The critically acclaimed, heartbreaking memoir that is at once a gorgeous, profound, and redemptive story of a family holding desperately to the memory of a lost child; and a touching, intelligent, and inspiring coming-out story.
A luminous, true story, Name All the Animals is an unparalleled account of grief and secret love: the tale of a family clinging to the memory of a lost child, and of a young woman struggling to define herself in the wake of his loss. As children, siblings Alison and Roy Smith were so close that their mother called them by one name, Alroy. But when Alison was fifteen, she woke one day to learn that Roy, eighteen, was dead.
Heartbreaking but hopeful, this extraordinary memoir explores the aftermath of Roy’s death: his parents’ enduring romance, the faith of a deeply religious community, and the excitement and anguish of Alison's first love—a taboo relationship that opens up a world beyond the death of her brother.
|Product dimensions:||5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.00(d)|
|Age Range:||14 - 18 Years|
About the Author
Alison Smith has been a resident at Yaddo and the MacDowell Colony. Her writing has appeared in McSweeney's and various anthologies. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Please visit www.namealltheanimals.com.
Hometown:Brooklyn, New York
Date of Birth:December 12, 1968
Place of Birth:Rochester, New York
Education:B.A., Brown University, 1992
Read an Excerpt
I started skating at nearly the same time I took my first steps. Mother taught me how on the outdoor rink at the local park. Every weekend she took me there and we skated in circles the wobbly gait of the swamp-skater, pushing off with the serrated tip. The spring after I turned fifteen, the ice melted as it did every April, and still I showed up, like clockwork, my skates slung over my shoulder. I watched the ice dissolve back into Allen's Creek. Mother drove down and met me, popped open the passenger-side door of the family camper-van, and said, "Hop in. I've got a surprise for you." That day I skated on an indoor rink for the first time. There was something in the long mile of that white room, in the coolness of the air and the smell of the ice like the inside of a tin cup and all the while outside I knew the sun was tapping on the roof, warming the tiles, begging to be let in. I was hooked. I joined the rink's figure skating academy.
The girls at the Rochester Skating Academy in 1984 were a hardy bunch great jumpers, who raced around the rink backwards at high speeds. I was the one in the corner by the sidewall pushing my wire-rim glasses up my nose, my stockings bunched at the knees. I did not jump. My spins were slow and careful. But I did have one thing going for me. I was good at Patch.
Patch was named for the sectioning of the ice into six-by-eight-foot strips or patches. The first thing to do when you get to your assigned patch is carve two adjacent circles, using an instrument called a scribe (which looks like an overgrown compass). On that huge number eight you try to skate the perfect figure. It's harder than it looks keeping the cut line of the blade arced, the skate moving at a good clip, never straying from the two circles. It was my favorite part of the day: the collective silence of concentration, drilling over and over a single blade turn, the subtle weight shifts, from front to back, right to left. This measured intricacy, the repetitive devotion it required it was the closest you could get to praying on ice.
In late July, three months after I started my indoor skating career, I had an accident during morning Patch Hour. While practicing the 180-degree turn in the center of the eight, I slipped and fell. Sixteen pairs of eyes looked up from their patches and stared at me. I tried to stand up. My leg warmers slid down over my heels. I moved to adjust them, and then I saw it. In the center of the eight, at the fulcrum of the north and south circles, lay a spot of blood. A darkening stain ran across the crotch of my skating dress. I crossed my legs.
Moments later, in the bathroom at the Rochester Skating Rink, dark flowers of blood spread across the toilet water. I called Mother from a pay phone in the hall.
"It's your first," she whispered into the phone. She was at the architecture firm where she worked as a secretary.
"I've got blood all over me!"
"All right. I'll meet you in the bathroom, the one by the soda machine."
"Bring a bucket."
"Oh stop," she said. "It's not that bad."
I waited for Mother in the stall farthest from the door. When she entered, her low heels clip-clopped across the floor. She went straight for the last stall and opened the door. My skates were still on, the laces loosened. I had crammed half a roll of toilet paper between my legs. She slouched, one hand on her hip. "Alroy," she whispered as she shook her head. It's not my name. It's ours, my brother's and mine. A pet name she made up, combining Roy's name and mine into a single shorthand. "That bad, Alroy?" she asked.
I nodded and gazed up at her.
