Women's Fiction
![Tara M. Stringfellow - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_tara_m_stringfellow.jpg)
Memphis: A Novel
NATIONAL BESTSELLER • READ WITH JENNA BOOK CLUB PICK AS FEATURED ON TODAY• A spellbinding debut novel tracing three generations of a Southern Black family and one daughter's discovery that she has the power to change her family's legacy.
"A rhapsodic hymn to Black women."-The New York Times Book Review
"I fell in love with this family, from Joan's fierce heart to her grandmother Hazel's determined resilience. Tara Stringfellow will be an author to watch for years to come."-Jacqueline Woodson, New York Times bestselling author of Red at the Bone
LONGLISTED FOR THE ASPEN WORDS LITERARY PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The Boston Globe, NPR, BuzzFeed, Glamour, PopSugar
Summer 1995: Ten-year-old Joan, her mother, and her younger sister flee her father's explosive temper and seek refuge at her mother's ancestral home in Memphis. This is not the first time violence has altered the course of the family's trajectory. Half a century earlier, Joan's grandfather built this majestic house in the historic Black neighborhood of Douglass-only to be lynched days after becoming the first Black detective in the city. Joan tries to settle into her new life, but family secrets cast a longer shadow than any of them expected.
As she grows up, Joan finds relief in her artwork, painting portraits of the community in Memphis. One of her subjects is their enigmatic neighbor Miss Dawn, who claims to know something about curses, and whose stories about the past help Joan see how her passion, imagination, and relentless hope are, in fact, the continuation of a long matrilineal tradition. Joan begins to understand that her mother, her mother's mother, and the mothers before them persevered, made impossible choices, and put their dreams on hold so that her life would not have to be defined by loss and anger-that the sole instrument she needs for healing is her paintbrush.
Unfolding over seventy years through a chorus of unforgettable voices that move back and forth in time, Memphis paints an indelible portrait of inheritance, celebrating the full complexity of what we pass down, in a family and as a country: brutality and justice, faith and forgiveness, sacrifice and love.
"A rhapsodic hymn to Black women."-The New York Times Book Review
"I fell in love with this family, from Joan's fierce heart to her grandmother Hazel's determined resilience. Tara Stringfellow will be an author to watch for years to come."-Jacqueline Woodson, New York Times bestselling author of Red at the Bone
LONGLISTED FOR THE ASPEN WORDS LITERARY PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The Boston Globe, NPR, BuzzFeed, Glamour, PopSugar
Summer 1995: Ten-year-old Joan, her mother, and her younger sister flee her father's explosive temper and seek refuge at her mother's ancestral home in Memphis. This is not the first time violence has altered the course of the family's trajectory. Half a century earlier, Joan's grandfather built this majestic house in the historic Black neighborhood of Douglass-only to be lynched days after becoming the first Black detective in the city. Joan tries to settle into her new life, but family secrets cast a longer shadow than any of them expected.
As she grows up, Joan finds relief in her artwork, painting portraits of the community in Memphis. One of her subjects is their enigmatic neighbor Miss Dawn, who claims to know something about curses, and whose stories about the past help Joan see how her passion, imagination, and relentless hope are, in fact, the continuation of a long matrilineal tradition. Joan begins to understand that her mother, her mother's mother, and the mothers before them persevered, made impossible choices, and put their dreams on hold so that her life would not have to be defined by loss and anger-that the sole instrument she needs for healing is her paintbrush.
Unfolding over seventy years through a chorus of unforgettable voices that move back and forth in time, Memphis paints an indelible portrait of inheritance, celebrating the full complexity of what we pass down, in a family and as a country: brutality and justice, faith and forgiveness, sacrifice and love.
Editorial Reviews
Chapter 1
Joan
1995
The house looked living. Mama squeezed my hand as the three of us gazed up at it, our bleary exhaustion no match for the animated brightness before us.
"Papa Myron selected and placed each stone of the house's foundation himself," she whispered to me and Mya. "With the patience and diligence of a man deep in love."
