A Kind of Freedom: A Novel

by Margaret Wilkerson Sexton Narrated by Kevin Kenerly, Bahni Turpin, Adenrele Ojo

Overview

Evelyn is a Creole woman who comes of age in New Orleans at the height of World War II. Her family inhabits the upper echelon of black society, and when she falls for no-name Renard, she is forced to choose between her life of privilege and the man she loves.

In 1982, Evelyn's daughter Jackie is a frazzled single mother grappling with her absent husband's drug addiction. Just as she comes to terms with his abandoning the family, he returns, ready to resume their old life. Jackie must decide if the promise of her husband is worth the near certainty that he will leave again.

Jackie's son T. C. loves the creative process of growing marijuana more than the weed itself. He finds something hypnotic about training the seedlings, testing the levels, trimming the leaves, and drying the buds. He was a square before Hurricane Katrina, but the New Orleans he knew didn't survive the storm, and in its wake he was changed too. Now, fresh out of a four-month stint for possession with the intent to distribute, he decides to start over-until an old friend convinces him to stake his new beginning on one last deal.

For Evelyn, Jim Crow is an ongoing reality, and in its wake new threats spring up to haunt her descendants. A Kind of Freedom is an urgent novel that explores the legacy of racial disparity in the South through a poignant and redemptive family history.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

A 2017 National Book Award Nominee
Winner of the Crook's Corner Prize
Winner of the First Novelist Award from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association
A New York Times Notable Book of 2017 & Editor’s Choice
Named a Best Book of 2017 by San Francisco Chronicle, BBC Culture, Southern Living, the Chicago Public Library, and more.

"This luminous and assured first novel shines an unflinching, compassionate light on three generations of a Black family in New Orleans, emphasizing endurance more than damage."
—The New York Times Book Review, Editors' Choice

"This moving debut is ingeniously told in its passage back and forth through lives and changing times. Sexton’s portrayal of the intersection of character and circumstance is astute and nuanced, showing how adversity is amplified by each era’s racial injustice."
—The Washington Post

"Brilliantly juxtaposing World War II, the '80s and post–Katrina present, Sexton follows three generations of a Black New Orleans family as they struggle to bloom amid the poison of racism. The author's deep knowledge of her city and unerring ear for dialogue help bring her unforgettable characters to life."
—People

"As tragic as it is necessary. Each character is compelling and nuanced, making the reader all the more sorry to leave them at book’s end."
—Shondaland

"Sexton subtly lays bare the ever–present societal forces at work to undermine black success and family."
—The Huffington Post

"A Kind of Freedom glimmers with hope."
—BBC Culture, One of the Ten Best Books of 2017

"In her moving, multigenerational debut novel, Sexton details the many ways racism adds to the difficulties faced by its characters."
—San Francisco Chronicle, One of 100 Best Books of 2017

"Sad, proud, provocative and quietly educational, with dialogue that credibly spans 70 years of Black New Orleans vernacular, A Kind of Freedom begs for a screen adaptation. You wait and see."
—Newsday

"Sharp–eyed, generous, and specific in its portrayal of life in the Big Easy, A Kind of Freedom is a remarkably assured debut."
—East Bay Express, Pick for 2017's Best Fiction

"Sexton's handling of switchbacks between chapters featuring the different generations and characters is deft, swift and seamless, indicative of a more seasoned novelist."
—East Bay Times

"Three New Orleans generations make up Margaret Wilkerson Sexton’s heart–wrenching novel, A Kind of Freedom, each suffering through desires, ambitions and brutal limitations . . . Sexton, who grew up in New Orleans but now lives in the Bay Area of California, tears at your heart with this multi–generational tale in which readers hope for the best for this family but know society’s limitations and empty promises will drag them down. And yet, hope remains. Or maybe the possibility of hope."
—Monroe News Star

"[A] great work of literature. Riveting, intense and compelling."
—Ebony, One of Five Great Reads to Fall Into

