a person who struggles to grow like a rose hidden under a log. Louie is written with gusto, & gumption, with faults in his naive logic but, who can blame him, he lives in a world where his neighbour committed serial murders & blamed a malevolent spirit for his psychological issues.

In that same breath, you may wonder why I struggle with approaching Noemi with such patience. Perhaps it is because I have been sixteen, & similarly to Louie, I took the reins for a situation I was in no way grown enough to heal. Whereas I have not reached the age of forty & what Noemi lacks, I have in spades.

What is the role of a reader? Am I supposed to compare myself to Noemi & Louie? Am I supposed to pick a side & stick to the path I have chosen? Halfway through this book, I abandoned hope that Noemi would change, I did not believe her to be capable of it but, Louie had such a long life yet to lead, & I did not want to read about his youth becoming entrapped with the slithering gizzard that crouches on my bedpost.

Philosophical masticating in the background, I maneuvered my way through lore & mythology that was not my own. The stories of critters & crawling friends were familiar to me & I was glad to see the comfort of tales that would not give me the answer I needed, neither did they present the characters with the road they should take.

The community of people who vanished, were murdered, & died as a consequence of their addictions or their mental illnesses, clobbered the silly tale of ghosts & screaming corpses. I read most of this book at night, lying in bed listening to the wind whisper to me; each of these situations was more than the life they consumed.

Certain characters presented readers with good reason to pause & take inventory. Why did Jean-Luc eat the bones of the deceased? In some systems of belief, eating the flesh, bones, & meat of people whom one respects allows this person to consume their essence. When Jean-Luc explains that he dug up the graves of respected members of the community & people who were loving & kind, readers may reflect on the person that he is rather than the one he thinks he wants to be.

In wishing to be like the Tamahka (Tunica-Biloxi word for alligator) Jean-Luc emptied himself of his essence, becoming a shadowed sac some may refer to as a Wendigo. Therefore one may be left asking; Do the dreams we have require us to scalp divinity from top to bottom?

I appreciated the morose, gruellingly devastating approach that Medina took to introduce the deadly sin of desire, specifically, the longing to escape the body we are sewn to. Ernest murdered his mother because he could, because he was bored, & because inside he was probably a person who was clinically psychotic.

The flashbacks that the reader is given to remember Horace added a layer of sadness to this story that I did not expect to find. Odd, perhaps, for me to admit that I was not ready for sorrow when I read Horror as though I have never experienced fear in my life but, true it is, nonetheless. Indeed, reading about the potential that was striped from Horace by being a person who had a stutter, to being the child of a family that was on the receiving end of violence from another feuding family, sunk the stone deeper in my soles.

Readers will surely wander through the chapters of this book swiftly, & wonder at the ease they feel while reading such a story. In truth, the experiences of the characters are terrifying because they are not dedicated fabrications, intended for a freaky night of reading.

Indigenous Peoples experience the highest rate of suicide worldwide. Indigenous Peoples experience starkly high rates of addiction worldwide. It is no mystery why this is yet, in Noemi, readers may find comfort in their ignorance.

It is unacceptable to remain in the dark when people, who do not deserve to suffer Charon’s cold finger directing them to their seats on the splintered boat, continue to drown. Why then, do people revel in the shocked face of ghastly surprise meant only for birthday cakes & Christmas morning?

This is a story about the intergenerational burden of a community of people who have struggled to stay-face in a world that has repeatedly told them their demise would be a pleasure to witness. I return to what I said earlier, my frustrated notions of annoyance against Noemi & her structured ignorance. Perhaps you will think me a product of a life that has left little room for patience, forgiveness, or tenderness; you would be wrong, but only partly. In fact, I work tirelessly to ensure that the spaces in which I go reflect the song the crows have sung as we greet each other, & that I spill only soft wind into the rooms where doors have been previously closed. I am troubled by a reality I know well & I remain frustrated that humanity does not advocate for a space where what has been need not be any longer.

Whether an alligator swallowed Mrs. Shelby or whether her son murdered her in her home; whether Horace was mutilated by a Vampire or whether his friend carved out his heart so that he may never rest; whether Mae was consumed by a demon or whether she chocked on her own vomit; victims of crime, victims of exhaustion from fighting against a beast greater than the Meli Omahka or any of its other names; people suffer the fate that befalls them as they dangle on the edge of a cliff where, rather than sacred & safe, the rocks have been moulded into the dead-eyed faces of the perilous Nazgûl.

Ultimately, the beating that reverberates the ribs, pumping willpower to the brain, & steadying the river watcher, riddles a tale as old as time; Who can escape the self? Readers will be met with causes worthy of their care with optimism that the alligator, the woodpecker, the armadillo, & the coyote will act as guides to them whereas in life they persist in ignoring the very people for whom these animals are kin. Troubling as the ghost may appear, his reflection is often more coyly our own than we care to admit.

For readers who have wandered the land in tune with the formidable looming cloud, this story will wriggle into the tendinous ring, like the fantom of despair made into the giggling forest’s safe-heaven for the Alligatoridae who seek to return to the underworld where their smooth underbelly guard the stones of souls long since laid to rest.

Thank you to NetGalley, Berkley Publishing Group, & Nick Medina for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!