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How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America
Author and essayist Kiese Laymon is one of the most unique, stirring, and powerful new voices in American writing. How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America is a collection of his essays, touching on subjects ranging from family, race, violence, and celebrity to music, writing, and coming of age in Mississippi. In this collection, Laymon deals in depth with his own personal story, which is filled with trials and reflections that illuminate under-appreciated aspects of contemporary American life. New and unexpected in contemporary American writing, Laymon’s voice mixes the colloquial with the acerbic, while sharp insights and blast-furnace heat calls to mind a black 21st-century Mark Twain. Much like Twain, Laymon's writing is steeped in controversial issues both private and public. This collection introduces Laymon as a writer who balances volatile concepts on a razor's edge and chops up much-discussed and often-misunderstood topics with his scathing humor and fresh, unexpected takes on the ongoing absurdities, frivolities, and calamities of American life.
146 pages, Paperback
First published August 13, 2013
405 people are currently reading
21.4k people want to read
About the author
Kiese Laymon
28Ìýbooks3,148ÌýfollowersKiese Laymon is a black southern writer, born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. Laymon attended Millsaps College and Jackson State University before graduating from Oberlin College. He earned an MFA from Indiana University and is the author of the forthcoming novel, Long Division in June 2013 and a collection of essays, How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America in August 2013. Laymon is a contributing editor at gawker.com. He has written essays and stories for numerous publications including Esquire, ESPN.com, NPR, Gawker, Truthout.com, Longman’s Hip Hop Reader, Mythium and Politics and Culture. Laymon is currently an Associate Professor of English, Creative Writing and co-director of Africana Studies at Vassar College.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 685 reviews
May 15, 2013
I'm not sure that America has another writer like Kiese, so I hope that folks will pay attention. I will admit to bias since I've been writing about and reading his work closely now for several months.
I love how much hip hop is central to this narrative, not just through a lens of nostalgia, but also through a black male feminist or womanist lens which I feel like I've waited all my life to read from a black man in the 21st Century.
As a student of Kiese's work, I remembered reading the title essay and a couple of the others, but it helped to be reminded. There isn't another black writer who is both interrogating and cataloging black popular culture and racial politics in America that I can think of in a way that isn't condescending or gatekeeping, so I'm thankful to Kiese for being that real black Southern writer for us. I hope that he becomes the standard bearer for how to write well about black culture and history in the past and the near present. It is not safe work, but thoughtfully and humorously imaginative.
Also, where else can you find Tupac and Bernie Mac and dream hampton alongside mentions of Margaret Alexander Walker and Octavia Butler? More than that, as a journalist, all I ever hear people do is talk about what young black men are thinking and why young black men are dying. But Kiese is a witness and he is one of "them" which makes his testimony all the more valuable. One more thing: It does my womanist heart good to read a black man lift up the black women and men in his life and giving them room to be present alongside his creation. It is a beautiful thing -- subtle and significant. Also worth mentioning is vulnerability. Being vulnerable and honest on the page is something that a lot of people like to talk about but it is offensively heartbreaking to do and hard on the soul, not to mention the body. There are few contemporary writers who do this well, with grace and generosity, without pandering in one place or another or pulling a "Hey! Look at me being vulnerable over here! Aren't I your favorite black male feminist?" (Not naming names.) So anyway, I'm biased because I am clearly a Kiese fan. But these are all the reasons why. I think you will be, too.
I love how much hip hop is central to this narrative, not just through a lens of nostalgia, but also through a black male feminist or womanist lens which I feel like I've waited all my life to read from a black man in the 21st Century.
As a student of Kiese's work, I remembered reading the title essay and a couple of the others, but it helped to be reminded. There isn't another black writer who is both interrogating and cataloging black popular culture and racial politics in America that I can think of in a way that isn't condescending or gatekeeping, so I'm thankful to Kiese for being that real black Southern writer for us. I hope that he becomes the standard bearer for how to write well about black culture and history in the past and the near present. It is not safe work, but thoughtfully and humorously imaginative.
Also, where else can you find Tupac and Bernie Mac and dream hampton alongside mentions of Margaret Alexander Walker and Octavia Butler? More than that, as a journalist, all I ever hear people do is talk about what young black men are thinking and why young black men are dying. But Kiese is a witness and he is one of "them" which makes his testimony all the more valuable. One more thing: It does my womanist heart good to read a black man lift up the black women and men in his life and giving them room to be present alongside his creation. It is a beautiful thing -- subtle and significant. Also worth mentioning is vulnerability. Being vulnerable and honest on the page is something that a lot of people like to talk about but it is offensively heartbreaking to do and hard on the soul, not to mention the body. There are few contemporary writers who do this well, with grace and generosity, without pandering in one place or another or pulling a "Hey! Look at me being vulnerable over here! Aren't I your favorite black male feminist?" (Not naming names.) So anyway, I'm biased because I am clearly a Kiese fan. But these are all the reasons why. I think you will be, too.
May 11, 2021
This book took me a long time to finish. This is earnest, vulnerable, honest writing which is truly in a class of its own. These essays accost the reader and challenge us to see life through different eyes, different skin, a different body. It was so foreign to me, and I wanted to be sure I gave each incredible sentence time to sink in. I did not want to just accept this narrative. I wanted to understand and to learn. I was familiar with his raw, honest, hypnotic writing from Laymon's stellar memoir , but even that did not prepare me for this book, a revised edition of a 2013 essay collection that now includes six new essays. Every one is brilliant. I could review each of them but I am not a writer and it is best that you read these yourselves. They will leave you shaking, shaken, and in awe of the author's talent. I could drop so many quotes here, but instead I will say that this is absolutely worth reading and rereading. After reading the last essay, I reread the dedication and it nearly brought me to my knees. This is why I read non-fiction. 5 stars
June 4, 2020
Laymon's writing is so potent, so clear - the reader has to simply listen and bear witness. This collection of personal essays range from his childhood in Mississippi to the trials around getting his first novel, Long Division, published.