"This generational arc is largely related to systemic racism, but to simplify this novel as an exploration of such minimizes Wilkerson’s incredible achievement. Rather, A Kind of Freedom is a portrait of a family and a richly layered exploration of their sufferings . . . What is most remarkable about the tapestry of these stories is the way each person’s section is written a little differently from the last, like varying fabrics. Evelyn’s chapters and T.C.’s are written so distinctly that at times it feels like a completely different person wrote them. Sexton’s ability to change the style of writing to fit the time period is one of the most impressive aspects of the novel. Equally notable is how vividly each character is portrayed. Not only do each of the characters feel relatable, but they’re so fully realized that they stay with you long after finishing the story. That this multigenerational novel is a mere 228 pages and still manages to create such lifelike characters is an impressive feat . . . This remarkable debut marks Margaret Wilkerson Sexton as a writer worth watching."
—Chicago Review of Books

"It’s hard to believe that A Kind of Freedom is Sexton’s first novel . . . Given the recent happenings in Charlottesville, Virginia, it’s hard to imagine a more relevant release date for this lovely, important book. This is a book for our time."
—New York Journal of Books

"[T]his emotionally wrenching, character–rich debut spans three generations in a city deeply impacted by segregation, economic inequality, and racial tensions . . . Sexton’s narrative navigates complex topics with an adroit sensitivity that lends sympathy to each character’s realistic, if occasionally self–destructive, motivations. Being able to capture 70 years of New Orleans history and the emotional changes in one family in such a short book is a testament to Sexton’s powers of descriptive restraint. In this fine debut, each generation comes with new possibilities and deferred dreams blossoming with the hope that this time, finally, those dreams may come to fruition."
—Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Sexton's debut novel shows us that hard work does not guarantee success and that progress doesn't always move in a straight line."
—Kirkus Reviews

"In A Kind of Freedom, Margaret Wilkerson Sexton delivers a fresh and unflinching portrait of African American life and establishes herself as a new and much–needed voice in literature. Vividly imagined and boldly told, A Kind of Freedom is a book for our time. A fierce and courageous debut."
—Natalie Baszile, author of Queen Sugar

Kirkus Reviews

2017-05-15
A multigenerational exploration of systemic racism in America.Evelyn is 22 and studying to be a nurse. Her family is well-known in New Orleans' 7th Ward. Her mother is a beautiful Creole woman. Her father's distinctly African features are offset by the fact that he's a doctor. It's 1944, and Evelyn, her family, and her peers are unabashed in their colorism. Evelyn and her sister, Ruby, assess men and other women by the lightness of their skin and the natural straightness of their hair. Among other Negroes—the preferred term in this time and place—Evelyn's appearance and relative wealth shield her from some of the harsh realities of the Jim Crow South. But what privilege she enjoys becomes an impediment when she falls in love with a man with no money and no family. Over the course of the novel, Sexton follows Evelyn, her daughter, Jackie, and her grandson, T.C., as they negotiate the realities of race and class in the United States. Jackie loses her husband—and her solidly middle-class life—to the crack epidemic of the 1980s. T.C. starts dealing weed after the world he knows is destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Some of the dilemmas these characters face would have been—and will be—recognizable to many African-Americans. For example, Evelyn's beau (and, eventually, her husband) doesn't want to risk his life fighting for a country in which he is not a full citizen. And, even though Jackie knows the devastating impact of crack firsthand, she also recognizes that the war on drugs has a disproportionate impact on black people. Some of the nuances are particular to New Orleans—which has a distinct and complicated history with regard to race—but Sexton's choice of this unique setting is effective, too. There aren't many places in the country where three generations can take an African-American family from life in an established, upper-middle-class enclave to a hand-to-mouth existence in public housing. Sexton's debut novel shows us that hard work does not guarantee success and that progress doesn't always move in a straight line. A well-crafted—and altogether timely—first novel.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169911589
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	08/15/2017
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Evelyn

Winter 1944

"My thighs are touching," Ruby would say, as if they just started touching the minute before.

"You can't see it though," Evelyn would assure her, her own legs so far apart another leg could fit between them.

"Who are you fooling with 'you can't see it'? Anybody with eyes could see it. You don't even need to have eyes; you just need ears, and you could hear my thighs swishing together."

"You can't hear anything so soft," Evelyn would go on, and she'd spend the rest of the day wading through that topic. Just when she'd think she got to at land, Ruby would pull her back into the murk with a question about her behind. Matters would improve a little on Friday, but Ruby would maintain an edge around her even then, and everyone near her felt the prick. Today was a Friday.

