Precise Diction and Vivid Imagery: A Review of Joan Fiset’s Memoir, Namesake

Joan Fiset’s collection, Namesake (2015, Blue Begonia Press), has been described as a book of “memoir vignettes.” Indeed, the passages that comprise the book offer us brief glimpses into Fiset’s childhood and adolescence, ultimately giving us a fuller picture of the author’s life. More precisely, each vignette might be read as a kind of prose poem, as Fiset’s precise diction and vivid imagery allows each passage to stand alone, a tiny slice of life from a time long gone. Passages like “Ballast,” “Wonder Bread,” and “Standardized Testing” give a sense of 1950s American culture and the experiences of a young woman in that time. Nonetheless, each passage, or poem, draws upon or hints at the collection’s larger focus—Fiset’s mother—expanding our understanding of what it means for Fiset to be her mother’s namesake.

For example, in “Mirrored,” the speaker describes her childhood past time of sliding down the banister and a single instance of glimpsing herself in a mirror at the bottom of the stairs: “This face surprised me, a child rounding the bed on her way to some destination. The fleeting image lasted because the mirror was there.” These closing lines simultaneously propel us through the book with the idea of a “destination,” even as the words ask us to linger with this particular passage, to think about the layers of meaning in the idea of reflection. As readers, we understand that Fiset’s mother is the reason the mirror is there. In this way, this vignette of Fiset’s childhood experience speaks more largely to the purpose of the memoir as a whole—a reflection on Fiset’s identity through a reflection on her mother.

Thus, even in the passages that do not mention Fiset’s mother, we have the sense of her presence, of the ways she shaped Fiset’s world. Indeed, as the memoir goes on, Fiset’s mother becomes more and more of a figure in the passages, sometimes blocking out Fiset all together. In “Heartsick,” for example, we actually see a moment from Joan Stone’s point of view: “My mother comes out of the kitchen to comfort me. Years later she can still see me through the window in black-watch plaid. My cotton skirt filled with wind as I ran.” It is as if Fiset, the speaker, has filled her mother’s place, watching her child-self through her mother’s eyes.

As the memoir unfolds, then, the passages move away from innocent moments tinged by the shadow of some family strife until we begin to see a real conflict between Fiset’s parents, and between Fiset’s mother and the world’s expectations. Joan Stone, while present for her daughters, is different from the other mothers and wives around her. She teaches her Girl Scout troupe weird songs and arrives to Fiset’s fashion show in a poorly made dress. In “Entrée,” we learn that “There are sixteen bottles of ketchup in the refrigerator. They stand next to each other, some with an inch of ketchup or less.” This fact is odd, though perhaps not alarming. But the next passage, “S.O.S,” hints more strongly at the mundane paranoia of domesticity: “Turn off the stove; check then check and check it again.” Slowly, these moments reveal something deeply amiss with the mother and the family. In a late passage, young Fiset tells her father not to hit her mother, and eventually we learn of the breakdown that puts Fiset’s mother in the hospital, with shock treatments and medication.

Thus, Fiset’s true talent in this collection seems to be in her ability to slowly and deftly create a fuller picture through these tiny vignettes. While her language is honest and plain, she is never condemning of the figures she depicts. What is more, in revealing her mother’s struggle, Fiset also hints at the struggle of women to find and live out their own identities, perhaps especially in the 1950s and 60s, but also in today’s cultural climate. Before we learn of Joan Stone’s eventual breakdown, we learn of her remarkable early career as an actress on Broadway; she gave up that career to devote herself entirely to her family, to a husband whose love eventually fell short. In the end, we learn that Joan Stone finds true healing only through artwork: “She will talk of how her art grew out of her suffering, how it is the child within.” Thus, Namesake is itself an example of Fiset following in her mother’s footsteps, making art through the sufferings of the past.

While some of the passages do not resonate as powerfully as others, Fiset’s 2015 collection is filled with abiding, poignant concerns. In the selection of moments and images, one can tell that a master is at play. I look forward to reading her newest work.