Review: Those We Thought We Knew

5/5 stars

Those We Thought We Knew, by David Joy (2023)

Trigger Warning: Racially motivated violence

It's hard not to just copy-paste a bunch of quotes from this book (which I'm probably going to do below anyway) because it is so well-written and so thoughtful. Heartbreaking and heavy, but thoughtful and thought-provoking, shining a harsh but necessary light on modern-day latent racism. That quiet kind that simmers below the surface for so long that you've convinced yourself it's not even there, until it erupts. This novel is part murder mystery, part social commentary, taking place in a small North Carolina town where nothing is truly black or white, but grey all over - just like in real life.

Toya Gardner is a young Black woman staying with her grandmother in the mountains of North Carolina while she researches her family history and completes her graduate thesis, creating artwork that relates to her own personal heritage and that of the Black men and women that came before her. When she realizes there is a Confederate monument in the middle of town, she begins to bring the difficult discussion of America's racist past to the town's unwitting and unwilling citizens.

In the meantime, two police officers find a transient man with a KKK hood in his car, as well as a notebook filled with the names of many prominent local figures - the assumption being that these are fellow KKK members. The implications of this list, and it's subsequent mysterious disappearance, rankles one of the officers, who brings his concerns to the Sheriff.

After a stand-off protest-turned-riot occurs at the Confederate monument, two horrific crimes, involving Toya and the officer, throw off the town's delicate balance of complacency and silence. People who've been friends their whole lives are forced to have conversations about the realities of white privilege, their perceived meaning(s) of the Confederate flag, the history and ancestry of the South - what to take pride in, and what to acknowledge as contemptible.

What I absolutely loved about this book is how realistic its morally-clouded characters are. Sure, there are some town citizens who are nasty from the get-go, but there are also incredibly kind, loving individuals who just happen to also hold some very problematic beliefs, and an alarming sense of entitlement. And despite the difficult, complicated subject matter, David Joy manages to write a story that does not feel heavy-handed, nor does it force-feed the issues upon the reader.

Another really striking thing to me - until I looked him up at the end, I was sure this book was written by a Black writer, only to find that David Joy is a white man. He is from the mountains of NC, and it's clear in his writing that he speaks from experience. Sometimes when I read a book about race &/or the racial history of America that is not by a Black writer, I can sense either a holding-back, like they're unsure of what's acceptable to say, or a cluelessness that makes what they're saying feel unacceptable. I got none of that from Those We Thought We Knew. For me, at least, Joy finds a wonderful balance in showing the humanity of his characters, while exposing the ugly, raw reality that good people in one setting can do horrible things in another.

A few of the quotes that really stood out to me (some text has been bolded by me):

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Detective Leah Green (a white woman): "Reverend, over the last month I've watched this county split in two. Not once in my life have I seen people this on edge...."

Reverend Tillman (a Black man): "Detective, this place has always been split in two. That's not new. Now, maybe you don't see it because you don't have to. But I know the world I live in and I know what I am in that world. Every thought I have, every decision I make is governed by those facts. Even so much as letting you into this house, sitting at this table with you alone. There's not a second in my life I lose sight of that because that would be a mistake. For you it's a luxury not to see it, but for me it would be a grave mistake."

Green: But if that division's always existed, if it's always been this way, how do we bridge-"

"Woa," Tillman interrupted, "let me stop you right there, Detective." The reverend shook his head and briefly chortled before his expression fell flat and stern. "Now's not the time for you to come and ask me how to bridge the gap... Here's what I want you to ask yourself, and I want you to take this home with you. Live with it for a while before you try to answer. Why did it take Toya's murder for you to come here and ask me about bridging the gap? Why did it take Toya Gardner losing her life for you to so much as admit that the gap exists? The truth, Detective, is that it shouldn't take a Black life for you to have some moment of insight, some moment of clarity. And yet time and time again, that is what this world requires. So, like I said, there are questions you need to ask yourself. And until you do, I don't have any use for bridges."

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I guess there's a moment you start realizing that keeping your mouth shut's the same thing as nodding your head... You know, it's always torn me up how everywhere else in the country people want to act like the South's got some sort of monopoly on racism. Like it only exists on place, but I've got news for you, that shit's as American as Bud Light and baseball games."

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You don't see it because you don't have to. You don't talk about it, and the reason's the same. Then something happens like Toya Gardner being found and you've got no choice, though deep down, even then, you wrestle with that desire to close your eyes and plug your ears and let the moment pass. You hold your breath. A minute goes by. The room goes quiet. You forget. You have no reason to relive or remember, and that is the fortune of your hand.

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Grieving was an individual process, and the only constant was time. A person had to learn to swallow a second in order to survive the minute, the hour, the day. There was no right or wrong way and there was no assurance that you would ever heal. There was only time and learning how to manage it, because a loss like this was a life sentence.

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UP NEXT: Sunrise on the Reaping, by Suzanne Collins