Your Blues Ain't Like Mine

Your Blues Ain't Like Mine

4.9 12
by Bebe Moore Campbell

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—San Francisco Chronicle
"TRULY ENGAGING...Campbell has a storyteller's ear for dialogue and the visual sense of painting a picture and a place....There's a steam that keeps the story moving as the characters, and later their children, wrestle through racial, personal and cultural crisis."


—San Francisco Chronicle
"TRULY ENGAGING...Campbell has a storyteller's ear for dialogue and the visual sense of painting a picture and a place....There's a steam that keeps the story moving as the characters, and later their children, wrestle through racial, personal and cultural crisis."
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
"YOUR BLUES AIN'T LIKE MINE is rich, lush fiction set in rural Mississippi beginning in the mid-'50s. It is also a haunting reality flowing through Anywhere, U.S.A., in the '90s....There's love, rage and hatred, winning and losing, honor, abuse; in other words, humanity....Campbell now deserves recognition as the best of storytellers. Her writing sings."
—The Indianapolis News
—The Seattle Times
"A COMPELLING NARRATIVE...Campbell is a master when it comes to telling a story."
—Entertainment Weekly
YOUR BLUES AIN'T LIKE MINE won the NAACP Image Award for Best Literary Work of Fiction

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Written in poetic prose, filled with masterfully drawn and sympathetic characters that a less able hand might have rendered in stereotypes, this first novel blends the irony of Flannery O'Connor's fiction and the poignance of Harper Lee's. Moving quickly and believably from the eve of integration in rural Mississippi to the present-day street gangs in Chicago's housing projects, Campbell (Sweet Summer: Growing Up With and Without My Dad) captures the gulf between pre-and post-civil rights America; her story, starting with the murder of a young black man whose trial -- argued before an all-white jury -- captures national attention, shows us how far we have come and yet suggests we have not come so far after all. When word gets out that black teenager Armstrong Todd was talking French to Lily Cox, the Cox men kill him. Clayton Pinochet, the local newspaper reporter whose father is the most powerful and reactionary man in town, secretly tips off the national press; the men are arrested for what in previous times would have been a permissible crime. Their acquittal makes it clear that the system doesn't provide justice, and life never returns to normal for anyone. Details -- the advent of TV, the polio vaccine, a Faulkner novel, Vietnam, women's lib and Oprah! -- add to the rich, textured background.
Library Journal
Set mostly in rural Mississippi during the early Civil Rights era, this first novel by the author of the autobiography Sweet Summer: Growing Up With and Without My Dad ( LJ 4/1/89) opens dramatically when a poor white man, Floyd Cox, murders a black teenager, Armstrong Todd. The boy's crime? Speaking harmless French in the presence of Cox's wife, Lily, whom Cox himself routinely brutalizes. Nearly every stratum of the small town of Delta quakes over Cox's action, taken to impress his daddy. Campbell ably reveals the complex relationships among townspeople in this multilayered Southern community. Even though some characters' blues clearly differ from others, all have compromises to make and grief, shame, and responsibility to bear or share. The ending leaves open the possibility of recovery or recurrence.
-- Faye A. Chadwell, University of South Carolina Library, Columbia
School Library Journal
The supreme court ruling on desegregation blew winds of change in Hopewell, Mississippi where the classes -- monied, poor whites, and blacks -- knew their places. When a 15-year-old African-American unknowingly crosses the accepted line, he is brutally murdered by a poor white, setting in motion a series of events that leave no one in the town untouched. Powerful in emotion (from understated to explosive), propelled by unstoppable forces, the book is compelling reading. It exposes family, race, and class divisions in America from the 1950s to the present, and the rich characterization explores the base, the noble, and the ordinary in all of us. This is not for everyone because of the sexual explicitness and the intricate weavings of the social strata. But YAs who were moved by Mildred Taylor's books and Alice Walker's The Color Purple will be ready for and appreciate Campbell.
-- Judy Sokoll, Fairfax Country Public Library, VA
Sacred Fire
Set in the 1950s in Mississippi, Your Blues Ain't Like Mine begins with the murder of Armstrong Todd, a Chicago youth living with his grandmother until his mother can get on her feet financially. Mississippi is no place for Armstrong. Raised in the North under the illusion that blacks were free from racial intolerance, and showing off to a group of black men in a pool hall, he inadvertently speaks French to Lily Cox, a poor white woman whose husband, Floyd, owns the place. Egged on by Jake McKenzie, the black man who runs Floyd's pool hall, Floyd is forced by the code of the South to exact revenge. At the insistence of Floyd's father, Lester, and older brother, John Earl, Floyd has a fatal confrontation with Armstrong in his grandmother's backyard.