My mother stood in her homemade wraparound skirt with the blue flowers. She had tucked a white summer blouse into its ribboned waist. She wore her hair short, in a Dorothy Hamill cut, and in the humidity it curled out around her ears like wings. She slid her purse off her shoulder, pulled out a pack of extrathick sanitary pads, a bottle of pills, and a collapsible camping cup. She crossed over to the sink, filled the cup with water, and thrust both her hands under my nose. One held the cup, the other two pink pills.
I swallowed the pills. She ran her hand over my forehead. I pushed her away. She handed me a pad and backed up. Through the metal door I heard her sigh. She tapped her foot. I leaned back. The flusher jabbed me in the kidneys. I peeled the white adhesive strip off the back of the pad and slid my skating dress down.
Mother drove me home. After she set me up in bed with a bottle of Midol and a copy of the Psalms, she made no proud speech about my initiation into womanhood, offered no advice on the prevention of menstrual cramps or the application of sanitary pads. She cleared her throat, ran her fingers through her hair, and said, "I'll tell Daddy. You tell Roy."
And with that she left me and returned to work.
When Roy showed up outside my bedroom door later that afternoon, he was holding a portable radio. He had just come from his morning job as a groundskeeper at a local country club and was already dressed for his second summer job as a cashier at Tops Supermarket. The stiff red uniform vest, boxy and oversized, hung on his narrow frame. Wrapping a leg around the door, he leaned into the room. "Hey, little sister, who's your superman? Hey, little sister, who's the one you want?" he crooned along with Billy Idol. Then he pulled back, hit his head against the doorframe, and tumbled to the ground, moaning in mock pain.
"Roy-dee," I hollered, from under the covers.
"Little Sister," he hollered back, pulling himself up.
Billy Idol was not his music of choice. He was more a fan of the Police and the Who, but he knew this song drove me crazy. Whenever the local station played it, he rushed toward me, his arms out, singing at the top of his lungs.
I yelled over the sound of the radio. "I'm sick!"
"What?" he yelled back.
I pointed at the radio. He turned it down.
He walked into the room. "How do I look?" Under the uniform vest he wore an orange Hawaiian shirt and maroon running pants.
"Terrible. Everything clashes."
"Good!" His head bobbed up and down. "It's your turn to do the dishes."
"Will you do them?"
He glanced over at me. "What's wrong with you?"
His hands thrummed out a beat against the door. "I thought you said you were sick."
I could feel the blood rushing to my head. My face grew hot. "I have my period."
The thrumming stopped. I could hear him breathing; his lungs were congested. "Oh," he said.
dHe became engrossed in the pattern of his Hawaiian shirt. His hair was long; he had let it grow now that he was not in school. It ran over his ears and scrolled out around the base of his skull. The sun was shining in the window over the porch, and the evergreens' bright needles shimmered in the windless afternoon. He stepped into the room, picked up my skates, and started swinging them by the laces.
"Don't touch those," I said. I reached across the bed, grabbed them from him, and shoved them under the blankets.
He cleared his throat. "It's supposed to rain tonight," he said.
"What do you want, Alroy?"
"It's your turn to do the dishes."
"You do them."
"Loser," I said.
"Moron!" And then he lost it. He broke into a grin. Paper white teeth, three dimples one on either side and a little dent in his chin.
"Alroy," I said.
He disappeared behind the door again. He coughed once. The breath rattled in and out of him. He had just recovered from a nasty bout of bronchitis. One hand on the door, the other on the doorframe, he leaned back into the room and smiled. From my position on the bed I saw only half of him. A slice of brown hair, tan skin, and the hideous orange and red.
Outside a mourning dove cooed. The sun beat down on us through the back window, no trace of the coming storm. It was four in the afternoon. I looked away. I felt a slip in the air, a nearly imperceptible change in temperature. I turned to catch him, but he had already left.
I fell asleep, my hands wrapped around my skates. I slept straight through without eating supper, without going to my evening job at the Sisters of Mercy Convent. And as I slept a storm gathered over Lake Ontario, ten miles to the north. At one o'clock the sky broke open. Rain pelted the ground, rivered into the gullies along Penfield Road. It rained all night, and it was raining the next morning when Roy left for work. Friday, July 27, 1984. Father stopped him at the front door.
"What are you going to do," Father asked, "in the rain?"
Roy tossed the keys to the van from his right hand to his left and hitched up his shorts. "We'll wash the golf carts," he said.
At 5:51 A.M. Father opened the front door for him. Roy ducked into the driving storm. He was gone. It was not for another two hours, when it was too late, that I would walk into the kitchen and see. He had done the dishes after all.
