A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith (1943)
Whenever A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is reviewed or discussed, the discussion always seems to be coloured by a wistful golden nostalgia. This nostalgia is less likely to arise from the particular time the story takes place – the 1900s, though the place, Brooklyn, and the circumstances of struggling through poverty could contribute; rather I think this nostalgia comes from the way that Betty Smith captured the small moments and nuances of childhood experience.
“People always think that happiness is a faraway thing,” thought Francie, “something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains—a cup of strong hot coffee when you’re blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you’re alone—just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness.”
In Brooklyn in the early 1900s Francie Nolan, a perceptive and intuitive girl is growing up in difficult circumstances. She is devoted to her singer-waiter father, a hopeless drunk, who Francie largely ignores his faults in favour of a blind adoration; lives with her staunchly realistic mother, and has a close relationship with her favoured younger brother Neeley. The story is only mildly interesting, recounting episodic events in Francie’s childhood and adolescence, but I just did not feel emotionally connected to the characters or their hardships. There was never, really, the sense that they wouldn’t be able to get through it, despite the setbacks, and because of this, there is no real drama or urgency to the story.
From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography.
I enjoyed the message that education is indispensable when it comes to personal growth, in particular to those without the social or financial standing required to “move up” in society, and there is some insight into the necessary losses that come with growing up, and Francie’s passion for reading is something I can relate to, but overall, I didn’t feel strongly either way toward this book. I struggle to see why A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has come to be regarded as such a classic, and I can only assume that nostalgia plays a large part. Not to say that nostalgia is an inherently negative way to assess something which has touched us as readers, but I think it can get in the way of our judgment or appraisal of a text. However, that gets us involved in a dialogue which is way too knotty and complicated for an otherwise lovely, leisurely Sunday afternoon! Cup of tea, anyone?
