A Minor Chorus by Billy-Ray Belcourt: An Enchanting Reflection on Grief and Identity
When a book is described as an exploration of identity, grief, and the complexity of home, my heart isn’t just intrigued; it races to turn the pages. Billy-Ray Belcourt’s A Minor Chorus caught me off guard in the most delightful way. In a world teeming with narratives that sometimes feel predictable, I found this novel to be a refreshing and lyrical testament to the beauty of language. It reminded me of the exquisite prose of Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous or Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red—each sentence a deft intersection of emotion and thought that prompts deep reflection.
Our nameless protagonist, a queer Cree man navigating the often-challenging terrain of grad school in Alberta, embarks on a journey to not just find himself, but to write from a place of deepest grief. This quest, beautifully rendered through a "Minor Chorus" of conversations and reflections with various characters, reveals the layer upon layer of community, history, and identity. I was particularly struck by his effortless rapport with River, his queer Indigenous friend. In a moment that almost felt like a shared heartbeat, River encourages our MC to trust his impulses and dive deeper into joy: “I want to be like you when I grow up,” he responds, despite being of the same age. This delightful exchange resonated with me as a reminder that mentorship can often blossom in unexpected relationships.
Belcourt’s writing style is radiant and thought-provoking. Each excerpt and conversation feels like an intricate thread woven into a larger tapestry, rich with literary references—from Audre Lorde’s piercing acknowledgment of survival to Virginia Woolf’s quiet hope for another life. One line particularly stuck with me: “A novel can be as complex as a city, with lanes and by-lanes.” This speaks to the multitude of experiences captured in the text. The pace ebbs and flows, allowing moments for introspection while pushing forward with poignant dialogue that demands your attention.
Every character in this Minor Chorus has their story, their grief, and their joys layered within the fabric of Indigenous identity. From the wise, yet grief-stricken, Aunt Mary to the hauntingly realistic experiences of Michael, each voice contributes to this beautiful exploration of love, loss, and resilience. Jack’s story, intertwined with our MC’s reflections, added depth and warmth that made my heart ache and swell simultaneously.
As I read, I often found myself wrestling with heavier themes—grief presented not just as a personal experience, but as a collective narrative echoing through generations. Belcourt’s phrasing, such as, “I thought the body was a human invention, a ruse,” lingers long after you’ve closed the book, inviting you to reflect on the nature of existence and identity.
I can wholeheartedly recommend A Minor Chorus to anyone seeking literary beauty interwoven with social commentary. It’s a rich, powerful exploration of what it means to grapple with our past while seeking the path to joy, particularly within the queer Indigenous experience. This book is not just a reading experience; it’s an invitation to think, to feel, and to engage with profound truths that connect us all.
With an undeniable urge to delve into more of Belcourt’s work after this experience, I give A Minor Chorus a solid 5 out of 5. It’s a work that demands your attention—just as it demands its characters to confront their multifaceted lives. So, get yourself a copy, and allow yourself to be immersed in its beauty. You won’t regret it.