Laymon effectively uses personal stories to illustrate larger societal realities. In the title essay "How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America", he traces the disciplinary action at his college (for not checking out a library book, yet subsequently returning it), the epic arguments with his mother about his role and his "parole" as a young black man, and the steps that lead him to Oberlin.
Laymon's "deaths" of both self and others are destructive tendencies, and society "killing", but there is rebirth here too, reinvention - learning - recreating.
I really appreciated his use of dialogue and letters in "Echo: Mychal, Darnell, Kiese, Kai, and Marlon", his storytelling in "Our Kind of Ridiculous" and "You Are the Second Person", and his cultural analysis in "Eulogy for Three Black Boys Who Lived".
Laymon effectively uses personal stories to illustrate larger societal realities. In the title essay "How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America", he traces the disciplinary action at his college (for not checking out a library book, yet subsequently returning it), the epic arguments with his mother about his role and his "parole" as a young black man, and the steps that lead him to Oberlin.
I want to say that remembering starts not with predictable punditry, or bullshit blogs, or slick art that really asks nothing of us; I want to say that it starts with us willing ourselves to remember, tell, and accept those complicated, muffled truths of our lives and deaths, and the lives and the deaths of folks around us over and over again.
Laymon's "deaths" of both self and others are destructive tendencies, and society "killing", but there is rebirth here too, reinvention - learning - recreating.
I really appreciated his use of dialogue and letters in "Echo: Mychal, Darnell, Kiese, Kai, and Marlon", his storytelling in "Our Kind of Ridiculous" and "You Are the Second Person", and his cultural analysis in "Eulogy for Three Black Boys Who Lived".
November 12, 2020
Kiese Laymon is such a thoughtful and honest writer. He thinks about ideas and words in ways that complicate and intensify his arguments. That’s certainly true with this book. Some of the essays are about him some are about celebrities but they’re all deeply personal. Parts of this book haven’t aged so well, like the Kanye West essay. But it’s still a good essay it just feels icky now. This book is really good and though it’s clunky in spots, it helped me to understand how we got to HEAVY and all the incredible beauty that is there.
REVISED EDITION:
I’m not sure this edition is any better or worse than the original. It’s got some added essays that are great and some that were removed that I miss. I liked the choice to move reverse chronologically. Some of the newer essays feel over written. Laymon is incredible overall and this collection is a force for sure.
REVISED EDITION:
I’m not sure this edition is any better or worse than the original. It’s got some added essays that are great and some that were removed that I miss. I liked the choice to move reverse chronologically. Some of the newer essays feel over written. Laymon is incredible overall and this collection is a force for sure.
February 26, 2021
...my soliloquy may be hard for some to swallow but so is cod liver oil
I bought this collection after being drawn by the essay, "You Are the Second Person," which had been in an online publication (I don't remember which one).
I read "You Are the Second Person" and was appalled (though not surprised) at what this writer had to endure from the publishing world.
I read "Mississippi: An Awakening, In Days" and by Day 2, I was reading aloud; by Day 14, I was standing, applauding and sending pictures of the book to friends for their reading lists.
I read "Da Art of Storytellin'" and made sure I had Outkast's "Wheelz of Steel" downloaded to my current playlist. ( I smiled as I remembered my grandmama and the teaspoons of cod liver oil she made me swallow. May she rest in peace).
I read this collection and realized I must read , which has been on my TBR list for too long.
I read the essay "How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America" and cried.
I read and appreciated the author's note: "I knew that I wanted to create work that explored, with colorful profundity and comedy, the reckless order of American human being, especially since so much of the nation was in a dizzying rush to crown itself multicultural, post-racial, and mostly innocent."
I bought this collection after being drawn by the essay, "You Are the Second Person," which had been in an online publication (I don't remember which one).
I read "You Are the Second Person" and was appalled (though not surprised) at what this writer had to endure from the publishing world.
I read "Mississippi: An Awakening, In Days" and by Day 2, I was reading aloud; by Day 14, I was standing, applauding and sending pictures of the book to friends for their reading lists.
I read "Da Art of Storytellin'" and made sure I had Outkast's "Wheelz of Steel" downloaded to my current playlist. ( I smiled as I remembered my grandmama and the teaspoons of cod liver oil she made me swallow. May she rest in peace).
I read this collection and realized I must read , which has been on my TBR list for too long.
I read the essay "How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America" and cried.
I read and appreciated the author's note: "I knew that I wanted to create work that explored, with colorful profundity and comedy, the reckless order of American human being, especially since so much of the nation was in a dizzying rush to crown itself multicultural, post-racial, and mostly innocent."
March 19, 2014
These essays made me laugh, cry, grimace, think, feel, and learn. Our country, communities, families are often dissected through writing, but very rarely do we have young, open-minded Black male voices raised by southern grandmothers, struggling mothers, and hip hop give it to us this real. I picked this one up from the library, but I'll be purchasing it to add it to my own shelves permanently.
July 31, 2022
Since being blown away by Kiese Laymon's memoir Heavy /review/show/3585487490 last year, I've been meaning to get to this collection of essays. Reading Rankine's Just Us /review/show/4690671933 reminded me to get to this work now. These essays are conversations Laymon is having with himself and with us.
In this collection, Laymon explores what it means to be a black Mississippian, in all it's messiness. Mississippi is the blackest and poorest state in the nation. It is rich in literary, athletic, and musical culture. There is a strong history of violence against blacks and a strong history of Civil Rights activism. It is one very complex Southern state.