Copyright © 2004 by Alison Smith
What People are Saying About This
Tender, sad, and without a trace of self-pity, Name All the Animals is a beautiful memoir. I'll never forget it.
The grief in this memoir is the size of Goliath....Ms. Smith, with scrappy, unsentimental grace, battles her giant and wins our spectator hearts. Her brother, her schooldays, her prose, her candor all are lean and vital. Alison Smith is a cool warrior of a writer, but she makes us want to hug her and her story with every possible human warmth.
To read Name All the Animals is to witness a fierce battle between a teenager's despair and her almost subconscious will to survive and find joy. In poetic but understated prose, Smith carries the reader through her grief without ever resorting to fairy tales or half-truths; her refusal of easy comforts is what gives this memoir so much weight and beauty. I will recommend it to everyone I know.
I am speechless with admiration. Name All the Animals demands a "must-read" list of its own. I find it hard to imagine the reader who would end Smith's book and not have tucked away a deeper, more profound understanding of how we survive this human condition of faith and grief, of love and life.
In refusing to lose her brother, Roy, Smith gives us a memoir devoted to what truly matters. It has been a long time since I have read an account of a daughter, son, mother, and father who love one another, free of resentments and pettiness. Name All the Animals is a memoir that celebrates a lost life and escorts us past sorrow into the drama of a love story.
Reading Group Guide
Reading Group Guide for Alison Smith's Name All the Animals
1. Prologues are often used as a way of setting the tone or focusing the reader's attention on an event that may symbolically resonate throughout the book. In Name All the Animals, what is the intention of the prologue? What does it illuminate? What do you find symbolic about the halved, abandoned house?
2. "Alroy" is the nickname that the author, Alison Smith, shared with her brother Roy. To be sure, she states, "It's not my name. It's ours, my brother's and mine"(page 6). How does this merging of names affect Alison and Roy's identity?
3. As a child, Roy tells Alison that their father's blessing of his children each morning is similar to Adam's naming all the animals in Eden, recognizing and protecting them. As the story progresses, Alison realizes she cannot even find a name for some of the feelings she experiences. On page 61, she writes, "These phrases rattled around inside me. I had no name for the feelings they conjured up. Like captions for a set of lost photographs, I knew what the individual words meant but I didn't know what to attach them to. And my parents didn't know how to tell me." Examine the idea of naming as a theme, especially with regard to the title. What is the title's significance?
4. The Smith's are a staunchly Catholic, working-class family who "had one talent: faith"(page 18). Discuss the family's notion of faith. In particular, discuss Alison's faithfulness after Roy's death. In what ways is it increased and/or diminished?
5. After Roy's death, Alison finds herself intrigued by the "Before-People" because "In that innocence, that powerful ignorance, Roy lived"(page 25). Explain how Alison, in her own ignorance of the details surrounding Roy's death, is similar to the Before-People.
6. Alison's parents become understandably overprotective of her; she is, after all, their surviving child. Her father laments, "You're all I have left"(page 16). In fact, they are all each of them has. How does Roy's death strengthen familial ties? In what ways does it serve to create a chasm between Alison and her parents?
7. Speaking of her family's coping skills, Alison states, "We remained removed, one foot in this world, one foot in the next with Roy"(page 74). Is Alison able to successfully navigate between the two worlds? What coping mechanisms does she employ to deal with the loss?
8. Beyond being a story about loss, Name All the Animals is about a young woman coming of age. Discuss the challenges she encounters as a teenager.
9. Alison has a few close friends: Mary Elizabeth, the girl next door, Susanna Spindale, the eccentric drama queen, and Terry, the disheveled artist. Compare these friendships. What does Alison learn about herself through these friendships?
10. At a Halloween party, Susanna Spindale is the only one brave enough to ask Alison about Roy. Alison admits, "A part of me was glad for the question. I felt relieved that somebody was finally asking"(page114). Discuss the communal silence that surrounds Roy's death. Do you think this silence helps or hinders the healing process?
11. Overprotective and cautious, Alison's parents "waited for the Next Terrible Thing"(page 74). How did this constant fear of impending doom affect the Smiths? Particularly, discuss how fear manifests as self-doubt in Alison.
12. Alison talks about how her mother revered "goodness" as a virtue. Later, she realizes "that sometimes you have to step outside of goodness to discover who you are"(page 224). What do you think she eventually discovers?
13. When an insurance company wants to investigate Roy's death, Alison's father stresses, "You must not tell anyone"(page 71). Discuss the many secrets that are harbored by the Smiths as a family and by Alison independently. Why do you think the keeping of appearances is so important to them?