The low house was a cat napping in the shade of plum trees, not at all like the three-story Victorian fortress we had just left. This house seemed somehow large and small at once-it sat on many different split levels that spanned out in all directions in a wild, Southern maze. A long driveway traversed the length of the yard, cut in half by a folding wooden barn gate. But what made the house breathe, what gave the house its lungs, was its front porch. Wide stone steps led to a front porch covered in heavy green ivy and honeysuckle and morning glory. Above the porch, my grandfather had erected a wooden pergola. Sunlight streaked through green vines and wooden planks that turned the porch into an unkempt greenhouse. The honeysuckle drew hummingbirds the size of baseballs; they fluttered atop the canopy in shades of indigo and emerald and burgundy. I could see cats on the porch-a dozen of them, maybe, an impossible number except for what a quick count told me. Some slept in heaps that looked softer than down, while others sat atop the green canopy, paws swiping at the birds. Bees as big as hands buzzed about, pollinating the morning glories, giving the yard a feeling that the green expanse itself was alive and humming and moving. The butterflies are what solidified my fascination. Small and periwinkle-blue, they danced within the canopy. The butterflies were African violets come alive. It was the finishing touch to a Southern symphony all conducted on a quarter-acre plot.
"Not now, Joan," Mama said, sighing.
I had out my pocket sketchbook, was already fumbling for the piece of charcoal somewhere in the many pockets of my Levi overalls. My larger sketchbook, my blank canvases the size of teacups, my brushes and inks and oils were all packed tight in the car. But my smaller sketchbook, I kept on me. At all times. Everywhere I went.
I wanted to capture the life of the front porch, imprint it in my notebook and in my memory. A quick landscape. Should've only taken a few minutes, but Mama was right. We were all dog tired. Even Wolf, who had slept most of the journey. Mya's face was drained of its usual spark, and as I slipped my sketchbook into my back jeans pocket, slightly defeated, her hand felt hot and limp as I took it in my own.
Mya, Mama, and I walked up the wide stone front steps hand in hand. My memories of staying here felt vague and far away-I'd been on...
Joan
1995
The house looked living. Mama squeezed my hand as the three of us gazed up at it, our bleary exhaustion no match for the animated brightness before us.
"Papa Myron selected and placed each stone of the house's foundation himself," she whispered to me and Mya. "With the patience and diligence of a man deep in love."
The low house was a cat napping in the shade of plum trees, not at all like the three-story Victorian fortress we had just left. This house seemed somehow large and small at once-it sat on many different split levels that spanned out in all directions in a wild, Southern maze. A long driveway traversed the length of the yard, cut in half by a folding wooden barn gate. But what made the house breathe, what gave the house its lungs, was its front porch. Wide stone steps led to a front porch covered in heavy green ivy and honeysuckle and morning glory. Above the porch, my grandfather had erected a wooden pergola. Sunlight streaked through green vines and wooden planks that turned the porch into an unkempt greenhouse. The honeysuckle drew hummingbirds the size of baseballs; they fluttered atop the canopy in shades of indigo and emerald and burgundy. I could see cats on the porch-a dozen of them, maybe, an impossible number except for what a quick count told me. Some slept in heaps that looked softer than down, while others sat atop the green canopy, paws swiping at the birds. Bees as big as hands buzzed about, pollinating the morning glories, giving the yard a feeling that the green expanse itself was alive and humming and moving. The butterflies are what solidified my fascination. Small and periwinkle-blue, they danced within the canopy. The butterflies were African violets come alive. It was the finishing touch to a Southern symphony all conducted on a quarter-acre plot.
"Not now, Joan," Mama said, sighing.
I had out my pocket sketchbook, was already fumbling for the piece of charcoal somewhere in the many pockets of my Levi overalls. My larger sketchbook, my blank canvases the size of teacups, my brushes and inks and oils were all packed tight in the car. But my smaller sketchbook, I kept on me. At all times. Everywhere I went.
I wanted to capture the life of the front porch, imprint it in my notebook and in my memory. A quick landscape. Should've only taken a few minutes, but Mama was right. We were all dog tired. Even Wolf, who had slept most of the journey. Mya's face was drained of its usual spark, and as I slipped my sketchbook into my back jeans pocket, slightly defeated, her hand felt hot and limp as I took it in my own.
Mya, Mama, and I walked up the wide stone front steps hand in hand. My memories of staying here felt vague and far away-I'd been on...
Readers Top Reviews
Chaka DumasBennet
Easy read provided by intertwining stories of the queens of the North family of Memphis. Recommend to all my well read black and brown 👸🏽
AmyChaka DumasBen
One of the best books I have ever read. Definitely the best debut book! Exciting, scary and warm all at the same time. Examines the bond of sisterhood in a wonderful way.