Laymon writes with raw vulnerability, drawing me in completely. He writes about hip hop, basketball, and writers. Most of all he writes about love--familial, fraternal, romantic, and of self. His grandmother is a huge influence in his life. He clearly states that she taught him how to love responsibly--to hold a person accountable when he does something wrong and to restrain from purposefully hurting (physically and emotionally) the ones we love. He writes about the violence black men inflict upon their women, about the harm their black neighbors are subjected to by the "worst of white folk." He writes about trauma endured over generations and the consequences of holding onto those traumas. And he tells us that we must be honest, tender, and responsible with everyone whom we purport to love
Laymon asks what do we owe to each other and what do we owe to ourselves? He suggests that we begin moving forward by looking at what's in front of us and by treating ourselves and others with respect and fairness and insisting on this same treatment in return.
I read these essays, a few each day, taking time to think about and process them. There's a lot here to consider. I will go back and read them again over the course of the next few weeks.
I'll leave you with Kiese's words from his author's note:
"I am proud of myself for not giving up, for accepting help, for not drowning in humiliations of yesterday and the inevitable terror of tomorrow. That is the hardest sentence I've ever written."
In this collection, Laymon explores what it means to be a black Mississippian, in all it's messiness. Mississippi is the blackest and poorest state in the nation. It is rich in literary, athletic, and musical culture. There is a strong history of violence against blacks and a strong history of Civil Rights activism. It is one very complex Southern state.
Laymon writes with raw vulnerability, drawing me in completely. He writes about hip hop, basketball, and writers. Most of all he writes about love--familial, fraternal, romantic, and of self. His grandmother is a huge influence in his life. He clearly states that she taught him how to love responsibly--to hold a person accountable when he does something wrong and to restrain from purposefully hurting (physically and emotionally) the ones we love. He writes about the violence black men inflict upon their women, about the harm their black neighbors are subjected to by the "worst of white folk." He writes about trauma endured over generations and the consequences of holding onto those traumas. And he tells us that we must be honest, tender, and responsible with everyone whom we purport to love
Laymon asks what do we owe to each other and what do we owe to ourselves? He suggests that we begin moving forward by looking at what's in front of us and by treating ourselves and others with respect and fairness and insisting on this same treatment in return.
I read these essays, a few each day, taking time to think about and process them. There's a lot here to consider. I will go back and read them again over the course of the next few weeks.
I'll leave you with Kiese's words from his author's note:
"I am proud of myself for not giving up, for accepting help, for not drowning in humiliations of yesterday and the inevitable terror of tomorrow. That is the hardest sentence I've ever written."
December 2, 2015
In this book of essays, which are a reflection on Laymon’s life, nothing is off limits. There are some essays that a broad audience can relate to but since his writing is so personal, there are many things that are not expressly stated. Several essays require some cultural awareness before you can digest them. Without it statements like,"We felt pride in knowing that the greatest producer alive was an uncle from Compton and the most anticipated emcee in the history of hip-hop was a lanky brother from Long Beach.� will leave you scratching your head.
The essays deal heavily with race in America and after reading them, those that think we don't have far to go may question that notion. Then there are some that may think this author is beating a dead horse. This is the type of book that starts those discussions.
The writing is funny and it’s melancholy. It’s always forthright, to the point that it can you uncomfortable - like you know something that you shouldn’t. Laymon makes assertions that challenge the status quo. Some I agree with, others not so much. And then there are times I asked myself why would he write such a thing.
There is a particular audience that would love this author and I wonder if they know about him. I thought the same when I read Laymon’s first book,. Thirty-somethings will get his writing. Thirty-somethings from the South will feel it.
The essays deal heavily with race in America and after reading them, those that think we don't have far to go may question that notion. Then there are some that may think this author is beating a dead horse. This is the type of book that starts those discussions.
The writing is funny and it’s melancholy. It’s always forthright, to the point that it can you uncomfortable - like you know something that you shouldn’t. Laymon makes assertions that challenge the status quo. Some I agree with, others not so much. And then there are times I asked myself why would he write such a thing.
There is a particular audience that would love this author and I wonder if they know about him. I thought the same when I read Laymon’s first book,. Thirty-somethings will get his writing. Thirty-somethings from the South will feel it.
December 10, 2021
Very soon in the book I had a very distinct vision that my heart, my brain, and my eyes should be separately on a table, arranged in a triangular pattern facing each other. (I swear I'm not doing drugs or drinking.) I think this is one to feel, to think about, and to really challenge yourself to see.
He plumbs a lot & it's interesting to read it in 2021. (It was published in 2013.)
I know that's a very weird book review but I'll leave it at that.
He plumbs a lot & it's interesting to read it in 2021. (It was published in 2013.)
I know that's a very weird book review but I'll leave it at that.
September 24, 2013
Kiese Laymon is a gem. His prose, his humor, and the brilliance in analysis are all reasons for his place at the top of the writing game. This book is amazing from start to finish. The title, which captures so much about life and death, race and racism, agency and unfreedom, and the perpetuate state of living/dying, is powerful. In just a few words, Kiese defines the importance of race, gender, and class, as it relates to life and death. It also encapsulates the level of vulnerability he shows within this collection of essays. He doesn't shy away from looking inward, using those experiences, the pain and lessons learned, to inspire and inform his readers - to look inward. While the analysis is brilliant and why he clearly offers many insights into contemporary issues, the book feels as if he is writing to his readers, albeit without judgment. There is so much to think about within this book, but more than anything else, it tells readers about Kiese, about his observations and experiences, his insights and critical understanding of the world around him; it tells readers about his happiness and sadness, his pain and happiness. He tells us about society and ourselves, about Kiese and so much more. A must read
December 3, 2020
I'm a big fan of short stories, poems, and essays. This felt like all three. The words are so powerful and so honest. Deep truth and authenticity in every single word. I am a sensitive human, and this took me on a serious roller coaster of emotions. All the freaking feels. I felt hope amongst the angry and sadness and disappointment. I felt like screaming say it louder! This should be required reading. Kisese should be given all the damn awards. This is way down deep in the soul honest life turned to art. 1000 stars!
