The mother who dominates
the early pages of Caterina Edwards' Finding Rosa is the kind
of woman most daughters would long to forget. "Hurricane Rosa" descends
on the apartment of the newly married, twenty-three-year-old Caterina
and proceeds to empty her closet, tossing the clothes she deems inappropriate
(which is to say most of them) into a jumbled pile and then blaming
her daughter for the mess--all before Caterina herself has even returned
from work. Insults follow the intrusion, Rosa bemoans her fate in giving
birth to such a child, and within minutes in her mother's company, Caterina
is reduced to helpless rage.
Imagine how that
frustrated rage surfaces again years later when Caterina is forced by
her father's death and other family circumstances to become her mother's
principal caregiver. As emotionally intense as ever, Rosa now struggles
with Alzheimer's disease as well. Much as she might like to, Caterina
cannot forget her mother; instead, ironically, she becomes guardian
of her mother's memory. But as she soon discovers, Rosa's memory was
never an untroubled one; nor is Alzheimer's the sole explanation for
her anxiety, confusion, and alienation from others. For Rosa was born
in Italian Istria (now Croatia), and the area's ethnic cleansings--hidden,
unacknowledged, deliberately erased--robbed her of her past long before
the onset of dementia.
Worn out from the
demands of working, raising teenage daughters, supervising the renovation
of her home, and caring for her difficult and demanding parent, Caterina
worries that she is becoming her mother--neurotic, tense, and self-dramatizing.
Nevertheless, she embarks on a journey to make sense of her mother's
fragmented past. However foolish the search may seem to others--including
some of her own friends and relatives, who are either threatened by
or annoyed with her obsession--it's a journey she feels compelled to
make. As Caterina's mother descends, inch by inch, into the fog of Alzheimer's,
the author (and the reader) slowly confront a parallel darkness in the
suppressed history of Istria. This parallel never feels forced, for
the more Edwards learns about Istrian history, the more she understands
"Hurricane Rosa"--and the more she understands her mother, the more
she understands herself.
Edwards, who has
previously published a novel, two novellas, a book of stories, a play,
a docudrama, and other nonfiction, confesses her impatience with traditional
genre categories. Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that Finding
Rosa successfully combines elements of history, biography, travel
writing, and several other sub-genres. Among the most powerful sections
of this book, for me, were those in which Edwards frankly imagines her
way into her mother's and grandfather's lives. Some might question the
legitimacy of fictional passages in a work of nonfiction, but here,
I think they are more than justified. One could even argue that they
are required. The destruction, loss, and falsification of records in
her mother's homeland have made facts elusive and truth and memory contested
categories. So in Edwards' story, the fictional sections serve a dual
purpose. They uncover emotional truths not accessible through standard
forms of research, while at the same time they highlight the unreliability
of more conventional sources.
Finding Rosa
recently won the Wilfred Eggleston Award for Nonfiction and has been
nominated for a City of Edmonton Book Award. It is a funny, searching,
honest, and deeply compassionate book. Anyone who has ever cared for
an aging relative or a challenging child (or both), anyone who has ever
felt burdened by the demands of the caregiver role will sympathize with
Edwards' predicament. Her openness about her own depression, stress,
and guilt in the face of her mother's seemingly ceaseless needs will
speak powerfully to many readers in the "sandwich generation." What
makes this book especially shine, however, is the writing. With intensity
and passion, Edwards portrays "Hurricane Rosa" as she used to see her--portrays
her so vividly that we thoroughly sympathize and share in her younger
self's view. At the same time, she shows us the mother she's come to
know as an adult--not an angry, selfish harridan so much as a woman
cut off from her own past--and she convinces us of that view,
as well. This doubleness of vision, this balancing of past and present,
is one of memoir's special gifts. Finding Rosa demonstrates why
the genre is so perennially necessary, and so important.