Book Review: NO SON OF MINE by Jonathan Corcoran | Kathleen M. Jacobs

Thanks to Kathy Jacobs for bringing No Son of Mine by Jonathan Corcoran to my attention and for her review which highlights the struggle of rural folks who might at once love their place (or not) while also seeing its flaws and sometimes being othered by it (or by some people in it). I routinely wrestle with wanting people to understand that rural places and people aren’t the stereotypes they think they are while also acknowledging that there is a reason for the stereotype–that sometimes rural places and people are inhospitable to people for various reasons. I love my rural place but understand that there are people who grew up there too that don’t. And it’s not fair for me to tell them that they should love it like I do. I’ll continue to wrestle with it as I read Corcoran’s memoir. I’m putting No Son of Mine at the top of my TBR and encourage you to do the same. – Chea

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THE DANGERS OF FALSE MEMORIES:  JONATHAN CORCORAN’S MEMOIR, NO SON OF MINE

I admit to myself that everything changes and it’s okay—truly okay—to let some things go, that maybe I’m not, in fact, from this place anymore, that the place I came from no longer exists.—Jonathan Corcoran

By:  Kathleen M. Jacobs

            As the LGBTQ+ community continues to be pummeled on both a state and national level, with the reversal of legislation that had been consistently fought for and enacted by previous administrations, the release of West Virginia native Jonathan Corcoran’s memoir, No Son of Mine, could not have been more timely nor more welcomed.  It’s a deeply-affecting work that speaks in very loud whispers to the importance of interjecting the human factor as a way of life, for each and every single one of us.  Too, the core of this work is clearly a universal one; pain and suffering will most assuredly visit each of us over the course of our lives.  How we process those moments often becomes a lifelong journey.  

            No Son of Mine, published by the University Press of Kentucky, chronicles the author’s journey as a young man growing up in Elkins, West Virginia, in a most certain dysfunctional family, with his troubled parents and his two sisters.  His close relationship with his evangelical mother, who survived her own traumatic childhood, would be tested when Corcoran revealed to her that he was gay.  At that moment, his mother disowned him.  In the years to follow, as the author attended Brown University and later married his husband, Sam, the relationship he had with his mother became unnervingly fractured, with the repetition of a cycle of attempts to heal the wounds, which would remain open for much too long.  Juxtaposed alongside this heartache was his fierce attachment to Appalachia while also becoming a part of a life lived in New York City.

            Experiencing childhood trauma is crushing, regardless of the form it takes.  And, unfortunately, for the children of West Virginia, this trauma is all too real.  And processing it and eventually moving past becomes a treacherous journey.  And being able to write about each stage of that experience takes tremendous courage, as Corcoran shows throughout his memoir.  In doing so, we are challenged to protect even those who hurt us most.  And as Corcoran reveals each layer of his journey with strength and hope and grace that his words will matter, will heal, what emerges is his passion to love and be loved.  That, of course, is universal.  It’s why his memoir has received its well-earned accolades.  What shines through in the memoir is that most vital human factor and the resultant universality that binds us one to the other, as the pain and suffering of surviving childhood trauma is put to rest and hope and love conquer all that ails us.  At the same time, as my parish priest reminded me, “Each of us is called to forgive, but not to necessarily reconcile.”  

            Corcoran reaches a point when he shakes himself free from the idealization of the Appalachian region to the reality of the region.  It’s a most pivotal moment in the memoir and one where I, too, had to release my own false memories for the reality, the truth.  If we are to fully understand the region with all its flaws and beauty, we cannot afford to accept only the false memories, for that creates a false narrative, which grows into interlocking chains that require years of unlinking.  And as I make my own way between my time in West Virginia and my time in New York City, Corcoran’s revelation became my own.  As Corcoran points out, we must find a way to release our hold on those false memories and their hold on us.  What we choose to remember and how we remember it becomes a mystery that we are committed to solving.

            As the book moves into each succeeding part, one question emerges time and again:  “Why do we keep trying to make amends, even as each attempt fails?”  Quite simply, we desperately seek resolutions.  What’s interesting is that the ones who do the damage are the ones who can’t figure out why we simply can’t let it go and move on.  And as we continue to search for the answers, always leaving empty-handed, the wounds deepen and healing cycles back to hibernation.

            As the last page of the memoir is turned, we embrace our own resiliency and deep faith in the one true constant:  to love and be loved in all its complexity, knowing that it has always been, continues to be, and always will be the only thing that saves us from everything that threatens to destroy us.  “I had lost so much,” Corcoran writes, “sure, but I still had so much life left to live.”

            And while this work will resonate with everyone who reads it—every single one—knowing that Corcoran is one of us gives us an extra dose of strength to continue to put one foot in front of the other, move forward, and find ways to break the cycle of false memories and lead a life of absolute truth.