January 27, 2014
Can I give this book six stars? I would like to give it six stars. Imagine there's a extra star up there, please.
This is not to say Laymon's book is the best written book I've ever read. BUT (and this is coming from someone that reads a lot), I think it is one of the most important and meaningful books I've read in a while. The book is essays on race and racial awareness, privilege and awareness of that privilege. It's a hard read. Hard in that why that the best books are; they step on your toes, and make you uncomfortable with some part of the world and your place within it. Thank heavens for books like this. They remind us of all the work yet to be done.
This is not to say Laymon's book is the best written book I've ever read. BUT (and this is coming from someone that reads a lot), I think it is one of the most important and meaningful books I've read in a while. The book is essays on race and racial awareness, privilege and awareness of that privilege. It's a hard read. Hard in that why that the best books are; they step on your toes, and make you uncomfortable with some part of the world and your place within it. Thank heavens for books like this. They remind us of all the work yet to be done.
June 26, 2021
So I just came here to rate this book and saw that I already read it over a year ago and I guess I forgot and I read it again? Ha. It's very good still.
The older review:
A beautiful voice, heartbreaking essays.
The older review:
A beautiful voice, heartbreaking essays.
July 28, 2024
I oscillated with the idea of whether or not to rate this book since it’s a collection of deeply personal essays. These, though, personal in nature are also an account of historical information on what it means to be black in America. Many instances of unfair treatment, police brutality, road blocks in education. I found this so frustrating. Laymon writes with passion and fervor that is unmatched. I’m only sorry I waited so long to read this. A very good book to read for activists and aspiring writers. Just floored.
July 10, 2016
You will be a better person and a better American once you have read this book.
I picked this up a few months ago at Busboys & Poets in DC. I always enjoy their selection because they cater to a racially and culturally diverse group of readers unlike any of the other bigger (albeit independent) bookstores in town.
Laymon's writing is crisp and smart. The only reason why this collection of essays (11 in total) took me so much time was because there was just so much to chew on and think about. From his experience being racially profiled leaving a Lilith Fair concert in Hershey, PA to his love of hip hop transferring into his love of words and writing to growing up black in Mississippi, Laymon's voice is strong and distinct. He is able to provide a detailed an authentic look at what it means to be a black man in America in the 90s and 2000s, something that more people should read about or at least listen to. This book is a perfect counterpart to Coates' "Between the World and Me" because it's more detailed and less philosophical.
There are many essays in here I will use with my students. Many essays are constructed through letter form, a call and response between family members and friends, which I find most intriguing as a rhetorical choice. There is certainly some cursing, but I think it's purposeful.
I picked this up a few months ago at Busboys & Poets in DC. I always enjoy their selection because they cater to a racially and culturally diverse group of readers unlike any of the other bigger (albeit independent) bookstores in town.
Laymon's writing is crisp and smart. The only reason why this collection of essays (11 in total) took me so much time was because there was just so much to chew on and think about. From his experience being racially profiled leaving a Lilith Fair concert in Hershey, PA to his love of hip hop transferring into his love of words and writing to growing up black in Mississippi, Laymon's voice is strong and distinct. He is able to provide a detailed an authentic look at what it means to be a black man in America in the 90s and 2000s, something that more people should read about or at least listen to. This book is a perfect counterpart to Coates' "Between the World and Me" because it's more detailed and less philosophical.
There are many essays in here I will use with my students. Many essays are constructed through letter form, a call and response between family members and friends, which I find most intriguing as a rhetorical choice. There is certainly some cursing, but I think it's purposeful.
September 28, 2019
"I want to say that remembering starts not with predictable punditry, or bullshit blogs, or slick art that really asks nothing of us; I want to say that it starts with all of us willing ourselves to remember, tell, and accept those complicated, muffled truths of our lives and deaths, and the lives and deaths of folks all around us over and over again."
I picked up this little book of essays because Laymon's recent memoir, Heavy, is being hailed as a masterpiece and I found the title of this one hard to ignore.
In his intro Laymon says he wanted to arrange the collection like an album, wanted for it to be readable in a single sitting and to "explore the benefits and burdens of being born a black boy in America without the predictable literary rigidity."
If looseness was his goal, Laymon achieved it. Thematically these pieces reverberate against one another, but the style and content varies greatly from essay to essay, sometimes page to page. A fairly straightforward exploration of the uneasy import of the 2008 presidential election becomes a dreamy fictional debate between Obama and Mitt Romney, with Laymon as the moderator. A piece about Laymon's gregarious uncle HaLester becomes a piece about the genius of Kanye West becomes a piece about the failure of even brilliant rappers and men more generally to confront their own insidious sexism. There are intimate letters to and from Laymon's loved ones printed in their entirety without comment, in the same way many music artists today intercut their tracks with voicemail recordings or candid conversation. And, as with the best albums, the proliferation of moods and topics ensures that the reader is never bored, or at least doesn’t have to sit with the stuff they don’t like for long.
Laymon is an engaging writer, too, drawing like any good emcee upon a wealth of stylistic techniques (note the alliteration in that quote a couple paragraphs back), illustrative allusions, and a lifelong study of dialects and verbal tics. At times he gets a little too entangled in these linguistic games, sacrificing clarity for a clever simile or lyrical twist, but at his best his poeticism put me in mind of Terrance Hayes or Ta-Nehisi Coates, to say nothing of the many hip hop legends—East, West, Midwest, and Dirty South—whose abiding influence he continually remarks upon. His striking descriptions of familiar scenes make the scenes themselves more striking too, urging his readers to attend to people and things they may otherwise pay no mind:
But artistic looseness can be a tricky thing, especially in a medium as narrative-driven as the written word. As much as I respect the structural leniency Laymon affords himself as well as his reasons for affording it, I did wish sometimes that he would go a little further, dig a little deeper, give some more detail before hopping on over to the next thing on his mind. These essays are argumentative, as most essays are, but often the conclusions are too abstract and too quickly dispatched to resonate like I wished they would. Laymon shines when he turns his pen to the lives and legacies of others, musicians and comedians and family patriarchs, but even in the most personal pieces there's a haze of reticence over his reflections of himself. He confesses more than once to his having "intimately fucked up" the lives of women who loved him, but he gives us no more than this worrying hint to work with. There's a longish piece about the process of publishing his first novel, Long Division, but it has much more to say about Laymon's irritating editor than about the author himself or his art. Some fragments were clearly worked into others over time, and at least one paragraph appears, almost verbatim, in two different spots.