14. Alison's debate topic on gay and lesbian rights stirs up a tremendous amount of controversy, publicly as well as personally. How does she deal with the upheaval? What personal revelations occur as a result?
15. Traumatized by Roy's accident, Alison and her father are reluctant about her learning to drive. Despite failing the driving test twice, she claims, "I wanted to drive"(page 292). What is Alison's motivation for wanting to drive? By trying to lose her life the same way Roy did, at the same time, on the same road, three years later, what does she gain?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This is a true story, which is why it's described as a memoir. But it could just as easily have been published as a novel. It has all the character development, suspense, narrative arc, and beautiful writing of the best literary fiction. So don't dismiss it if you're not a big memoir fan. It should appeal to fiction and nonfiction readers equally. But regardless of how it's categorized, I could NOT put this book down. I read it every second I could and couldn't bear to be away from it when I was at work. The grief made my heart break, but the love story, and Alison's success in figuring out who she is, just made my heart swell. It's such a gorgeous, moving portrait of a family, both in grief and in love. It's told through the 15-year-old eyes of the author, and she just GETS adolescence. I was sent spiralling back to my own memories of high school, and the unique, electric, unforgettable experience of first love. It's one of those unforgettable books that only come along every so often. I highly recommend it to readers everywhere.
Not too many books about losing a brother. Believe me, I have tried to find them, as it happened to me. Thank you beautiful author. Your words ring true. Never a more wonderful and descriptive story.
This is a true story about a family and their tragedy. The story is about fifteen year old Allison who loses her brother, Roy in a car accident. She ends up going to an all girls Catholic school. The story is the family living through this tragedy. It is a good book, there are some slow spots (I guess that is how real life is) :) I felt badly for Allison, being the sibling who lost a sibling is very difficult. This is a good, true life story that you will enjoy reading.
Name all the Animals, was such an inspiring and touching story to my heart. I can't believe all Alison has went through, it really does show how strong one can be to get through all the beef that life throws at you. Alison and her brother Roy, were very close as kids. There mother called them Alroy because of how often she found them together. Alison faces, being the "The sister of her brother who died", finding her first true love, losing everything she cared for, but yet she still lives on. I recommend this book for anyone to read, and also anyone out there that has emotional troubles and would like to have a different perspective on how to deal with it. I guarantee you'll enjoy this book, and it will change your life.
I realize this book has won an award, but it was boring for me. After I got throught the first 100 pages I was tired. You dont even get to the point of the book until the end and then you dont care because it took so long. It was an easy read, but I'll pass it along and not keep it in my book collection.
A wonderful memoir about a family in distress and their so called 'survival tactics'. I was Especially interested in the book as I live in the area where the author lived and was able to relate to her surroundings. I am also from a very close knit Catholic family and I understand the faith we were raised with and how easily it is misplaced and/or shattered when you lose a loved one.
I started this book with the knowledge that it was a memoir and thought it would be about the author dealing with the death of her brother. Not true. The book is about how the author was/is dealing with being a lesbian. Not what I expected and not a topic I'm interested in. Her style of writing is easy and pleasant to read though, thus the 3 stars.
This book is great! It lured me away from the outside world and I had to finish it at all costs! Burning eyes and fatigue did not stop me- I was unable to put the book down.
I love this book. It was wonderfull written. It's one of the only books that made me want to cry. I kept wishing it wasn't real and that Roy was still alive. Wonderful book.
I was highly recommended to read this book, and I would pass the recommendation along to anyone else! It took me awhile to get throught it, but if you keep on, it's rewarding. And I loved the ending...it's worth it to get all the way through!
Think you have experienced troubles? Do you feel sorry for yourself at times? Pick up this heart warming book and come to the realization that nothing is as bad as you may think it is. This book forces you to think about things that we all very carefully file away into the back of our minds under 'it happens to other people'. Too many of us need to face these kind of issues head on. Alison Smith takes a difficult topic and stays true....to the truth. How refreshing! She had me laughing, crying, thinking...and that was all within the first 30 minutes of reading this fantastic book. If you are tired of books having no substance, no ability to reach deep into your senses....then buy this book. I am confident that you will not be sorry! Thanks Alison for a great read. What a wonderful first book! You touched my heart and my mind....for that I thank you.
I truly loved this book. I could not put it down. The book was so captivating and well written. I felt her grief and heartrendering family relationship so completely. It was a very moving book and I look forward to anything Ms. Smith writes in the future.