abbie_'s Reviews (1.79k)

I save a *lot* of titles on Scribd (will I ever start calling it Everand? TBD) and honestly sometimes feel like I’ll never make it through my saved list. That’s where the beauty of audiobook roulette lies, as I ask my partner to choose a random number and listen to whatever corresponds from my Scribd audiobook list. Last week this led me to The Narrows of Fear (Wapawikoscikanik) by Cree author Carol Rose Goldeneagle.

This book is told through a series of short chapters, focusing on a fairly wide cast of First Nations characters. It’s a testimony to the strength of women, the importance of cherishing and upholding tradition and reconnecting with your culture. The author was part of the ‘sixties scoop’, and so was forcibly removed from her Indigenous culture, adopted out into a white family without her mother’s permission. This devastating loss of cultural contact is a major theme of The Narrows of Fear, as we see Sandy reconnect with her birth family and culture.

Another major theme is resilience, as the characters battle a myriad of issues stemming from colonialism. Characters struggle with unspeakable trauma at the hands of nuns and priests at residential schools. Women suffer domestic abuse at the hands of partners. Girls are raped by men abusing positions of power and authority. Children are neglected. Cycles of addiction are broken and repeated, abuse rearing its ugly head again and again, as the abused become the abusers. John Wayne’s various storylines had me sick to my stomach, please be conscious of the trigger warnings if you’re going to try this book. Goldeneagle really ran with the saying ‘hurt people hurt people’ here.

But there were also some beautifully uplifting moments amidst the challenging ones. There’s a two-spirit character whose storyline was wonderful, and I loved the relationships between all the women of this book. They create a wonderful support system, pushing back against some men’s ideas (cough John Wayne cough) that women shouldn’t participate in ceremonies, that they’re somehow impure. I was also a big fan of the spiritual elements woven into the story. 

My biggest issue with this book was that sometimes it said too much explicitly. Like there’d be a lovely moment between two characters, and then there’d be a line that read: ‘It was a very tender moment.’ I already knew that because the author showed me, but her then telling us drew me out of the moment and made it seem a tad overwrought. 

Overall, a difficult read but one with plenty of hope. 

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for my free digital ARC of Blessings by Chukwuebuka Ibeh! There was a lot of good, excellent even, in this debut novel about a young queer boy in Nigeria, but I found myself questioning the decision to include certain POVs from Obiefuna’s mother. For me, these sections weren’t as strong as Obiefuna’s, in that the voice felt too similar.

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That said, Obiefuna’s story was a heartbreaker for sure, tenderly written. After his father witnesses an intimate moment between Obiefuna and the new apprentice, Obiefuna is sent away to seminary school. In this conservative environment, you can imagine it’s not easy for someone like Obiefuna to thrive and there are some difficult-to-stomach scenes. But Ibeh does a great job showing the hypocrisy of these places, of toxic masculinity being used to mask so-called ‘deviant’ desire. Obiefuna is driven to some terrible choices due to his time there, but Ibeh builds out his character so thoroughly that you have to empathise. 

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I thought the story really hit its stride one Obiefuna leaves school and begins to form relationships with other queer people. It’s set in the 2010s, so covers the signing of the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. The effect on Obiefuna and his circle of queer friends is devastating, but there’s a glimmer of hope too. They go to ground, but refuse to give up who they are.

Interestingly I’ve seen other reviewers say they liked this section of the book the least, so I’m intrigued to see some more opinions once this book is released in a few days!

Thank you to Charco Press for my free copy of Not a River! I’ve read all four of Almada’s novels that have been translated to English so far and her writing never fails to astound me. Props to the various translators of her work, in this case Annie McDermott who wrote a lovely translator’s note about the challenges and joy of translating someone whose work is as alive as Almada’s.

I hadn’t realised this one was sort of in conversation with The Wind That Lays Waste and Brickmakers. They’re a triptych of novels that explore toxic masculinity in rural Argentina. Brickmakers is definitely my fave of the three, but I was impressed with Not a River too. 

I’d recommend setting aside a few hours to read this slim novel all in one sitting if you can. I read the first 40 pages over three days in too-short bursts and it wasn’t until I sat down with the last 60 pages or so that I really appreciated the strength of it, the beauty in the misery and tragedy depicted.

