Review of “The Hope of Floating has Carried Us So Far” by Precious Arinze.

“This collection of poems, an almost confessional suite, does not ask for permission. It does not seem intimidated by the consequences of speaking…” – Parneshia Jones, in the preface of The Hope of Floating has Carried Us So Far by Precious Arinze.

At the heart of this memoir is a testament of the poet’s way to tell the story of their life – on belonging (identity), on remembering (history), and on the unconditional nature of love (family) with language.

I have always wondered how we go through life constantly sifting through our memories, just remembering or attempting to remember or even forgetting, with language. It is evident that the poet has written these poems without a need to pretend, and a lack of this need reveals that the poet has had to do a lot of remembering to tell their story as straightforward and as open as they can afford.

“All I know about loss is how to carry it.”

In The Author Has a Conversation with an Empty Room about Belonging, they ask:

“Where are you from?”

“What do you want?”

“What are you ashamed of?”

“Tell me what you think love is.”

One of their stanza-response to “Where are you from?” reads:

“Whose daughter am I if I only think of family when I see them? I have been told it is a blessing to have a home at all – no matter how many times the bed is stolen from under you – a room full of people whose tongues can summon your name without breaking it, if it ever becomes too heavy to lift on your own.”

Later, the poet apologises:

I am sorry I am only able to love the world the way it is in the movies. Better dialogues. Better resolutions. The best and worst parts of ourselves rendered in neon lights and punctuated with songs.

It is almost like the poet has become indifferent to their own hurt and when they are able to acknowledge this emotion, they hold themselves accountable.

What I find most fascinating is their ability to write about how difficult their relationship is with their father. In Sometimes I am My Father’s Daughter, but Mostly I am His Hands, they write:

the truth is my father loved to build things. my father loved to break things. i cannot remember the last time i made something with my hands. i keep trying to tell you about the fire. my father came running to find me.

I appreciate their honesty and directness in the telling and retelling of their story.

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