If you are looking for a page turner, with memorable characters, huddled in a captivating storyline, Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel, “The Help” just might fit the bill. This work of historical fiction is set in Mississippi during the civil rights era. Written primarily around three central characters, “The Help” compels the reader to step back into time and explore the relationship of black maids and the family’s they serve.
Upon returning home from Ole Miss, armed with a degree in English, Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is challenged to write a controversial book recording the lives of black maids in her hometown. Having her eyes opened to the injustices of the times and wanting more than falling in line with her mother’s expectations, Skeeter decides to approach maids around her community in hopes of writing about their experiences.
At first, two best friends, Aibileen and Minny, are reluctant to share their stories. However, after realizing they have the chance to serve a cause greater than themselves, they and other maids come aboard. Stockett gives such an authentic voice to each character that the reader begins to empathize with those trapped in the racially charged society.
“The Help” will have you laughing at witty banter, steaming mad at the unjust treatment, sympathetic for those striving for change and cheering for the small victories along the way.
Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel does anything but disappoint. She has written a book that leaves you truly caring about the characters and their outcome. To me, this is a success in itself. It is no wonder that “The Help” is finding itself passed among family and friends.
Excerpt from
“The Help”
We both take deep breaths and she begins reading in a slow, steady voice.
“My first white baby to ever look after was named Alton Carrington Speers. It was 1924 and I’d just turned fifteen years old. Alton was a long, skinny baby with hair fine as silk von a corn…”
I begin typing as she reads, her words rhythmic, pronounced more clearly than her usual talk. “Every window in that filthy house was painted shut on the inside, even though the house was big with a wide green lawn. I knew the air was bad, felt sick myself…”
“Hang on,” I say. I’ve typed wide greem. I blow on the typing fluid, retype it. “Okay, go ahead.”
“When the mama died, six months later,” she reads, “of the lung disease, they kept me on to raise Alton until they moved away to Memphis. I loved that baby and he loved me and that’s when I knew I was good at making children feel proud of themselves…”
I hadn’t wanted to insult Aibileen when she told me her idea. I tried to urge her out of it, over the phone. “Writing isn’t that easy. And you wouldn’t have time for this anyway, Aibileen, not with a full-time job.”
“Can’t be much different than writing my prayers every night.”
It was the first interesting thing she’d told me about herself since we’d started the project, so I’d grabbed the shopping pad in the pantry. “You don’t say your prayers, then?”
“I never told nobody that before. Not even Minny. Find I can get my point across a lot better writing em down.”
“So this is what you do on the weekends?” I asked. “In your spare time? I liked the idea of capturing her life outside of work, when she wasn’t under the eye of Eizabeth Leefolt.
“On no, I write an hour, sometimes two ever day. Lot a ailing, sick peoples in this town.”
I was impressed. That was more than I wrote on some days. I told her we’d try it just to get the project going again. |
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