Mz.K.LewisAmyChak
Memphis is a great 1st novel by the author in a story that spans a 70-year time period. This is a powerful saga of four women who survive through family secrets and the hardships of black love. These women forge through impossible situations involving incest and domestic abuse. Nevertheless, I felt that the author did not deal with the damages and effects that abuse can have on the victim and the abuser. The author's writing style is excellent and I was drawn into the story by her awesome symbolism and prose. However I was sometimes thrown off by the jumping back and forth in time periods. Although these women show perseverance at times it seems as if their emotions are stifled and the full story is not told. Maybe she's leaning toward a second novel to give us a more in depth picture of the main characters and the other 41 characters in the book.
SunshineDanielsMz
As I read this book I felt so much like I was reading parts of the story of my life. It brought the memories of my childhood flooding back like a flood after a bad hurricane. It hit me in the heart and knocked me over more times than I can count. I really believe God put this book in my path to help me on this healing journey that I'm on to let go of my abusive childhood so that I can now heal and live a better life and be a better me. Thank you, Tara. You have helped me more than you know. You, indeed, are a poet.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Joan
1995
The house looked living. Mama squeezed my hand as the three of us gazed up at it, our bleary exhaustion no match for the animated brightness before us.
"Papa Myron selected and placed each stone of the house's foundation himself," she whispered to me and Mya. "With the patience and diligence of a man deep in love."
The low house was a cat napping in the shade of plum trees, not at all like the three-story Victorian fortress we had just left. This house seemed somehow large and small at once-it sat on many different split levels that spanned out in all directions in a wild, Southern maze. A long driveway traversed the length of the yard, cut in half by a folding wooden barn gate. But what made the house breathe, what gave the house its lungs, was its front porch. Wide stone steps led to a front porch covered in heavy green ivy and honeysuckle and morning glory. Above the porch, my grandfather had erected a wooden pergola. Sunlight streaked through green vines and wooden planks that turned the porch into an unkempt greenhouse. The honeysuckle drew hummingbirds the size of baseballs; they fluttered atop the canopy in shades of indigo and emerald and burgundy. I could see cats on the porch-a dozen of them, maybe, an impossible number except for what a quick count told me. Some slept in heaps that looked softer than down, while others sat atop the green canopy, paws swiping at the birds. Bees as big as hands buzzed about, pollinating the morning glories, giving the yard a feeling that the green expanse itself was alive and humming and moving. The butterflies are what solidified my fascination. Small and periwinkle-blue, they danced within the canopy. The butterflies were African violets come alive. It was the finishing touch to a Southern symphony all conducted on a quarter-acre plot.
"Not now, Joan," Mama said, sighing.
I had out my pocket sketchbook, was already fumbling for the piece of charcoal somewhere in the many pockets of my Levi overalls. My larger sketchbook, my blank canvases the size of teacups, my brushes and inks and oils were all packed tight in the car. But my smaller sketchbook, I kept on me. At all times. Everywhere I went.
I wanted to capture the life of the front porch, imprint it in my notebook and in my memory. A quick landscape. Should've only taken a few minutes, but Mama was right. We were all dog tired. Even Wolf, who had slept most of the journey. Mya's face was drained of its usual spark, and as I slipped my sketchbook into my back jeans pocket, slightly defeated, her hand felt hot and limp as I took it in my own.
Mya, Mama, and I walked up the wide stone front steps hand in hand. My memories of staying here felt vague and far away-I'd been only three years old, and it felt like a lifetime ago-but now I remembered sitting on the porch and pouring milk for the cats. I remembered Mama cautioning me not to spill, though I usually did anyway. Her laughter, too-the sound of it like the seashell chimes coming from inside the house while I played with the cats echoed in my mind from years ago. And the door, I remembered that. It was a massive beast. A gilded lion's head with a gold hoop in its snout was mounted on a wood door painted corn yellow. I had to paint a picture of this door, even if I had to spend months, years, finding the perfect hues. It was as magnificent as it was terrifying. By knocking, by opening the door, I knew we'd be letting out a whole host of ghosts.
Mama raised her arm, grabbed the lion's hoop, and knocked three times.
A calico kitten wove in and out of Mya's legs in a zigzag, mewing softly.
Mya let go of my hand in order to stroke the kitten's mane, coo to her gently.
We'd left Wolf in the car. Mama explained she'd have to be let in through the backyard, so she wouldn't be tempted to attack all the roaming wildlife in the front. She was in the passenger seat with the window down. She wouldn't jump out; she was too big for that. More mammoth than dog. And even though she was friendlier than a church mouse to all dogs, she mistrusted all humans not family. The curl of her lip and the baring of teeth were enough to send most grown men running to the other side of the street. As a baby, Mya called her "Horse" instead of "Wolf." Wolf would carry her, Mya tugging at her ears like reins, and Wolf never minding. Mya's chubby toddler legs all akimbo in Wolf's thick mane. Wolf grew to expect it, these pony rides. She would nudge Mya first with a face-covering, eye-closing lick, followed by a gentle nip on Mya's button nose that let us know she was ready to be ridden.
