Prolific, look it up. There she is. 
Joyce Carol Oates. To many this is a negative, somehow unliterary. At times I would agree that prolific does not a good writer make: Grisham, Steele, Patterson, yes, the list does go on. However, I don’t care how prolific a writer is as long as the writing is done well; Oates writes well. Always. My Sister, My Love is no exception. Oates once again explores, dissects, and broadcasts the gothic darkness of society and I as a reader was captivated, appalled, and ashamed. Isn’t that the point of this story? This JonBenet Ramsey reality loosely dressed-up, fictionalized account of the Rampike family. Did I say loosely dressed-up?
Dysfunctional families are all alike. Ditto “survivors.”
Thus Sklyer Rampike introduces us to his family and to himself. The survivor—the boy that could have been a child prodigy, the brother to the most famous six year old ever, the brother believed by many to have killed his most famous sister, a drug-addled boy left alone to wade through the destruction that was his family. And this time he is taking us with him.
The Rampikes are a family on the rise. Charismatic Bix Rampike is a corporate hot-shot moving up quickly. However, his wife, Betsy, is finding the social stairwell of Fairhills, New Jersey not so easy to climb. She lacks the polish, perhaps pizzazz, maybe the fight to be a lead player on women’s social circuit. But what Betsey lacks she hopes to find in her children. Ahh…the power of the womb! It is to young Skyler that she turns first. Not so much for a social stepping-stone, at first, but for his unconditional love and support. Mommy’s little man. Together they take lone drives far from the family home, Betsey’s social inadequacies, and young Edna Louise and all her pooping and crying. Then Betsey comes upon a pair of skates and wasn’t she almost a famous skater and might not Skyler have inherited some of her talent? No. But fret not, because Bix enters the game and takes young Skyler to the gym with demands of turning the six year old into a world class gymnast. Instead Skyler is left with a permanent limp and any illusion of being a child prodigy destroyed…however, there is a but. But. But. But now little Edna Louise is no longer merely a pooping nuisance…she wants to skate; she can skate. Bliss Rampike is born.
The Rampike’s have found another way up the social ladder. Joy. And the children? Skyler, Mommy’s little man, is an overmedicated, limping “dwarf.” I couldn’t help but picture the hunchback, albino, dwarf narrator Olympia (Oly) Binewski from Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love.
If you haven’t read that book, you should. Dunn is disturbingly brilliant. Bliss, nothing remaining of Edna Louise but a ratty old doll, is a skate angel, complete with glossed lips, shellacked hair, and growth hormone injections. Betsy is in her element; everyone wants a piece of Bliss and to get to her they need to go through Betsy—and she is more than willing to comply. Bliss wins trophies, is interviewed, photographed, and loved—by her town, magazines, and fans across the nation. Some are safe; some not so much. And if Bliss is loved then is not the whole Rampike family loved? Respected? Accepted? Isn’t that the American way? Success at any cost? Even at the cost of a child’s well being? Marriages? Self-respect? Yes, as long as the family Christmas picture is printed all glossy perfect on the cover of a magazine…SOCIETY WILL LOVE YOU! Clamor to grab a glimpse of you on T.V., in the check-out line of Safeway, talk of your beauty on work breaks. We will love you; then we will wait for you to fall. Hard.
Just like we waited for such people as Michael Jackson to fall over and over again so we could, at our choosing, claim adoration or repulsion. Either way, we never stopped looking. This is where Oates shamed my cheeks bright red. Up to this point, drawn in by the tormented voice of Skyler, I allowed myself righteous indignation at the Rampike’s disregard for their children’s happiness, mental wellbeing, even their physical safety. I was better than the Rampikes, a better parent, a better person. But then a thought hit me dead between the eyes. I have watched! Just last week I was flipping through the net, looking for Michael photographs…before (weirdness) and after (weirdness and worse)! I sat up all night to watch the funeral of Princess Di! I camped out at the local magazine shop the week Kurt Cobain died, hoping beyond hope that it wasn’t so! Yep, I saw Brittney’s shaved head and Rihanna’s black eye. Even worse—I watched Parent Trap and LOVED Lindsay Lohan! And, yes, I can clearly call to mind the picture of JonBenet Ramsey that graced the cover of every magazine after her death.
My Sister, My Love is at heart a family tragedy—the flawed thinking of selfish parents, and the irreparable damage done to their children—but Joyce doesn’t for a moment let society walk away with a completely clean conscious. Such tragedies and the frenzy that follows them say much about our society. I fear none of which is good. National newspapers are failing one after the other; while celebrity tabloids continue to catch our attention at every check stand. There are television shows that follow families with young children that have no voice in what is happening. You can watch tiny girls, painted-up and barely dressed, compete with one another in beauty pageants. Maybe they are not our children but do we as a society, as the watchers, contribute to this strange exploitation? What is your thought?
4 out of 5 stars.
I would love to give My Sister, My Love 5 stars but felt at times it was too long and bogged down.