But I'd rather give my attention to a risky writer who sometimes falls flat than a safe one who doesn't risk it at all. I'm glad I read this (even if it was over the course of two days rather than one sitting), and I plan to read Heavy soon. I can only imagine Laymon's considerable abilities have ripened in the interceding five years, and I'm itching to see what kind of work he does when determined to turn these talents upon himself.
I picked up this little book of essays because Laymon's recent memoir, Heavy, is being hailed as a masterpiece and I found the title of this one hard to ignore.
In his intro Laymon says he wanted to arrange the collection like an album, wanted for it to be readable in a single sitting and to "explore the benefits and burdens of being born a black boy in America without the predictable literary rigidity."
If looseness was his goal, Laymon achieved it. Thematically these pieces reverberate against one another, but the style and content varies greatly from essay to essay, sometimes page to page. A fairly straightforward exploration of the uneasy import of the 2008 presidential election becomes a dreamy fictional debate between Obama and Mitt Romney, with Laymon as the moderator. A piece about Laymon's gregarious uncle HaLester becomes a piece about the genius of Kanye West becomes a piece about the failure of even brilliant rappers and men more generally to confront their own insidious sexism. There are intimate letters to and from Laymon's loved ones printed in their entirety without comment, in the same way many music artists today intercut their tracks with voicemail recordings or candid conversation. And, as with the best albums, the proliferation of moods and topics ensures that the reader is never bored, or at least doesn’t have to sit with the stuff they don’t like for long.
Laymon is an engaging writer, too, drawing like any good emcee upon a wealth of stylistic techniques (note the alliteration in that quote a couple paragraphs back), illustrative allusions, and a lifelong study of dialects and verbal tics. At times he gets a little too entangled in these linguistic games, sacrificing clarity for a clever simile or lyrical twist, but at his best his poeticism put me in mind of Terrance Hayes or Ta-Nehisi Coates, to say nothing of the many hip hop legends—East, West, Midwest, and Dirty South—whose abiding influence he continually remarks upon. His striking descriptions of familiar scenes make the scenes themselves more striking too, urging his readers to attend to people and things they may otherwise pay no mind:
"When Les is lying about being a forty-ninth degree Mason, his voice sounds like flat tires rolling over jagged gravel. When he's lying about what he did to the dog, cat, or car of the white man who 'ain't know how to pay a n—� right,' his voice sounds like burning bubble wrap. No matter what Les is lying about, all of his lies have an acidic slow drip to them, and nearly all the lies carry stories rooted in what 'the black man' deserves."
But artistic looseness can be a tricky thing, especially in a medium as narrative-driven as the written word. As much as I respect the structural leniency Laymon affords himself as well as his reasons for affording it, I did wish sometimes that he would go a little further, dig a little deeper, give some more detail before hopping on over to the next thing on his mind. These essays are argumentative, as most essays are, but often the conclusions are too abstract and too quickly dispatched to resonate like I wished they would. Laymon shines when he turns his pen to the lives and legacies of others, musicians and comedians and family patriarchs, but even in the most personal pieces there's a haze of reticence over his reflections of himself. He confesses more than once to his having "intimately fucked up" the lives of women who loved him, but he gives us no more than this worrying hint to work with. There's a longish piece about the process of publishing his first novel, Long Division, but it has much more to say about Laymon's irritating editor than about the author himself or his art. Some fragments were clearly worked into others over time, and at least one paragraph appears, almost verbatim, in two different spots.
But I'd rather give my attention to a risky writer who sometimes falls flat than a safe one who doesn't risk it at all. I'm glad I read this (even if it was over the course of two days rather than one sitting), and I plan to read Heavy soon. I can only imagine Laymon's considerable abilities have ripened in the interceding five years, and I'm itching to see what kind of work he does when determined to turn these talents upon himself.
October 22, 2014
I really enjoyed how raw this book felt. His writing style seemed unconventional in lots of ways, but in a seasoned "I write a lot so I can make my own rules" kind of way, which I
LOVED.
It definitely made me think a lot about the words we could say to those we love that we don't and how we could possibly make a difference with people just by telling them what we want from them, for them, how they could change our lives. It hit home because I know at times I myself have wanted to be better for other people even when I didn't want to be better for myself and isn't that a place one could start?! That's a lot of what this book says to me.
I had started "Long Divison" a while ago and never finished. I found it funny that in this book he tells his editor he could publish essays that would make people want to read his novel, because that's exactly how I feel and what I plan to do very soon, if not next.
I also found myself wanting him to write on his romantic relationships. I think that could be interesting given his honesty and style.
Great read!
LOVED.
It definitely made me think a lot about the words we could say to those we love that we don't and how we could possibly make a difference with people just by telling them what we want from them, for them, how they could change our lives. It hit home because I know at times I myself have wanted to be better for other people even when I didn't want to be better for myself and isn't that a place one could start?! That's a lot of what this book says to me.
I had started "Long Divison" a while ago and never finished. I found it funny that in this book he tells his editor he could publish essays that would make people want to read his novel, because that's exactly how I feel and what I plan to do very soon, if not next.