"His pants legs are uneven," Ruby said about the new boy standing on North Claiborne and Esplanade wearing a brown wool suit, a grey V-neck sweater beneath the jacket. He stood next to Andrew, whom all the girls fawned over at the debutante ball last season. Evelyn's own escort had been second in charm; he had even silenced her nerves by pointing out his friends' waltzing mishaps, but despite her mother's urgings, she hadn't accepted his visit, and a week later when his interest subsided, she couldn't help but sigh.

She looked up now, exhaled the smoke of the cigarette dangling from her angers. It was still early February, and the winter air hadn't lost its chill. Still all the Seventh Ward girls congregated after school outside Dufon's Oyster Shop, the best Negro-owned restaurant in the city, and smoked. Evelyn had come to relish the anticipation of the first, slight inhale—she was a lady—and the long release afterward. She would never have referred to herself as an anxious person—Ruby had claimed that role in the family—but any nerves that jingled inside her settled at just the thought of a drag. She blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth so as not to hit her sister and smiled at the thought of the uneven hem. "Maybe he was in a rush."

"Even still," Ruby said, breathing in so sharply she almost made herself choke. "He might have found time to even out his pants' hems," she laughed. "Cute though. Too brown for most people, but it is a nice shade of brown."

Evelyn nodded. Cute he was.

Men and women rushed past them, bustling in and out of offices and stores, the Boot Seed and Feed, Queen of the South Coffee, Miller Funeral Home, Meriwether's Photography, Bejoie Cut-Rate Pharmacy, the Sweet Tooth Ice Cream Parlor, and Fine Time Billiard Hall. The outdoor market where Evelyn's mother made groceries was just a block away at St. Bernard Avenue, and Evelyn could smell the Cajun spices simmering. The butcher let out a high-pitched call. "Veal to roast, and cabbage and green beans."

Ruby raised her voice to combat the new noise, "And his hair lays so at, and that's not a conk either."

The uneven man looked over at the girls then, and Evelyn held his gaze for less than a second, so quick if he doubted it had happened, he could convince himself it hadn't.

She shook her head back at her sister. "No, much more natural looking than a conk."

"All that, but he couldn't hem the pants evenly."

"I wouldn't have ever noticed those pants if you hadn't hit me over the head with it, Ruby," Evelyn said, though it wasn't true. It was clear that despite his pressed suit and neat tie, the uneven man didn't belong among the passé blancs he stood with, no, not with their damn near-white skin, straight black hair and even straighter nose, their moustaches like silk against their lips, and she didn't know what possessed her to declare otherwise. She liked what she'd said though, not only that, but the fact that she said it, and for the rest of the day whenever she thought of the uneven man, she thought of the weight of her voice when it came out.

Since that day was a Friday, she had to go the whole weekend without seeing him again. at was ne because she had memorized him. Evelyn was in her second year of nursing school at Dillard University, and for a Negro woman to even consider such a rigorous field, she had to be up on her memorization. Because of it, she didn't need to see a face more than once to imagine it fully, and she spent the weekend doing just that. She remembered details she hadn't even known she'd seen in the first place: that the shorter hem of his pants revealed a faded grey sock. at he was the color of ginger cookies her mother might bake then sprinkle sugar over, that that similarity made his skin seem like something she might taste, that he was tall, taller than her daddy even who was six three, that he was skinny, but not breakable, that he had small slivered eyes that when she caught them seemed to be breaking through their lids with something vital to say. When she thought on him longer, she realized he had been holding a biochemistry textbook, probably studying to be a doctor. Just like Daddy. Maybe he could help her with amino acids. In all her memorization, she couldn't get the codes straight.

The following Monday, Evelyn led the way from her house on Miro Street to St. Bernard Avenue then North Claiborne, her sister swishing behind her, and looked for a cigarette, feeling steadied by it even as she reached through her pocketbook. Sure enough, the uneven man walked up halfway through her smoke. He was with Andrew again, a boy with an even hem, but something lacking, and maybe it was an uneven hem, which she'd grown used to associating with comfort.

"That ol' passé blanc has a smug look on his face," Ruby said about Andrew. "He must think he's too much."

"He's cute," Evelyn said, smiling while she talked in case the uneven man looked over.