While this thoughtful and suspenseful novel appears based on the true story of Emmett Till, the fourteen-year-old boy brutally murdered in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman, Campbell puts a keenly personal face—black and white— on the human toll of racism. Jake McKenzie, in his jealousy over Armstrong's northern mannerisms and in his own diminished sense of self, virtually assures Armstrong's death. Floyd is the reluctant captive of a racial code of conduct that demands an exact retribution. This is a deeply moving novel.

Clyde Edgerton
Powerful...She bares the skin and holds in her chest the heart of each her characters, one after another, regardless of the characters' race or sex, need for pity, grief, punishment or peace.
-- The New York Times Book Review

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
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4.21(w) x 6.90(h) x 0.89(d)

Read an Excerpt

The music was as much a gift as sunshine, rain, as any blessing ever prayed for.

Lily woke up when the singing began. She lay quiet and still in her bed until her head was full of songs and the strong voices of the fieldworkers from the Pinochet Plantation seemed to be inside her. Part of the song was soft like a hymn; then it would rise to the full force of vibrant gospel and change again to something loud and searing, almost violent. The music was rich, like the alluvial soil that nourished everything and everyone in the Delta. Lily began to feel strong and hopeful, as if she was being healed. Colored people's singing always made her feel so good. Much too quickly, the song was over, without even leaving an echo to keep her company. Years later, she would fight to hum even a scrap of the notes that floated to her from the Pinochet Plantation that day, but by then the song had seeped into the land like spilled blood, and its vanishing echo was just another shadow on her soul.

As Lily lay in bed looking out the window into the wee hours of that Mississippi morning, it seemed as if someone had drawn down a heavy black curtain on the world. She felt lonely and adrift in the sudden quiet. Daylight was at least an hour away, and she couldn't fall back asleep. She groped in the dark toward the still body of her husband, who was lying next to her.

With movements as quick and furtive as a thief's, Lily pressed her breasts into Floyd's bare back; she wanted him to wake up feeling the tips of her nipples against his skin, the slight undulating movement of her groin rotating against his behind. It was like the ticking of a clock, the way her crotch burrowed into him: a small relentless movement. He'd been gone for nearly ten days and had returned earlier that evening. She felt frightened and weak when he was away from her. It was as though she didn't exist when he was absent. As she pressed into him, rubbing his shoulder blades with the tips of her nipples, she thought of how excited he would be when he woke up. She smiled, thinking of how she could make him want her, remembering the times he even begged. Maybe he would plead with her this time. She might yawn a little and act uninterested, which would only make him hotter. She gently stroked his behind with her thigh over and over again. Lily squeezed her small, white body against Floyd's back and rested the side of her face on his shoulder blade. She kissed his spine and thought: If I can get him to give me three dollars, I'll get me another Rio Red lipstick; ain't had a lipstick in going on three months. I might can buy me some Evening in Paris and a scarf too. And maybe some rose-colored nail polish. The thought of the lipstick, the bottle of perfume, the scarf, and the nail polish made her breath come heavy and fast. She calmed herself because the trick was to wake Floyd softly, to let him discover her squeezed against him, to make it seem coincidental that the front of her nightgown was undone, her breasts exposed. Wanting her had to be his idea; he didn't like it the other way around. Floyd said only whores acted that way.

Looking out the window, Lily could see that a soft, drizzling was coming down. It had rained almost the entire time that Floyd had been gone, a hard driving rain that rattled the tin roof and leaked into the pots and pans she placed strategically throughout the house. Not that it made a dent in the September heat spell they'd been seeing in Mississippi, Lily thought. Probably just fatten up the old mosquitoes and breed new ones. She wondered if her husband would ever fix the roof.

Lily's body was soft and slightly damp, like the weather. She could smell the musty odor coming from between her legs and clamped her thighs shut to keep the scent away from Floyd. When they put in a bathroom, she would take baths every night. Bubble baths. Beneath the thin sheet, she could feel her husband's first waking movements. She wrapper her arm around his waist and her husband's neck—which was speckled with dirt he hadn't bothered to wash off—about the $67.58 in his pants pocket, pay for a week of construction work in Louisiana. Then, just seconds before he woke up she fell away from him, so that only her nipples grazed his back. It was easy to let her mouth fall open, to push a soft, sleepy moan from her lips. She thought: I can make him do what I want now.