I also found myself wanting him to write on his romantic relationships. I think that could be interesting given his honesty and style.
Great read!
June 24, 2017
This is a book of essays and as such, there were some that intrigued me and some that lost me ("Hip Hop Stole My Southern Black Boy"). My favorite was his essay "Kanye West and HaLester Myers Are Better At Their Jobs". Kiese Laymon is a talented writer and essayist who has been discouraged and derided but persevered to get published. Some of his views are familiar as he stays close to the path of other young, Black male writers, and some are deliciously refreshing.
November 21, 2020
Extraordinary essays.
June 30, 2015
In the Author's Note at the beginning of How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America, Kiese Laymon writes, "I wanted to shape the book in the form of some of my favorite albums. I thought of the essays as tracks. I thought of some of the pieces in the books as songs with multiple voices and layered musicality." This relatively brief (~150 pages) suite of essays does remind me of a hip-hop album like Jay-Z's Black Album or Kanye West's College Dropout, with an intro and outro, interpolations of intensely personal testimony from the artist's mother and others, and artistic forays in a variety of styles and registers. It occurs to me as I write this that the resemblance goes the other way as well—hip-hop songs are often like essays, densely packed linguistic explorations, which is part of the reason they reward repeated listening. Perhaps such listening is what trained Laymon to be a reader, and a rereader. He writes, "As much as hip-hop and the blues inspired me, my most meaningful discoveries about the act of being human have come through the solitary act of listening to turning pages, rereading clumsy passages, and marking up the sides of shifty text. It wasn't the text alone that did the work; it was the reading, and rereading, of the text that necessitated the work." Laymon goes on to mention works by Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, and Octavia Butler as ones that particularly demanded and rewarded such rereading.
All four of these writers are clear literary forebears for Laymon, along with, perhaps surprisingly, David Foster Wallace, who gets a thank-you in the Acknowledgments section of the book. Like Wallace, in these essays Laymon shifts effortlessly between high and low rhetorical modes, between the personal and the political, with a similar cultural omnivorousness. Laymon is less bound up in his own head, however; he's more willing, like his hero Kanye, to let other voices in rather than feeling that he must figure it all out himself. And, of course, his understanding of black life and culture emanates from lived experience instead of intellectual effort (consider Wallace's book Signifying Rappers or his portrayal of black characters in Infinite Jest).
DFW's mother's voice rattled around in his head, to be sure—but, mostly, it seems, as a kind of grammar checker. A community college English professor, she published a book called Practically Painless English, and Wallace's writing bears clear witness to how thoroughly her attention to language influenced her son's preoccupations with the written word. Laymon's mother is also a college professor, of political science, and her outlook has shaped Laymon no less indelibly. He writes:
On the final page of the book, Laymon tells his Mama that he loves her, too. One of the most prominent themes here is Laymon's gratitude, respect, and love for the women in his family—his grandma, aunt, and mother—and black women in general, as well as an awareness of how shabbily he and other men and hip-hop music and white America have often treated them. Like Wallace, Laymon is aware of what hideous men look like, and that he himself has been one, slowly killing himself and others in America, a nation that has throughout its history exploited and oppressed black people, women particularly, disregarding the very people who live out its highest ideals:
Laymon doesn't exactly use racism as an excuse for his own mistakes, but he does situate the bewildering destructiveness of black men in a larger context of white destructiveness, of a nation that throughout its history has demonstrated that it doesn't believe that black lives matter. In the heroic lives of generations of black women he sees sacrifice that has not yet received adequate recompense and investment whose dividends have been withheld by a delinquent America:
This passage struck me as one of the most memorable in the book, a sentiment that ought to be a guiding principle in our society.
Near the end of the collection, Laymon suggests (in a metafictional, DFW-esque way) that part of the motivation for the book's publication was to create an audience for his novel. It worked with me. I'd like to read Long Division to see how this writer brings his considerable gifts—his prose style, his humor, his moral awareness—to a longer piece of fiction. And, like the best hip-hop music and the best writing, this book probably deserves a reread as well.
All four of these writers are clear literary forebears for Laymon, along with, perhaps surprisingly, David Foster Wallace, who gets a thank-you in the Acknowledgments section of the book. Like Wallace, in these essays Laymon shifts effortlessly between high and low rhetorical modes, between the personal and the political, with a similar cultural omnivorousness. Laymon is less bound up in his own head, however; he's more willing, like his hero Kanye, to let other voices in rather than feeling that he must figure it all out himself. And, of course, his understanding of black life and culture emanates from lived experience instead of intellectual effort (consider Wallace's book Signifying Rappers or his portrayal of black characters in Infinite Jest).
DFW's mother's voice rattled around in his head, to be sure—but, mostly, it seems, as a kind of grammar checker. A community college English professor, she published a book called Practically Painless English, and Wallace's writing bears clear witness to how thoroughly her attention to language influenced her son's preoccupations with the written word. Laymon's mother is also a college professor, of political science, and her outlook has shaped Laymon no less indelibly. He writes:
When I was younger, Mama said that lack of moral imagination on the part of most white folks was exactly why black girls and boys needed to be twice as good to get half as much [as] white Americans in our country. She said you have to pity an entitled group of people who believe black and brown folks are getting more than they deserve when they themselves have twenty times more wealth, better access to good health care, are far less likely either to go to prison or to grow up in poverty, and are five times more likely to go to college. "Don't ever let them beat you," Mama and Grandma repeated with their daily, "I love you."
