When deconstructing a well-structured life narrative such as How to Say Babylon, by Saifya Sinclair, it is important to take all facets of the work into account, not just the ones the author left intentionally for us to see. Sinclair’s memoir is lyrical, evocative, and deeply poetic, immersing the reader into her upbringing in a strict Rastafarian household and her journey toward self-liberation. Her prose mirrors the rhythms of poetry, and reads with a certain musicality that leaves the reader not just with her description of the liberating force of literature, but proof of it in her writing itself.
Everything within Sinclair’s memoir serves a purpose. Each scene is depicted very intentionally, to reflect the emotional intensity of her experiences. Riddled through her chronology are various symbols, motifs, repetitive elements, and contrasting themes, placed obviously to accomplish a specific purpose, to evoke a certain emotional response from the reader. The memoir itself is named for a carefully woven metaphor revolving around her father’s version of Babylon, a force that seeks to suppress the Rastafarian (his) way of life, that Sinclairs life appears to run parallel to. When examining her writing style, it’s important to take a step back from the actual content of the writing (what we’re meant to see, so to speak) and to reflect on the size and shape of it.
To give readers the tools to understand complicated life narratives like Sinclair’s, Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson wrote Reading Autobiography Now, which examines ways in which personal narratives are shaped by memory, identity, and storytelling techniques. A key concept they discuss is “patterns of emplotment,” which describes the ways in which autobiographical narratives shape and structure time. They emphasize that time in narration is elastic rather than strictly linear, which allows for various temporal patterns both in the way events are recounted and in how the narrator chooses to tell their story. Smith and Watson state, “Ultimately, time unfolds through no stipulated measure. The time-past of the autobiographical subject can be expanded. It can also be compressed, fragmented, or repetitive” (137). Autobiographical time is not bound by a fixed structure but instead shaped by the narrator’s perspective and experiences. For instance, the length of time spent to delve out the intricate details of a specific moment might completely outweigh the time spent discussing what follows, and that reveals the author’s intentions surrounding that moment. Essentially, the tempo and level of detail of a moment are a lesser-recognized but equally revealing aspect of life narratives.
In Sinclair’s case, I want to call attention to some of the last section of her narrative. In chapter twenty-seven, she recounts a final episode of domestic violence, one in which her father attacks her seemingly with the intent of killing her. In a flash of brutality, her father terrorizes Sinclair and the rest of their household, and while graphic, the scene depicts the last time the father holds any sort of power over her. Sinclair spends the entire chapter fleshing out the scene, using a heightened level of detail to make the reader feel the immediacy of her suffering while also illustrating how these moments shaped her identity. She leaves you stuck, sort of festering in that moment, for several pages, so as to subject you to her experiences. She narrates every action of each of the moving elements of the scene, while also taking note of the physical toll her body has taken as a result of her father’s attack. She does this by fluidly alternating between narrating as the experiencing I, which immerses the reader with her immediate emotions and perceptions of that moment, and the embodied I, which reflects on the physical pain caused to her body. The level of detail is suffocating, however Sinclair’s will to make readers understand the gravity of the situation is accomplished.
In the next chapter, Sinclair pulls back significantly and opts for a much less detailed version of events. Suddenly, it’s five months after the incident, and the reader must step back from the heat of the previous chapter and step into this new setting that Sinclair drops them into. Then just as abruptly, it’s eight months later. Then in the next paragraph, it’s been over a year. By compressing the time that follows the violent event, Sinclair forces the reader to feel the disconnection between the immediate aftermath and the long-term consequences. This fragmentation of time mirrors the way trauma lingers after a violent experience: while the physical violence may occur in a brief moment, the emotional and psychological aftermath stretches on, often in ways that are difficult to fully narrate or contain. The disjointed time that follows the attack also highlights Sinclair’s struggle with the process of healing and reclaiming her life. By not offering the same level of detail and immersion in these later moments, Sinclair shows how time becomes less about the linear sequence of events and more about the long, often disorienting process of recovery.
Towards the end of chapter twenty-eight, starting on page 314, Sinclair receives news of the birth of her niece. It’s almost as if time stops completely, creating a sharp switch in tempo as Sinclair’s narration falls into a frenzy of reflection of her familial relationships and the bounds of generational trauma. In her haze, she answers a long awaited call from her father, one where she attempts to make him take accountability for his role in her trauma, and finds a moment of self-empowerment. As Sinclair finally gets to meet her niece, and she becomes flooded with emotion, and finds it within herself to forgive her father so that she can be present to support her niece and make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. The writing in this section of the chapter feels a bit foreign, however, as Sinclair spent all of the book prior to this moment reflecting on the cruelty she experienced by the hands of her father. Once again, Sinclair’s use of emplotment designates that enough time has past so that there is significant emotional distance between her and the events of her father’s attack, and that she is able to reflect on it from a place of forgiveness and maturity.
Through this manipulation of time, Sinclair’s memoir becomes not just an account of her past but an illustration of how identity is shaped through memory and trauma. The temporal choices she makes reflect the instability and fluidity of personal history, where moments of pain and liberation are never strictly tied to a fixed timeline. This approach also invites the reader to engage with the emotional depth of her journey, not as a distant observer of events, but as someone who experiences the ebb and flow of time and memory alongside Sinclair.
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