"Not so cute he can't look at a woman decently," Ruby said. "Besides, not as cute as Langston." Langston was her last boyfriend, and he had been cute all right, so cute Ruby had heard from a senior at vocational school that he was carrying around phone numbers for every girl in the Seventh Ward with hair past her bra strap. Ruby had taken that hard, which meant their mother cooked her favorite food all week, and every sentence Evelyn directed at her was presented like a question that had no business being asked. When Ruby had gotten over it, she had sworn to the light brights, but here she was again.

"I could do better," Ruby said, "and I have done better, but he's over there looking like he's the best I could do in the state of Louisiana. Not so," Ruby added.

"He's not so bad, just putting on a show," Evelyn said. The uneven man looked up at her again. He leaned, whispered something to his friend, and both men walked over. Ruby's man was leading the way, which confused Evelyn but didn't deter her. When the men reached the girls, Ruby's stood in the front right beside Ruby, and the uneven man lingered in the back watching his shoes. They were okay shoes, Evelyn noticed. One-tone lace- up oxfords that had been shined too many times. She hadn't seen them the day before in all the fuss about the hem, and they were okay, but certainly no competition for the rose blush she had applied to her soft nearly white face, or for the long hair Mother had straightened the night before and which Evelyn had rolled into a coil at the base of her head. She stared at him, holding her head high and still, feeling as if she was pushing her chin forward to coax him into talking.

"How do you do there, young lady?" Ruby's man asked.

Ruby was most con dent Monday afternoon. They hadn't gotten back to Mother's yet, and those beans were still at the top of the pot.

"Not as good as I was when it was just me and my sister," Ruby answered.

"So that's your sister, huh?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? You're not too quick on your feet, are you?"

"Y'all are some pretty sisters. Your mama must be pretty too, huh?"

"Why are you asking about my mama?" Ruby wasn't even fooling this time; she was fierce when it came to their mother.

"Aw, I was just making conversation, lil' girl. Don't get ya panties all up in a knot."

"You certainly don't need to know a thing about my panties," Ruby said, trying to maintain her frown, but it was hard on her pretending to be so uninterested. She had a weakness for red beans and red boys. And then that talk about her panties.

Evelyn couldn't take it anymore; she could feel her face heating. The uneven man was lost in his shoes, and she was just standing there, being ignored, as if she weren't the one Daddy twirled around the parlor for their extended family when he drank more than one glass of Sazerac after Christmas dinner.

Evelyn moved her books around in her hands to get his attention. The uneven man looked up, but when he saw her, he looked down again. Evelyn hadn't noticed the color of his eyes the other day either. They weren't so brown they were black like most people's his color. They were an actual brown, the way the color came out in the crayon box. He had long eyelashes, and their tips might have touched the top of his cheeks when he blinked. He looked up again.

"You two are sisters?" he asked, stammering over the word sisters, and as he spoke he lifted his grey felt fedora and pressed it into his chest.

"We are," Evelyn said, nearly sighing she was so relieved.

"Are you the oldest?"

"How'd you know that? Everyone always thinks she's the oldest 'cause she's—" Evelyn almost said the word vocal but didn't want to sound resentful.

"I could just tell." He looked down again.v

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Evelyn asked, partly to keep the conversation owing and partly because she was interested.

"Twelve living, two dead," he said.

"Are you the oldest too?""No ma'am, the baby. My mama died having me."

Evelyn's heart was beating fast, and she was feeling powerful emotions she didn't know how to read. It wasn't what he was saying, but the way he was parceling out his story, like a mother would cut meat for a child, that made Evelyn's heart feel fragile. She moved forward a little and hoped Ruby wouldn't see her do it.

"Where do you live?" she asked.

"Amelia Street, Twelfth Ward, two blocks from Flint-Goodrich Hospital."

Evelyn was surprised to hear that. Though she knew he wasn't one of them, she didn't think he was that far off. She looked down at his books again, large hardbacks, biology and organic chemistry. She'd been right; he would have had to be premed to be studying subjects like those, but there weren't any well-off Negro people uptown. She considered his hem again. She never cared about status the way Mother and Ruby did; it was more how unaccustomed she was to being wrong.

"Where do you live?" he asked. His stammer was back this time on the first word, where.

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