Member Review
Review by
Sam M, Educator
We learn in English class that archetypes and allusions are storytelling devices that help connect us and the stories that we read to larger, shared experiences. Of course, those "shared experiences" aren't nearly as universal as many believe them to be. For a long time, this fiction of universal experience was used as a gatekeeping device in publishing as well as a way to prop up the canon. While gatekeeping in publishing continues to thrive and the canon remains propped, we have begun to see powerful narratives in adolescent fiction that continue to challenge the fiction of universality--that's where Brittney Morris' 'The Cost of Knowing' comes in.
Morris calls 'The Cost of Knowing' a "black-boy-joy-despite" book. Alex Rufus lives with his brother, Isaiah, and their Aunt Mackie. Alex and Isaiah's parents died years ago; while both children experience loss-related trauma, life for Alex isn't all bad. He has a cool Latinx girlfriend, a part-time job at an ice cream shop, and lives in a gated community in Chicago. Also, whenever Alex touches an object, he sees the future through that object.
Admittedly, I remain skeptical of this plot device. For one, it's not that different from Johnny's Smith "dead zone" from the Stephen King novel and adaptations. Not that King has any claim on that concept, but it's a tricky one to pull off successfully. Essentially, 'The Cost of Knowing' is a time travel narrative, and Alex's powers create a causal loop. If I know something will happen, can I take action to stop it? Or, does taking that action cause the thing to happen?
As I kept reading, I began to suspect that inevitability might be part of what Morris was trying to convey. That inevitability, I think, is part of the title's "cost." One doesn't need special powers to know that a Black boy wearing a hoodie in a gated community isn't going to be able to escape racism. One doesn't need special powers to know that the white residents of the gated community, no matter how well-meaning they might be (or think that they are), don't want "those people" around when a rapper is booked at a local venue. What Morris does accomplish with Alex's power to see the future is allow the reader to view that experience from a singular perspective, and she does so with intensity. I suspect that this perspective will resonate with those who share it. For someone like me, though, Morris forces me to see an experience that I don't share in a different light. I was uncomfortable; I felt helpless.
I came to the end of the novel unsure whether the novel's key plot device works, but I'm not sure it matters all that much. The perspective that Morris provides is far more valuable than the relative success of a sci-fi trope.
'The Cost of Knowing,' despite the execution of its central sci-fi trope, is a valuable reading experience, entertaining and gut-wrenching. Morris wants her readers, no matter who they are, to feel Alex's discomfort and have to sit with that discomfort beyond the novel's conclusion. Beyond that discomfort, though, perhaps is the possibility of joy.
Morris calls 'The Cost of Knowing' a "black-boy-joy-despite" book. Alex Rufus lives with his brother, Isaiah, and their Aunt Mackie. Alex and Isaiah's parents died years ago; while both children experience loss-related trauma, life for Alex isn't all bad. He has a cool Latinx girlfriend, a part-time job at an ice cream shop, and lives in a gated community in Chicago. Also, whenever Alex touches an object, he sees the future through that object.
Admittedly, I remain skeptical of this plot device. For one, it's not that different from Johnny's Smith "dead zone" from the Stephen King novel and adaptations. Not that King has any claim on that concept, but it's a tricky one to pull off successfully. Essentially, 'The Cost of Knowing' is a time travel narrative, and Alex's powers create a causal loop. If I know something will happen, can I take action to stop it? Or, does taking that action cause the thing to happen?
As I kept reading, I began to suspect that inevitability might be part of what Morris was trying to convey. That inevitability, I think, is part of the title's "cost." One doesn't need special powers to know that a Black boy wearing a hoodie in a gated community isn't going to be able to escape racism. One doesn't need special powers to know that the white residents of the gated community, no matter how well-meaning they might be (or think that they are), don't want "those people" around when a rapper is booked at a local venue. What Morris does accomplish with Alex's power to see the future is allow the reader to view that experience from a singular perspective, and she does so with intensity. I suspect that this perspective will resonate with those who share it. For someone like me, though, Morris forces me to see an experience that I don't share in a different light. I was uncomfortable; I felt helpless.
I came to the end of the novel unsure whether the novel's key plot device works, but I'm not sure it matters all that much. The perspective that Morris provides is far more valuable than the relative success of a sci-fi trope.
'The Cost of Knowing,' despite the execution of its central sci-fi trope, is a valuable reading experience, entertaining and gut-wrenching. Morris wants her readers, no matter who they are, to feel Alex's discomfort and have to sit with that discomfort beyond the novel's conclusion. Beyond that discomfort, though, perhaps is the possibility of joy.
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