The Break

It took me a few chapters to get “into” the narrative here and I'll repeat a friend's recommendation that you give yourself big chunks of time to read through as much of it as you can. The flow of the story and the weave of the connections make so much sense and are so poetic when you just read the novel through. (Vermette has won awards for her poetry, so that shouldn't be a surprise.)

The women and girls in this book are carefully drawn, three-dimensional characters. Each one of them broke my heart. This isn't a joyful novel, but it is a tender one and, as many in my book club said, there is a lot of hope there–and capacity for healing.

There are so many beautiful passages in the novel that draw your attention to the similarity/sameness of the Metis women in the story. The women in each generation of the main family resemble each other, as well as those that come before and after them. The half-Metis policeman sees his own mother in their faces, as well. And this isn't racist or racial essentializing about how Native Canadians look. As one of the characters says about the central tragedy of the story: “when something happens to one of us, it happens to us all.” This isn't just a remark about the women in the family; it's a remark about Metis women, Native women, Missing and Murderd Women, abused women, and on and on.

All of the figures are broken in some way, and the author repeats this assertion in the voice of various characters. The men are broken, too, but this is not their story. Drink and drugs have broken them, as well as, perhaps, the simple pull of life in the city vs. life “in the bush.” The youngest generation–Emily and Ziggy and Jake and Baby–seem positioned to make better lives for themselves, maybe, than their mothers. But, as the attack on Emily makes clear, the legacy of drugs and drink and violence can be passed down through the generations.