Lily opened her eyes slowly when he touched her. Fully awake, they admired each other. They were beautiful in similar ways; the people in the town used to mistake them for brother and sister. They both had glossy, dark curls, the same full lips and bright green eyes. They were a pair, all right. Lots of folks told them that they were the best-looking couple in the Delta.

"You are a very pretty thing," Floyd said. He put his hands on Lily's breasts, then wriggled down in the bed and began sucking one of her nipples, gently at first and then with growing force. He pushed her gown up, then grabbed her hips, pulling her into his groin; he put his fingers between her legs and pushed up inside her. Lily felt a sudden fire. She wanted her cry out, "Harder!"—she often wondered what the harm would be—but she said nothing. As Lily closed her eyes, bright colors swirled around her head. She could feel herself opening up in sweet anticipation.

Floyd slid into her too fast, then began rocking and pumping and pressing, his fingers grabbing and kneading all the wrong places. Lily opened her eyes. Disappointment gripped her shoulders like an old friend. She wanted cry out, to tell him to stop, that her power was gone, that she would have to ride out the storm. Go numb.

She had learned to do that years before.

She bit down on her lip and there her around Floyd and held on as tightly as she could until she felt his shudders and hard spasms; then she closed her eyes and let out a practiced moan. When her last sigh faded, she fell away from him with relief.

Floyd smacked her on her behind, then reached for a pack of Winstons that lay on a rickety table next to their bed, and leaned forward, lighting two. He handed her one. "You know what?" Floyd said, blowing out smoke. "You know what? I'm taking you to Memphis."

She turned to Floyd. Words bubbled in her throat but wouldn't come out. Finally she managed, "For true? Memphis! Lordy!" Her disappointment, her pain, was pushed aside. Memphis!

"We gon' go for a week, after I come back from Little Rock. 'Round November or December. Be nice weather then. Cool. Couple of these boys around here owe me some money, and they'll pay up once the cotton's in. We can stay with some of my people. I got first cousins in Memphis. That make you happy?"

She flung her arms around him, grinning. He moved away from her and stretched. Frowning a little, he turned to her and said, "That girlfriend you useta set such store by, what's her name?"

"Corinne," Lily said carefully.

"She gon' take you to Memphis?"

"No, Floyd." Lily hadn't seen Corinne for months. Her old schoolmate no longer came around and neither did anyone else, except Floyd's family.

"And you sure can't take yourself."

"No, Floyd, I sure can't. I need you to take me. I need you for everything."

"He didn't try to hide his pleasure. "I want to go by the pool hall later and check on things," he said, smiling.

Lily measured her words so they sounded casual and spontaneous. "Can I come with you? Keep you company? Maybe on the way back we can run to town and stop at the drugstore. I need me a couple of things."

Floyd gave his wife another quick swat across her behind. "Fix me some cornbread this morning, will you? I got me a taste for cornbread."

After Lily got up, Floyd went back to sleep. She was hoping she could get breakfast cooked before her baby awoke, but just as she got a fire going in the stove, she heard Floydjunior's cries. She cooked with the boy on her hip, holding his bottle. "You hush now, " she hissed in the child's ear as Floyd came in. She scurried to the table while her husband washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink, which had the only running water in the house. By the time he sat down, she had finished putting the food on his plate.

After breakfast, Floyd and Lily walked down a dirt road that ran in front of their house. The air was scented with jasmine as they walked to his brother's home, passing houses that resembled their own: shotgun clapboards set up on cinder blocks, where the gardens in the back were haphazard affairs and the chickens and guineas were likely to wander into the front yard and even into the road. The string of homes owned by the poor whites in the area faced a long stretch of hedges. Behind the hedges was a dump and, in back of that, the Quarters, a compound of rented two-room tar-paper shacks where the filed hands and sharecroppers who worked the nearby plantations lived, surrounded by yards full of Johnson-grass and buttercups and an occasional net clapboard that some enterprising Negro had managed to erect.

They borrowed Floyd's brother's truck and left Floydjunior behind, heading for town, driving across land that was perfectly flat, punctuated only by acres and acres of Pinochet cotton, occasional splotches of rice, soybeans, and milo. They reached the city limits of Hopewell and were about to park where they could see the banks of the Yabalusha, which washed up along the east side of the delta town near the railroad tracks, when Lily said, "Floyd please drive through the Confederacy." She held her breath until the truck turned down a wide street, shaded by huge oaks and stately magnolias.