Now Wolf stuck her thick head covered in gray fur out the van window and growled, low. She ...
Joan
1995
The house looked living. Mama squeezed my hand as the three of us gazed up at it, our bleary exhaustion no match for the animated brightness before us.
"Papa Myron selected and placed each stone of the house's foundation himself," she whispered to me and Mya. "With the patience and diligence of a man deep in love."
The low house was a cat napping in the shade of plum trees, not at all like the three-story Victorian fortress we had just left. This house seemed somehow large and small at once-it sat on many different split levels that spanned out in all directions in a wild, Southern maze. A long driveway traversed the length of the yard, cut in half by a folding wooden barn gate. But what made the house breathe, what gave the house its lungs, was its front porch. Wide stone steps led to a front porch covered in heavy green ivy and honeysuckle and morning glory. Above the porch, my grandfather had erected a wooden pergola. Sunlight streaked through green vines and wooden planks that turned the porch into an unkempt greenhouse. The honeysuckle drew hummingbirds the size of baseballs; they fluttered atop the canopy in shades of indigo and emerald and burgundy. I could see cats on the porch-a dozen of them, maybe, an impossible number except for what a quick count told me. Some slept in heaps that looked softer than down, while others sat atop the green canopy, paws swiping at the birds. Bees as big as hands buzzed about, pollinating the morning glories, giving the yard a feeling that the green expanse itself was alive and humming and moving. The butterflies are what solidified my fascination. Small and periwinkle-blue, they danced within the canopy. The butterflies were African violets come alive. It was the finishing touch to a Southern symphony all conducted on a quarter-acre plot.
"Not now, Joan," Mama said, sighing.
I had out my pocket sketchbook, was already fumbling for the piece of charcoal somewhere in the many pockets of my Levi overalls. My larger sketchbook, my blank canvases the size of teacups, my brushes and inks and oils were all packed tight in the car. But my smaller sketchbook, I kept on me. At all times. Everywhere I went.
I wanted to capture the life of the front porch, imprint it in my notebook and in my memory. A quick landscape. Should've only taken a few minutes, but Mama was right. We were all dog tired. Even Wolf, who had slept most of the journey. Mya's face was drained of its usual spark, and as I slipped my sketchbook into my back jeans pocket, slightly defeated, her hand felt hot and limp as I took it in my own.
Mya, Mama, and I walked up the wide stone front steps hand in hand. My memories of staying here felt vague and far away-I'd been only three years old, and it felt like a lifetime ago-but now I remembered sitting on the porch and pouring milk for the cats. I remembered Mama cautioning me not to spill, though I usually did anyway. Her laughter, too-the sound of it like the seashell chimes coming from inside the house while I played with the cats echoed in my mind from years ago. And the door, I remembered that. It was a massive beast. A gilded lion's head with a gold hoop in its snout was mounted on a wood door painted corn yellow. I had to paint a picture of this door, even if I had to spend months, years, finding the perfect hues. It was as magnificent as it was terrifying. By knocking, by opening the door, I knew we'd be letting out a whole host of ghosts.
Mama raised her arm, grabbed the lion's hoop, and knocked three times.
A calico kitten wove in and out of Mya's legs in a zigzag, mewing softly.
Mya let go of my hand in order to stroke the kitten's mane, coo to her gently.
We'd left Wolf in the car. Mama explained she'd have to be let in through the backyard, so she wouldn't be tempted to attack all the roaming wildlife in the front. She was in the passenger seat with the window down. She wouldn't jump out; she was too big for that. More mammoth than dog. And even though she was friendlier than a church mouse to all dogs, she mistrusted all humans not family. The curl of her lip and the baring of teeth were enough to send most grown men running to the other side of the street. As a baby, Mya called her "Horse" instead of "Wolf." Wolf would carry her, Mya tugging at her ears like reins, and Wolf never minding. Mya's chubby toddler legs all akimbo in Wolf's thick mane. Wolf grew to expect it, these pony rides. She would nudge Mya first with a face-covering, eye-closing lick, followed by a gentle nip on Mya's button nose that let us know she was ready to be ridden.
Now Wolf stuck her thick head covered in gray fur out the van window and growled, low. She ...