On the final page of the book, Laymon tells his Mama that he loves her, too. One of the most prominent themes here is Laymon's gratitude, respect, and love for the women in his family—his grandma, aunt, and mother—and black women in general, as well as an awareness of how shabbily he and other men and hip-hop music and white America have often treated them. Like Wallace, Laymon is aware of what hideous men look like, and that he himself has been one, slowly killing himself and others in America, a nation that has throughout its history exploited and oppressed black people, women particularly, disregarding the very people who live out its highest ideals:
They are not American super-women, but they are the best of Americans. They have remained responsible, critical, and loving in the face of servitude, sexual assault, segregation, poverty, and psychological violence. They have done this hard, messy work because they were committed to life and justice, and so we all might live more responsibly tomorrow.
Laymon doesn't exactly use racism as an excuse for his own mistakes, but he does situate the bewildering destructiveness of black men in a larger context of white destructiveness, of a nation that throughout its history has demonstrated that it doesn't believe that black lives matter. In the heroic lives of generations of black women he sees sacrifice that has not yet received adequate recompense and investment whose dividends have been withheld by a delinquent America:
There is a price to pay for ducking responsibility, for clinging to the worst of us, for harboring a warped innocence. There is an even greater price to pay for ignoring, demeaning, and unfairly burdening those Americans who have disproportionately borne the weight of American irresponsibility for so long. Our grandmothers and great-grandmothers have paid more than their fair share, and our nation owes them and their children, and their children's children, a lifetime of healthy choices and second chances. That would be responsible.
This passage struck me as one of the most memorable in the book, a sentiment that ought to be a guiding principle in our society.
Near the end of the collection, Laymon suggests (in a metafictional, DFW-esque way) that part of the motivation for the book's publication was to create an audience for his novel. It worked with me. I'd like to read Long Division to see how this writer brings his considerable gifts—his prose style, his humor, his moral awareness—to a longer piece of fiction. And, like the best hip-hop music and the best writing, this book probably deserves a reread as well.
November 18, 2020
even better the second time.
let me first start by stating i'll never have the range to reflect on Kiese Laymon's work the way i intend to. but I suppose I'll give it a go.
HOW TO SLOWLY KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS IN AMERICA is about surviving and living to tell the tale of how this country is so eager and willing to kill black life. these essays speak to the destructive effect of knowing that your life, a black life, is confronted with violence from racism, the police, a global pandemic, an institution, your family, and even death you inflict on yourself.
this book made me confront my own harm and how i've killed my own joy. i can think of the times i’ve let patriarchy cloud my thinking and feelings. reading Echo, the letters Kiese, Michael, Darnell, Kai, and Marlon wrote to each other was transformative to me. it completely broke open and rejected those narrowing conceptions of masculinity. it informed me that it was okay to feel, love, to be afraid - but most importantly, to live.
i’m so grateful to live in a time of Laymon and have the ability to enjoy so much beauty in these pages.
let me first start by stating i'll never have the range to reflect on Kiese Laymon's work the way i intend to. but I suppose I'll give it a go.
HOW TO SLOWLY KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS IN AMERICA is about surviving and living to tell the tale of how this country is so eager and willing to kill black life. these essays speak to the destructive effect of knowing that your life, a black life, is confronted with violence from racism, the police, a global pandemic, an institution, your family, and even death you inflict on yourself.
this book made me confront my own harm and how i've killed my own joy. i can think of the times i’ve let patriarchy cloud my thinking and feelings. reading Echo, the letters Kiese, Michael, Darnell, Kai, and Marlon wrote to each other was transformative to me. it completely broke open and rejected those narrowing conceptions of masculinity. it informed me that it was okay to feel, love, to be afraid - but most importantly, to live.
i’m so grateful to live in a time of Laymon and have the ability to enjoy so much beauty in these pages.
June 12, 2020
Nothing to add here except that it's a great reread, and I was prompted after Kiese reposted his essay from this book, "You are the Second Person," which is relevant to the online conversation happening right now about Black authors in publishing. Highly recommend this collection always
First review:
Beautiful and powerful collection of essays that I loved with all my heart. I was honestly moved to the point of tears with the level of self-reflection and self-actualization in these pieces. I also wrote my first official blog post for my internship about this collection, so I’ll try to post that here when it goes up! (It’s a much better piece about what I loved about this collection than this review right now lol.)
Update: is the post I wrote! (It says its by my professor/conference director but I can assure you it's by me lol)
First review:
Beautiful and powerful collection of essays that I loved with all my heart. I was honestly moved to the point of tears with the level of self-reflection and self-actualization in these pieces. I also wrote my first official blog post for my internship about this collection, so I’ll try to post that here when it goes up! (It’s a much better piece about what I loved about this collection than this review right now lol.)
Update: is the post I wrote! (It says its by my professor/conference director but I can assure you it's by me lol)
August 25, 2020
This is the second Kiese Laymon book I have read in as many weeks. This collection of essays ranging from police encounters to his analyses of MJ, Kanye and Tupac show his range of literary style. He reminds me of #RoxaneGay, one of my favorite authors. I usually don’t care much for male authors but I am becoming a fan of Kiese, mainly bc he writes a lot like a Black woman. From the heart.
May 23, 2021
This collection of essays is fiery, energetic, and all over the map. I really enjoyed a few of them, others blew through me like sports- and hip-hop-infused word winds, and a several made me want to give Mr. Kiese Laymon a standing ovation or hug him. All in all, I'm glad I read them.
December 3, 2022
I'm jealous of Kiese Laymon. He's a magnificent writer who wears his Mississippi heritage like I wear my Louisiana heritage like a thick slice of hogshead cheese on soft white bread. Like many of the writers I learn about, I first learned of Kiese Laymon by listening to one of his NPR interviews a couple of years ago. He impressed me. I finally got around to purchasing this book two years ago, and just now reading it. This is an outstanding and moving set of essays. These essays made me think deeply about the issues of growing up Black and Southern especially the tension we (including myself) feel when rooting for our college football teams. We are painfully aware of the brutal history of segregation and its legacy, but we root for schools like Ole Miss and LSU because of the Black young men that play for them. They represent us even though the history of those institutions and our respective states belies our loyalty. Needless to say that I found the essay on Ole Miss penetrating.