Even better than looking in the store windows, she like driving through the Confederacy, an area composed of General Lee Boulevard, General Jackson Road, and General Longstreet Avenue. On these streets, half hidden behind a bank of towering magnolias, were large brick two-story homes with screened-in front porches and meticulous lawns where the shiny black faces of sculpted lawn jockeys in red jackets and white pants were frozen in perpetual grins while inside, their living counterparts were equally accommodating. Lily often daydreamed about how it would be to live in one of these houses, the finest she'd ever seen. Of course, the sprawling plantation mansions of the Settleses and Pinochets, reminiscent of the antebellum splendor that was part of the region's mythology, were grander. But who could even begin to imagine living in one of those?

Lily didn't come into town very often, and the sight of the paved streets and the stores made her eyes open wide with expectation, even though the city was small, its business district no more than three or four blocks sandwiched between the two gins—both owned by the Pinochets—that made up the north and south boundaries. As they drove down Jefferson Davis Boulevard, the main downtown thoroughfare, she craned her neck in hopes of glimpsing the Chinaman and his family who ran the town's laundry and Chinese restaurant. Or maybe the Jew who owned the small department store would pass by. She yearned for something wild to touch, see, or feel. Some excitement.

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Your Blues Ain't Like Mine 4.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 12 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
From the frist to the last page I was held captive by the characters. And still after finishing the book, the characters live on in my mind. I've had this book for so long that the pages have started to fade and I can't for the life of me determine why I never read it. But here, 17 years after being published I'm glad I opened the cover. Yesterday I saw three white men in a pick-up truck and immediately thought of the Cox men. Later yesterday afternoon I saw two ladies sitting on a bench talking and smoking and I thought about the Cox ladies. There are so many people in my life that remind me of someone in this book.I've never read a story like this before. It makes me sad to know that BeBe Moore Campbell will not be able to provide us with a sequel. I know it would have been a great piece of work.
ProfessorDiva More than 1 year ago
This book was one of the most important books in my life. It taught me about psychological analysis of the human spirit. Bebe Moore-Campbell is terribly missed. She was by far, my favorite author. I have never witnessed such a soul stirring book as she has portrayed. I was heart broken to learn of her passing. I know that she is up there in heaven writing and sending down messages telling us to look, listen, and learn about the what makes the human spirit sing!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was, by far, one of the best books I have ever read. I just loved this book from the first page to the last page. The way that BeBe Campbell took the book throughout the years of the characters was awesome. It made you feel that you knew them and was growing older with them. I was really happy that she did not make the book have a happy, feel good ending. That would not taken a lot from the book. There was just enough unresolved issues in the book that makes me want a sequel. Did Wydell and his son establish a good father-son relationship? Did Wydell and Delotha get back together? what happened to Ida and Clayton? What happened to the Coxes? I hope that BeBe Campbell will eventually answer some these questions in a sequel.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read this book about six years ago and I fell in love with the characters. Campbell sure knows how to pick dynamic chracters. Keep up the good work.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I want to say first and formost that this book should become a movie. I was so caught up in the story that i could not put it down untill i was done . 3 years ago I read this book and it has been the only thing on mind ever since. I have tried to get everyone i know to read this book, those who did felt the same way i did , they all say it must become a movie. So the reason for this e-mail is to ask you myself , have you ever thought of trying to make this book a movie? and if so what is the hold up? I really want to attemp to do what ever it is to make this book become a movie iff that is all right with you? please respond . Carla Tyson thank you..
Guest More than 1 year ago
I think that this book, 'Your Blues Ain't Like Mine' is an amazing story. She used one tragedy to stirr up the whole book. I like the way she goes back in time to tell us how things were. The story is very believable and enjoyable at the same time. These are normal people in the book, living normal lives. She dosen't try to make anyone look 'good' in the book, she just tells it how it is. Since the story is so realistic, and it's in plain english, I think this is what makes the book so enjoyable. She tells about 'real human beings', not these people in a fairy tale land. These people work, have family situations to deal with and deal with everyday criticism. This book definitley deserves 5 stars.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was excellent! I could not put it down,as a matter of fact I had to stop taking it to work with me.{Because I wouldn't get any work done.}
Guest More than 1 year ago
YOUR BLUES AIN'T LIKE MINE is one of the BEST novels I had read in a long time! Every character played his or her part in this drama, which all started with a senseless murder behind ignorance. I still own the book and loan it to friends when they wanted something to read and they give it back with praise! Da' Total Bomb!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is excellent writing! This author has taken an authentic historical event and fictionalized it. Yet she somehow makes it reality again as she draws the reader into the life and point of view of each character and shows how,in the aftermath of this event, the life of each character is forever affected as they carry the burden of a boy's death into every aspect of their lives.