Monkey Beach - Eden Robinson

Monkey Beach is a unique novel that weaves Haisla story-telling, myths and mystery together to create a story that flows seamlessly between past and present. Robinson’s novel follows the narrator Lisamarie Hill, who constantly blurs her memories with the present plot, in which she is struggling to cope with the disappearance of her brother. Throughout the memories there are reoccurring themes of loss and pain, of ‘drifting’ or ‘sinking’, which carries into the moments when Lisa is in her ‘present-head-space’ (not recalling a memory). The reader struggles to follow Lisa as she drifts back and forth between these worlds.

In this novel we are introduced to many characters who shape, influence and affect Lisa’s life, including her Uncle Mick, her Ma-ma-oo (grandmother), and her cousin Tab. When Mick dies tragically and suddenly, his death was explained tastefully but vaguely. His death left me in shock, forcing me to re-read the paragraph over and over again, searching for clues or answers. I had hoped that my questions as to why he died might then be later explained or revealed, but never were. I was left wondering if this was an intentionally choice made by Robinson.

Does Mick’s mysterious death, with it’s lack of closure for both the reader and for Lisa, emphasize the pain and trauma that Lisa endures?

Can the unexplained death of Mick be compared to the deaths of Indigenous children who attended residential schools, or to the missing and murdered Indigenous women, and how their families were never granted a full explanation?

Does this (implicitly or explicitly) connect this sense of ‘not-knowing’ to the inability to reconcile or to heal?

Can we, as readers, draw connections between the deaths and traumas that Lisa faces throughout Monkey Beach with the deaths and traumas that haunt not only our Canadian history, but also our Indigenous peoples?

Robinson’s novel has left me with more questions than answers. The novel feels intentionally ambiguous; Monkey Beach invites readers to explore Haisla lore and culture, but only shares fragmented glimpses. Robinson teases you, like Weegit the Trickster raven. She does not wrap any of the stories or memories up ‘nicely’ but leaves you hanging, with an intense desire and curiosity, to know more, to know how, to know why.

Throughout the novel. Lisa drifts in and out of painful memories littered with traumas, but appears numb as she recalls each memory, sinking further away from reality. I found myself desperately wanting Lisa to ‘be okay’, and felt lost when I was never granted this. But I am not entitled to this wish. I must face these stories of hardship, loss, and trauma, as well as the reality of what it means to heal. Reconciliation is a long and strenuous process, and reading novels that make you think, cause you to question, and that make you uncomfortable are a first step.

This novel makes me think about how I am still searching for answers. I am not ‘done’; I do not have a polished ending for this month of June, our National Indigenous month. I still have questions, I am still searching, and unsure of many things. I have only become more aware of what I do not know. I recognize that I have a desire to learn more about specifics, about our Canadian history, about Indigenous culture, and about specific Indigenous cultures.

I do not know enough about Haisla culture to fully understand all of the specific and nuanced moments Robinson included, but the novel has sparked in me a re-newed intrigue in story-telling. The genre of story-telling does not always look or sound like my traditional (white) notion of story-telling. Each culture tells stories differently, and we must be willing to open our minds to these differences, to search them out, and to expand our experiences.

Monkey Beach’s ending is purposely unclear so that the reader has to think. Robinson refuses to spoon-feed you a happy-ending. The questions of whether or not Lisa’s brother Jimmy is alive or dead, and of whether or not Lisa survives, are left unanswered and extremely murky. Personally, I was left feeling like I was missing something, some key piece of information that I somehow missed. I desperately wanted to understand what happened, but felt frustrated with the struggle. But knowledge or answers are not always granted, and the frustration or confusion readers may feel has a purpose. Good fiction wants you to ask yourself, “why do I feel this way”, hopefully producing the answer “because I care”. Books are meant to be educational tools in which to build empathy with other people. Fiction is a gateway to reality. We must learn to be caring individuals before we can grow into purposely activism.

Sonic Approved