Ashes

Ashes begins with a scene that one might expect from a conclusion: Isabel’s reunion with her long-lost little sister, Ruth, for whom she searches over the course of the two prior books in the Seeds of America series. However, it turns out that finding Ruth is no happy ending. The remembered love built in the sisters’ shared childhood spurs Isabel to search for Ruth and gives her amazing persistence and bravery, but this love on its own isn’t enough. The book’s approach to questions of love and connection is stated up front, when, in response to Isabel’s grief over Ruth’s initial rejection, Serafina warns Isabel that it’s good and right that she should cry; otherwise, she’s in danger of developing a hard heart.

Isabel must learn this lesson gradually over the course of the book. First, she must make the effort to imagine Ruth’s private life and imagination: In her grief and frustration over Ruth’s dislike of her, she hasn’t taken the time to wonder what the reasons for that might be, and thus is shutting Ruth out as much as Ruth is shutting her out.

Later, she must come to terms with the love she feels for Curzon, admitting it to herself long after the reader has caught on:

I’d been so afraid to admit love, terrified that my affection would be scorned. To love someone leaves you vulnerable. To admit love opens the door to the possibility of pain and sorrow. However, to ignore love, to pretend that it does not exist, though you feel it every waking moment, guarantees not only pain and sorrow, but a withering of your very capacity to love, blaspheming the holy purpose of our days on this earth. I must tell him. No matter what comes of the confession, I must tell him (290).

Love and compassion, Ashes suggests, aren’t just about working to protect those one loves, or about the hope of reciprocation. Rather, the work of love is to imagine the vulnerabilities of others, and to expose one’s own vulnerability to them in return.

Isabel struggles with anger over Curzon’s burning desire to fight for the Patriots. As she repeatedly points out to him, white people weren’t especially reliable friends or grateful allies to them: After Curzon served at Valley Forge, the two barely escaped being sent right back into slavery. However, as she comes to better understand Curzon, she has a realization:

He favored the larger stage, the grand scale at which folks sought to improve the world. I had chosen to focus on the smaller stage, concerning myself only with my sister’s circumstances [...] I recognized that there was a middle way, a purpose one could strive for that allowed personal concerns—those you love—to be on the one side, whilst the concerns of an entire people, of a country, to be on the other (289).

Thinking on a historical and a personal level at the same time is a major challenge, often considered through the book’s imagery of seeds (see the “Symbols and Motifs” section for more on this). The problem with major world change is that few of those who contribute to it will see all of its fruits (if any). Curzon teaches Isabel to broaden out her perspective to the future as well as the hard realities in front of her nose.

History is made of people, and Isabel must learn to be open and brave on a human level, as well as having the vision to imagine a better world growing out of the imperfection she sees around her. Both kinds of learning involve openness: At the intersection of the personal and the historical lies a willingness to be vulnerable and hopeful as well as tough. Serafina and Walter exemplify this virtue. While they can’t run from slavery themselves, and can’t make grand public contributions to the sweep of politics, their self-sacrifice, care, and compassion make them the bedrock of change.