Every essay in this book is stellar. These essays drip with pathos. I visualized the incidents Laymon re-told in great story-telling ability, I laughed out loud, I shook my head in amazement at how close his Mississippi is to my Louisiana in terms of a shared culture, I commiserated with his pronouncements on anti-black animus in this country, and finally I cried when he wrote about his late friends and his late uncle. These essays have soul. I wanted more. I truly respect this brother's hustle, and I would like to sit down with him and smack on some hot tamales.
Every essay in this book is stellar. These essays drip with pathos. I visualized the incidents Laymon re-told in great story-telling ability, I laughed out loud, I shook my head in amazement at how close his Mississippi is to my Louisiana in terms of a shared culture, I commiserated with his pronouncements on anti-black animus in this country, and finally I cried when he wrote about his late friends and his late uncle. These essays have soul. I wanted more. I truly respect this brother's hustle, and I would like to sit down with him and smack on some hot tamales.
April 27, 2017
I am stunned by this collection of personal essays, and trying to figure out why I haven't been hearing more about it.
Kiese Laymon is a black writer who grew up in Mississippi, and here he excavates much of the pain he's endured throughout his life � an uncle's drug addiction and premature death, a racially charged incident that got him kicked out of college, police encounters with blackness as the only probable cause, working with a black editor who ultimately dropped him for being "too black, too racial," and just generally trying to find his way as a southern black man in a white New York world.
A recurring theme in this collection is black men learning how to offer love and friendship to other black men, which I found very moving. There's also a self-deprecating quality to many of the essays that felt very raw and real to me. This is a man who knows self-doubt, depression, and suicidal thoughts, and here he lays it all bare.
Kiese Laymon is also just a brilliant, witty, rule-breaking writer. There were a few essays that felt a bit out of place � like on pop culture icons Kanye West and Bernie Mac � but DAMN those essays were also super good. His writing on southern blackness in music, art, and culture is fascinating and made me think about Beyoncé and Outkast in a whole new light.
I loved this collection and hope it will keep bubbling up into mainstream consciousness.
Kiese Laymon is a black writer who grew up in Mississippi, and here he excavates much of the pain he's endured throughout his life � an uncle's drug addiction and premature death, a racially charged incident that got him kicked out of college, police encounters with blackness as the only probable cause, working with a black editor who ultimately dropped him for being "too black, too racial," and just generally trying to find his way as a southern black man in a white New York world.
A recurring theme in this collection is black men learning how to offer love and friendship to other black men, which I found very moving. There's also a self-deprecating quality to many of the essays that felt very raw and real to me. This is a man who knows self-doubt, depression, and suicidal thoughts, and here he lays it all bare.
Kiese Laymon is also just a brilliant, witty, rule-breaking writer. There were a few essays that felt a bit out of place � like on pop culture icons Kanye West and Bernie Mac � but DAMN those essays were also super good. His writing on southern blackness in music, art, and culture is fascinating and made me think about Beyoncé and Outkast in a whole new light.
I loved this collection and hope it will keep bubbling up into mainstream consciousness.
November 15, 2020
With a good analysis of race in America that produces this "slow death" Laymon is a modern day extension of great essayist James Baldwin but remixed for the hip hop generation. At times you laugh and others you feel heartbreak that America in the 21st century is still teaching It's citizens how to carry out the "slow death".
I read this again because the author bought the rights to his book back and released a revised edition of this book of the same title. Including the original essays, this book includes new essays that illuminates our current political moment while not losing the swagger of the original essays that we have come to love and expect from Laymon. Honestly reading this during this current political context just hit different and illuminated the world we live in differently. Even if you have read this before. Buy it and read it again.
I read this again because the author bought the rights to his book back and released a revised edition of this book of the same title. Including the original essays, this book includes new essays that illuminates our current political moment while not losing the swagger of the original essays that we have come to love and expect from Laymon. Honestly reading this during this current political context just hit different and illuminated the world we live in differently. Even if you have read this before. Buy it and read it again.
October 20, 2013
I definitely think Kiese Laymon is a writer to watch and pay attention to. This book along with his novel, Long Division has ushered him to the literary spotlight. How to Slowly Kill reads like part memoir, part confessional and satirical essay. There are some laugh out loud moments alongside some hard truths.
He writes with passion, and proves that writing is indeed fighting. He is courageous enough to fight for his vision and his words. He wants his voice to echo, to make a difference in the culture. If you read these essays you will see that he is well on his way to making that happen. A good and quick read.
He writes with passion, and proves that writing is indeed fighting. He is courageous enough to fight for his vision and his words. He wants his voice to echo, to make a difference in the culture. If you read these essays you will see that he is well on his way to making that happen. A good and quick read.
May 3, 2021
It is rare that I say what I am about to say now:
I wish that my job had not gone away in 2010 - specifically so I could recommend this book to every one of the kids I interacted with when I worked at $HighSchool as an aide.
I don't remember which of my fellow Virtual Silent Book Club members recommended this book to me, but I have found another writer to add to my "read everything he/she writes" list. I literally could not stop listening until the book was finished. And when it was, I wanted more. Writers like Mr. Laymon deserve to be heard by a much wider audience than their target demographic.
I wish that my job had not gone away in 2010 - specifically so I could recommend this book to every one of the kids I interacted with when I worked at $HighSchool as an aide.
I don't remember which of my fellow Virtual Silent Book Club members recommended this book to me, but I have found another writer to add to my "read everything he/she writes" list. I literally could not stop listening until the book was finished. And when it was, I wanted more. Writers like Mr. Laymon deserve to be heard by a much wider audience than their target demographic.
January 19, 2021
Kiese Laymon's words are just the tips of icebergs. The meaning of each word exists far below what readers see on the surface. He is truly incredible at what he does.
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