Probably Ruby
Lisa Bird-Wilson
Probably Ruby, Lisa Bird-Wilson’s first novel, opens in 2013, in a scene in which Ruby is in a session with her counsellor, Kal. Ruby says, “I like to be in charge…. I pretend I like watching him jerk off, just so I won’t have to touch him. My commitment level’s kind of low on this one.” And thus, through the candid, direct language the tone and the mood are set. If you’re not comfortable being uncomfortable with such blunt honest narrative then this is your warning. There will be no flinching, no turning away; Bird-Wilson conveys the world Ruby inhabits is conveyed in spare, unvarnished, uncluttered narrative lines. The world we are invited to enter beckons, and it’s a world unfamiliar to many if not most of us. A world we need to know and understand. How rare it is to have a narrative from this perspetive: that of a Cree woman who was adopted at birth, and spends much of her young life flailing, trying to find herself, her identity, her history. All the while she is wearing a “don’t fuck with me expression” on her face that belies her insecurities and fears as she, like us, careens, veers, staggers, jumps from one real or imagined experience to another.
Ruby’s search for herself is not methodical or linear, and the haphazard nature of what might be described as a quest may be challenging to some readers, due to the novel’s unusual approach to time. The book is, in a sense, all over the map, but necessarily so, and the form reflects the content. The resulting integrity is formed by a kind of kaleidoscope, where the fragments shift, alter, and combine to form a whole.
Ruby is born in 1975, but the novel reaches back to 1950 and her biological parents, Johnny, and Rose (married at 18 and six kids later), and spans, intermittently, and elliptically, 1976 to 2018. Recurring imagery, and characters, create the connective tissue.
The world a naïve and initially innocent Ruby explores is filled with threats and challenges as well as the comaraderie found with others she senses are like her. For example, Ruby has a kind of radar for sensing other Indigenous adoptees: she can detect “a blank spot like a slipped stitch in a knitted scarf” and “recognized that spot a mile away. “
As her future and her past unfold, Ruby “lined her tiny nest of mythology with each fragment she picked up, twigs and leaves and bits of string; she hoarded each scrap and built from them what she could. Scavenged a narrative. Accounted for herself. As faulty as it was, as draughty and full of holes. “
Once Ruby has her own children, Aaron and Junior, she “created a mythology for them. Fabricated family. To try and save her kids from the longing she’d felt her whole life. From the weird amensia about something that didn’t happen. From the yearning for something that should have happened, for something she felt in her blood.”
The objectivity in Bird-Wilson’s prose, the directness of her narrative, awakens in the reader a deep compassion, sorrow, sadness for this young woman and others like her, searching for themselves both in themselves and in the world around them.
I myself have been a birth mother, and have written about adoption from my perspective, but I have not before read from the perspective of the baby, the child, the adult who was given up, and about the impact on any adoptee from any background. Nor have I read what compounds and deepens the plight of someone like Ruby: that she is taken not only from her mother, but from her culture, her people, and that impact is permanent.
There is not a climactic arrival in Probably Ruby, there is no “narrative arc” per se. Rather, we are taken backwards, and forwards, sometimes to where we have already been, but with a greater understanding of its significance, of what is in and out of Ruby’s grasp, who can be trusted, who loves her, who is using her. Engage with Ruby: she is feisty, foolish, fucked up, and funny.