Although the main focus of the novel is on the three male main characters, for me the best sections were those focused on sisters Mariela and Lucy. These passages lent a haunting feel to an already sombre book. 

Almada captures the claustrophobia of a small rural village in Argentina, the days that trickle by lackadaisically in the heat, men with roving eyes, in a stupor with the dust and sun but always on the prowl for young women, and of course the tensions that come to a head when outsiders come in to upset the status quo. 

I’d probably rate it higher had I not dragged out the first half. 

Incredible. Annoyed at myself for taking so long to read it, but a timeless memoir that will (sadly) resonate for years to come. 

I've rarely felt such visceral rage when reading a book, and listening to Chanel read it herself made it all the more powerful. It'd be 5am and I'm walking the dog, either on the edge of tears or ready to fight. I already know how difficult the justice systems in both the US and UK make it for victims of sexual assault to tell their stories and be believed. Having Chanel lay the entire process bare just hammered that knowledge home even further. It's rage-inducing, heartbreaking.

No doubt that most infuriating part of everything was how most of the time during the trial, it felt like Chanel was the one ON trial. They questioned her every action, word, decision endlessly, attempting to pin the blame on everything and everyone EXCEPT the man who found an unconscious woman and decided to insert a part of himself into her. For him to then go on and try to gaslight everyone into thinking Chanel wanted it... It's too much to bear.

As the trial progresses, Chanel's rapist is allowed to present character witnesses from back in school, all of them willing to help paint a rounded picture of this man who sexually assaulted an unconscious woman. Jurors were encouraged to see him as more than those 20 minutes. Meanwhile, Chanel is reduced to nothing BUT those 20 minutes, and the few decisions she made beforehand. 

Her writing is absolutely gorgeous, offering up the most insightful analogies and metaphors, some of them were so perfect it made me gasp. Her emotions pour unfettered onto the page, all of her rage and fear and sadness and frustration. We feel every drop of it all along with her.

If you've been sleeping on this one, please pick it up. For any sexual assault survivors, please take care of yourselves if you do choose to read it. 

'My pain was never more valuable than his potential.' 

A powerful memoir from a girl who’s lived through, and continues to live through, something no teenager, no child, no person ever should. Ahed Tamimi is a young Palestinian girl from Nabi Saleh, a village which is surrounded by illegal settlements and which became famous for its weekly nonviolent protests against the Jewish-only settlement blocking access to the village’s community spring. She was later arrested at a mere 16 years old for slapping an Israeli soldier for trespassing on their family’s land. 

Ahed’s story is not about us, not about the west, but you can’t help but think - what was I doing at 16? Worrying about GCSEs, complaining about chores, absolutely benign stuff. Certainly not having your rights violated as a minor in an Israeli prison. Ahed is crystal clear throughout that she does not wish to be viewed, or have any Palestinian viewed, as a victim, even as the occupation inflicts horror after horror upon the indigenous population. She is a freedom fighter, resisting the occupation any way she can, and her steadfastness and devotion to the Palestinian cause is incredible to witness. She’s outspoken and unafraid to challenge authority.

I knew in theory that Israel is an apartheid state, but some of Ahed’s examples and experiences really hammer it home in case you were still (how?) unconvinced. Things like Palestinians being forced to carry ID cards of a different colour to Israelis, and Palestinian cars, distinguishable by their white registration plates to Israelis’ yellow, not being allowed to drive on certain roads designated for Israeli use only. 

The most powerful part of this memoir is how, despite the horrific violence and injustices Palestinians witness every day, they are taught by their parents and grandparents not to let fear control them. Their resistance is not fuelled by hatred. They resist the occupation because they love life, and deserve to live a life of freedom on their own land. 

I’d say it’s more a personal memoir with some political context given, but definitely seek out other works, like the 100 Year War on Palestine for one, for a broader context. 

This was a Scribd find, recommended as ‘lesbian fiction for you’ and I was lured in by the idea of an ominous swarm of cicadas, which only hatch every 17 years, descending on a small town. Jessica, a queer ex-police officer (yes there is indeed some copaganda here), struggling to deal with the loss of her entire family to a car accident two years ago. Had the focus been more on the cicadas and Jessica’s grieving process, I’d have been all in. However, too much of the (very short) book is dedicated to a very toxic relationship between Jessica and her dead sister’s straight best friend. Lord. I simultaneously felt bad for and resented Jessica. Natasha is so obviously dragging her along like a fish on a hook, using the town’s (likely) only lesbian to make her on-again-off-again boyfriend jealous. But Jessica doesn’t do anything to make the reader sympathise with her either. She gives off ‘not like other girls’ vibes, constantly commenting on and criticising Natasha’s dress choices, behaviour, decisions.

