Edwidge Danticat’s Dèy steps into the unexpected things we grieve in life | Review

NEW YORK — What exactly are we mourning in Dèy, Edwidge Danticat’s new novel? 

At first, given that the title is the Haitian Creole word for grief or mourning, the answer seems obvious and emotionally daunting. But as we meet Magnolia, a Miami real estate agent who survives a mass shooting, and her story unfolds, it becomes clear that mourning those who died that fateful day is not the only burden weighing on her heart.

By the last page, Dèy facilitates reflection on multiple losses. Chiefly, for the lives we once knew as we strive for agency; for our nations and neighborhoods alike; and for the idea of loved ones as they “should” be versus who they are.

Danticat carries us through each storyline in her signature heavy-yet-light style, crafting an evocative commentary on life in America today — and perhaps her most American novel yet.

Mourning in three acts

On its surface, Dèy follows Magnolia, a Haitian American real estate agent who survives a mass shooting at a South Florida shopping mall, pre-pandemic. Already in the middle of a life change, Magnolia escapes physically unharmed, but the emotional aftermath ripples through every aspect of her life.

Her journey is not only about her grappling with coming so close to death. In Magnolia’s day-to-day, Danticat subtly leads us from the initial stages of grief, the shock of the event, to how mourning accumulates over time, taking shape through people, places and possibilities treated differently because of the loss, and finally finding solace. 

We feel Magnolia’s struggle as she recounts flashes of her childhood and college years in New York. She recalls parts that set her up for who she would become and provide clues into where she should go or avoid in fashioning a new version of herself. Who can’t relate to that?

As Magnolia navigates her relationships — with her daughter, partner, boss, clients and extended family, as well as the shooting’s aftermath — Danticat walks us through South Florida’s evolution. Gentrification may be old news for many readers. What’s new here is Danticat’s intimate treatment of the domino effect it triggers.

Perhaps this is why of Danticat’s novels, Dèy feels the closest to autobiographical in a geographical sense. Magnolia’s trek from Miami to Broward County is clearly steeped in Danticat’s own decades-long residency, carrying the intimacy of lived experience. From visits to Libreri Mapou to meeting the new faces buying properties, raucous family gatherings in lush backyards to the flights to Haiti, Magnolia’s excursion is a testament to “write what you know” when done masterfully.

EMBED: https://haitiantimes.com/2025/05/16/haitian-american-author-edwidge-danticat-interview/

Consequently, Dèy feels like an elegy for Miami’s Little Haiti in particular. As new, gleaming properties go up into the skyline, Haitian families relocate, small businesses struggle, cultural landmarks as we knew them face erasure. But in Dèy, these fixtures are forever memorialized.

Haiti gets a similar treatment. By way of Magnolia’s parents and their lives, Danticat returns repeatedly to a capital city engulfed in gang violence. These jaunts, whether via constant voice notes, crackly conversations or recollections, may resonate most with the dyaspora because they capture a distinct form of mourning: grieving a homeland that still exists but no longer resembles the place left behind or ready to welcome them back home.

Connecting in the now and after   

Ultimately, Dèy is less about death than about the parts of our lives we lose, even as we gain new versions of ourselves.

What makes Dèy especially enthralling is Danticat’s restraint. Her prose remains powerful without becoming overly sentimental, pairing the beauty of everyday life with profound societal shifts. With the precision of a journalist, her observations ground the novel’s emotional themes in recognizable realities.

Magnolia herself represents another evolution in Danticat’s body of work. Unlike many of the author’s earlier heroines, Magnolia feels more American. College educated, raising a daughter with a long-term partner and recognizing generational trauma, Magnolia embodies a generation balancing contemporary American life with our “Haitianness.”

Reading Dèy today also creates an unexpected sense of anticipation. Since the novel unfolds before the COVID-19 pandemic, missing from it are certain defining events that have reshaped Haitian life in recent years. Among them, the assassination of Haiti’s president, new migration patterns from South America anti-Haitian disinformation campaigns, to name a few. 

Those historical developments may inevitably leave readers wondering what became of Magnolia and her family, as I found myself wondering when I finished the book. Danticat isn’t known for sequels, but Dèy is one novel that seems to invite another. Not because it feels unfinished, but because history has continued moving so rapidly around these characters. 

Its characters are so strong and are standing so close to the edge of history, I found myself wanting to see how they navigate the world that came so soon after. 

Even without these answers, Dèy stands among Danticat’s most affecting works. It is a moving portrait of grief in all its forms — mourning not only people, but neighborhoods, countries, identities and imagined futures. In doing so, Danticat once again demonstrates why she remains an essential voice chronicling not only the Haitian American experience, but American life.

Dèy is available at major retailers on August 25.

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