Jen Hatmaker: "Awake"

 Jen Hatmaker is gifted with a computer; hand her a laptop, and interesting things happen. In her recent memoir, she recalls a moment of discovery; at some point, she just understood that she could make other kids laugh. This was a superpower--it pointed her toward her adult life. (A similar event happens in Patti LuPone's memoir. In high school, LuPone is singing. Her teacher bluntly says, "You have a gift, and your entire life will be about the exploration of this one gift.")

Hatmaker has another powerful memory from childhood. She remembers a male teacher caressing her shoulders in a way that makes her recoil. In this memory, she is an obedient member of an evangelical church; she believes that her duty is not to make waves. She doesn't say anything. Years later, she learns that the teacher in question assaulted at least one child. This discovery imparts a lesson: Occasionally, my body "knows" things, and I should pay attention.

But the obvious set-piece in Hatmaker's memoir is the late-night scene between Hatmaker and her husband. The husband is a star on the "evangelical circuit." He doesn't like to have sex with his wife. One night--very late--Jen Hatmaker wakes up. Her spouse is next to her in bed, using the "voice text" option on his iPhone. He is sending a message to his mistress: "I just can't quit you." (And here I have to say that another writer--e.g., Pamela Adlon--would choose to really dwell on the wonderful details. The evangelical pastor is too lazy to get out of his marital bed before drafting a new chapter in his secret sexcapade. Better still, he is too lazy to *type the text message* ....He has to use a transcription service! You can't make this stuff up. I understand that Jen Hatmaker has made a choice to be high-minded--but the opportunities for comedy seem so, so obvious, and seem almost inescapable, at least in this one scene.)

After the implosion of her marriage, Hatmaker tries Lexapro, books about codependent relationships, interviews with the memoirist Frances Mayes, intense sessions of therapeutic baking. She pulls herself together. Her candor about her cluelessness and childishness is refreshing; she simply has narrative talent. I do feel there is a current of unexamined privilege in this memoir, which is surprising, because Hatmaker ostensibly thinks (and talks) about economic justice. A savvier editor might have said, "Not everyone will relate when you cope with sadness by buying a cottage in coastal Maine. Maybe there is more to explore here...." Also, Hatmaker's hesitation about hurting feelings means that she is sometimes annoyingly vague. (Compare her with Mary Rodgers, who just tells the truth in scene after scene after scene. Rodgers is the better of the two storytellers.) But I enjoyed Hatmaker's work.

A solid effort.