It was good enough and short enough for me to finish it, but honestly forgettable and too toxic to be wholly enjoyable. 

Thank you to the publisher and Netgalley for my free digital ARC of Mongrel by Hanako Footman, out on 22nd February! This book was one of my January highlights, a gorgeous and heartbreaking exploration of identity, sexuality, race, sisterhood and motherhood.

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Footman gives us three narratives: Meiko is a British-Japanese girl mourning her mother, navigating her sexuality and falling hopelessly in love with her best friend. Yuki is a young Japanese woman who travels to England to attend music school, who then begins an affair with her teacher. Haruka is a Japanese woman working as a hostess while working through the tangled web of family secrets left behind after her mother passes. If I had one complaint with the book, it’s that Haruka’s storyline is brought in a bit late, I wish we had an equal amount of all three women/girls!

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All three narratives are compelling and well fleshed out, but Mei’s was my favourite. Footman perfectly captures the intensity of the relationships between teenage girls, as well as the general assault course that is teenage-girldom. She depicts how quickly best friendships can sour, subject to the often cruel whims of girls in a hurry to grow up. The competitiveness that can spring up, and of course everything heightened for Meiko who is grappling with feelings for her best friend Fran. It’s through Meiko that Footman also explores the particularly insidious brand of British racism - couched in politeness which does nothing to dull its barbs.

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A lot of difficult subjects, including rape and self-harm, are tackled within Mongrel, but Footman gives all of her characters space to grieve and heal.

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This is such an assured debut, so well plotted and the connections are revealed at a perfect pace. I can’t wait to see what she comes out with next!

I anticipated falling head over heels with this book, following a queer content moderator for an unnamed giant tech corporation, but I think it suffered from my expectations being too high. That, and the fact it felt a bit too short to be fully developed. 

I thought more of the focus would be on Kayleigh’s work and its effect on her mental state, but instead most of the focus is on a relationship she developed while working for this company. Initially I felt like Bervoets more explored the effect of viewing such graphic, shocking and misleading content on the minor characters than on Kayleigh. But then when I read some more reviews and sat with it for a while, I realised Kayleigh was just as messed up by her work - if not more so. I have to agree that the ending was ?? And ultimately the book just needed to be longer to properly grapple with the content. 

I can’t fault the translation by Emma Rault, it reads super smoothly. 

This collection of essays and passages from an unfinished novel was brilliant but ultimately left me mourning for what So could have written had he not died of an accidental overdose aged 28. Any loss so young is a tragedy, and So had so much to offer as a writer. He was insightful, cutting, funny, writing from the perspective of a queer Cambodian-American man. I have no doubt that if ‘Straight Through Cambo Town’ had been finished and published, it would be making various prize lists and would surely be on many people’s (including mine) favourites of the year lists. 

The fiction passages from his unfinished novel were by far my favourite parts of this hybrid collection. It focused on three cousins who inherited their grandmother’s illegitimate loan shark business, dealing with sexuality, ambition, parental expectations, immigration, and so much more. It was hilarious, touching, insightful. The narrator was great too, and it just felt so *easy* in that, nothing felt shoehorned in or overwritten. Just utterly engaging. 

But the essays were also a good bunch! I enjoyed reading his thoughts on Crazy Rich Asians, Queer Eye, and then there was a devastating essay dedicated to a friend who died by suicide. Other reviews have mentioned this, but it’s heartbreaking to read this in light of So’s own (accidental) death so young. A few of the shorter essays were a tad forgettable, not on the same level as his fiction. 

Looking forward to reading Afterparties once I’m released from Scribd (Everand) jail!

Had this one on my radar for a couple of years now, finally got around to it and regret putting it off for so long! Elliott has so much to say about living with family with mental health issues, dealing with your own mental health issues, abuse and trauma, colonialism in the past and its ongoing effects today. She toes that line between the personal and political essay/memoir collection perfectly!

I wrote scattered thoughts about the essays that resonated with me the most, so here they are except I didn’t note down the essay titles 😅

Would highly recommend this collection!