Book Review: (S)Kin by Ibi Zoboi
From the moment I picked up Ibi Zoboi’s (S)Kin, I was lured in by the promise of a unique blend of supernatural lore and a coming-of-age story. Yet, as I ventured deeper into the pages, I found myself grappling with a narrative that fell short of its ambitious premise. As a lover of stories that delve into complex intersections of identity and culture, I had high hopes, but what unfolded was far from the rich tapestry I craved.
At the heart of (S)Kin are Marisol and Genevieve, two girls living with hidden lives and monstrous identities. Marisol, a 15-year-old navigating her self-described existence as a soucouyant, yearns for connection while grappling with resentment toward her own mother. On the other hand, Genevieve, a biracial teen with a painful skin condition, seeks her own identity amidst familial complexities. It’s a story that promises depth, but instead, I found myself bewildered by portrayal issues—particularly around themes of colorism and a muddled representation of Caribbean folklore.
The verse format, intended to lend a poetic cadence to the narrative, oddly stunted the flow and direction. While the intent was to create an immersive experience, the uneven pacing rendered passages awkward. I found myself longing for more detailed world-building, especially in regard to the lore of the soucouyant and lougarou. Instead of feeling enriched by cultural references, I was left with a patchwork of vague stereotypes that felt both rushed and incomplete.
One particular area of focus is the character Jaden, a Jab Jab that piqued my interest despite being ensconced in lazy tropes. His portrayal raised numerous questions—who is he beyond the label of "evil"? Why wasn’t there more exploration into the rich history behind his character? This lack of depth echoed throughout the novel, where characters seemed to serve the narrative rather than flourish within it.
Zoboi’s attempt to explore themes of beauty and self-worth is notably ambitious; however, it often veers into the territory of discomfort. The constant tension around what defines “pretty” led to moments that felt painfully stagnant and unsettling. I couldn’t help but think that addressing such complex issues deserved more nuance and care than what was ultimately delivered. References to iconic literature, like Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, felt misplaced, as the depth needed to tackle such themes was cursory at best.
Reflecting on my reading experience, I realized that while some may resonate with Genevieve’s struggle with skin conditions or Marisol’s familial chaos, the overall execution left much to be desired. Instead of fostering dialogue, the story risks reinforcing harmful stereotypes and glossing over the beauty of cultural diversity.
So, who might find value in (S)Kin? Perhaps those interested in a fantasy story with cultural elements may still pull something from its pages. But for readers seeking a genuine exploration of identity and self-acceptance wrapped in a thoughtful narrative, I suggest looking elsewhere.
In the end, this book felt like a missed opportunity—one that had all the makings of a meaningful narrative but stumbled through its execution. I left the reading experience feeling more bewildered than enlightened, pondering how it could have fulfilled its potential. Ultimately, while I appreciate the effort and ambition behind (S)Kin, I can’t help but wish for more. If I had to score it, my gut instinct leads me to a reluctant 1.5 stars.
This review reflects my honest engagement with (S)Kin, and I hope it encourages thoughtful conversations around literature and representation in our reading community.
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