lullabies for little criminals, by Heather O’Neill

O’Neill’s first novel is narrated by Baby, a 12 year old girl whose name is perfectly selected – it denotes innocence but can’t escape connotations of strippers and prostitutes. And this is indeed the beautifully contradictory and often tragic life that Baby leads as she walks the fine line between childhood and adulthood like a tightrope walker in the circus that is the slums of Montreal. Her young father, Jules, is a heroin addict who loves but woefully neglects his daughter, unable to help her as she slips into unsavoury company and enters adulthood far too soon.

The triumph of this book is Baby’s voice. It’s absolutely ridden with fresh similies as Baby tries to understand the world of adults by relating it to a child’s: “His voice had a chalk-like quality, like it was writing out words on the blackboard” or “Sleeping next to Zachary was like sleeping in the middle of a cherry pie that just came out of the oven”. Not only does O’Neill provide a fresh perspective, but this is a novel sold by its details. Though certainly I have no experience in this street world, I bought every bit of it because everything from the descriptions of apartments to the habits of other street children struck me as completely genuine. O’Neill has a great instinct for details that resonate. O’Neill doesn’t just succeed in physical details, but also seems to genuinely remember what it is like to be a kid, and Baby’s whole story is driven by what all kids want deep down – to be loved and accepted. And it is the striking absence of this that makes the story so heartbreaking. Baby’s aching need for love just seeps into you. When she’s temporarily put in juvy, Baby relates:

“I liked to go to the nurse’s office and describe the symptoms of Jules’s TB, trying to pass them off as my own. She would tap on my back and chest and put the stethoscope up to my breastbone. I heard my heartbeat through her mind, and it felt wonderful. It was lovely to be touched by a caring adult.
I wasn’t the only one looking for this type of affection. there was a social worker who gave haircuts. A lot of the kids were practically bald because they liked the feeling of her cutting their hair and fussing with it so much.”

The world of these children is incredibly lonely, yet not without beauty – even if it is only in the smallest details. And this is perhaps one of the best reasons for reading lullabies, not as a cautionary tale, but as testament to the incredible human capacity for survival and for finding a silver lining even in our darkest days.