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In Passing, Larsen presents two childhood friends reunited after years of separation, during which they have come to approach their race in wildly divergent ways. While Irene has settled into the life of a doctor's wife and socialite in Harlem, surrounded by a community of other black people, Clare presents herself as white and has married a white man, keeping her background a secret from him.
Larsen is an astute observer of social dynamics, from the ruthlessness of women appraising one another over tea, to the voyeurism of white people consuming and profiting from black culture, and she describes these vividly and with great wit. People tend to talk about how Passing tackles race, but they don't often highlight the fact that it's fun to read.
Some readers/critics also miss another aspect of the book: the thread of gay subtext that runs throughout the plot and stitches together every interaction between Irene and Clare. Irene is clearly as taken with Clare's beauty as she is threatened by it, and without spoiling the plot too much, I'll say that I think that her feelings of being threatened are a projection of her own desire for Clare. I recognized much of Irene's preoccupation with Clare mingled with resentment of her because I've felt similarly about women when I was in the closet. Sometimes it's feels easier and safer to decide to hate someone to whom you are attracted, because it insulates you from your real feelings and from the possibility of having to act upon them.
Irene's husband, Brian, also strikes me as being a closeted gay man. He and Irene share neither a bedroom nor an acknowledgement of Clare's attractiveness, and his restlessness (seen in his desire to move to Brazil, apparently more permissive than the US both in terms of race and sexuality) and his dissatisfaction (he bitterly describes sex as a joke) read as evidence of suppressed homosexual desire.
Taken this way, Larsen examines passing not only in terms of race (passing for white), but in terms of sexual orientation (passing for straight).
In terms of race, Larsen acknowledges and plays with stratification not only between black and white, but within the black community. Her characters inhabit various positions depending on how light or dark they are, and respond to how they are racialized in different ways. So much depends upon context; for example, Irene is perceived as white in the context of Clare's racist husband's home, sitting alongside Clare, but the same person perceives Irene as black when he sees her walking arm-in-arm with her darker-skinned friend. This mutability of categorization highlights emphasizes that race is socially constructed.
Even so, Irene becomes increasingly torn between her loyalties to Clare as a friend and her loyalties to her race, which I read as the social order to which she belongs and the connections that she has cultivated. Clare has divorced herself from such a community, but desires proximity to black culture, which she accesses with increasing frequency through Irene's home and friend group. It was unclear to me if her motivations are fully articulated. There is some implication that she is acting out of shallow curiosity or a voyeurism similar to that of white visitors, but I also think it's uncharitable to assume that anyone in a situation of hiding their history and background in favor of moving through an assumed culture would not long for moments of authenticity, despite the benefits conferred upon them in exchange for rejecting their original culture. Regardless of her motivations, Clare's actions do endanger both Irene and herself, resulting in a sudden and tragic conclusion (though not the one I was expecting).
I have mixed feelings about that conclusion. While I appreciate the subversion of expectation--what I saw coming would have been pretty stereotypical--it does conveniently absolve Larsen from resolving some plot threads.
Read with my girlfriend (whose perspectives, as a black woman who is often perceived as white, I'm interested in hearing) in preparation for watching the upcoming film adaptation.
Larsen is an astute observer of social dynamics, from the ruthlessness of women appraising one another over tea, to the voyeurism of white people consuming and profiting from black culture, and she describes these vividly and with great wit. People tend to talk about how Passing tackles race, but they don't often highlight the fact that it's fun to read.
Some readers/critics also miss another aspect of the book: the thread of gay subtext that runs throughout the plot and stitches together every interaction between Irene and Clare. Irene is clearly as taken with Clare's beauty as she is threatened by it, and without spoiling the plot too much, I'll say that I think that her feelings of being threatened are a projection of her own desire for Clare. I recognized much of Irene's preoccupation with Clare mingled with resentment of her because I've felt similarly about women when I was in the closet. Sometimes it's feels easier and safer to decide to hate someone to whom you are attracted, because it insulates you from your real feelings and from the possibility of having to act upon them.
Irene's husband, Brian, also strikes me as being a closeted gay man. He and Irene share neither a bedroom nor an acknowledgement of Clare's attractiveness, and his restlessness (seen in his desire to move to Brazil, apparently more permissive than the US both in terms of race and sexuality) and his dissatisfaction (he bitterly describes sex as a joke) read as evidence of suppressed homosexual desire.
Taken this way, Larsen examines passing not only in terms of race (passing for white), but in terms of sexual orientation (passing for straight).
In terms of race, Larsen acknowledges and plays with stratification not only between black and white, but within the black community. Her characters inhabit various positions depending on how light or dark they are, and respond to how they are racialized in different ways. So much depends upon context; for example, Irene is perceived as white in the context of Clare's racist husband's home, sitting alongside Clare, but the same person perceives Irene as black when he sees her walking arm-in-arm with her darker-skinned friend. This mutability of categorization highlights emphasizes that race is socially constructed.
Even so, Irene becomes increasingly torn between her loyalties to Clare as a friend and her loyalties to her race, which I read as the social order to which she belongs and the connections that she has cultivated. Clare has divorced herself from such a community, but desires proximity to black culture, which she accesses with increasing frequency through Irene's home and friend group. It was unclear to me if her motivations are fully articulated. There is some implication that she is acting out of shallow curiosity or a voyeurism similar to that of white visitors, but I also think it's uncharitable to assume that anyone in a situation of hiding their history and background in favor of moving through an assumed culture would not long for moments of authenticity, despite the benefits conferred upon them in exchange for rejecting their original culture. Regardless of her motivations, Clare's actions do endanger both Irene and herself, resulting in a sudden and tragic conclusion (though not the one I was expecting).
I have mixed feelings about that conclusion. While I appreciate the subversion of expectation--what I saw coming would have been pretty stereotypical--it does conveniently absolve Larsen from resolving some plot threads.
Read with my girlfriend (whose perspectives, as a black woman who is often perceived as white, I'm interested in hearing) in preparation for watching the upcoming film adaptation.
Whipping Girl had been on my radar for a few years, but I'm kind of glad that my procrastination led me to reading it alongside my partner and benefiting from her perspective along the way. (I will never learn my lesson about not letting books languish for years until the universe stops rewarding this bad behavior.)
While Serano's stance on representation in art/media and her misuse of the word "class" (when "status" would be a more accurate term) grated on me (and my partner), I think Whipping Girl is a valuable book. It covers some basic trans terminology and concepts, dismantles misconceptions about trans women, and analyzes the way society denigrates femininity and how this feeds into the sexism trans women face. It's not the kind of book that I could hand to, say, my conservative parents and expect them to get much out of it; it's not a book that coddles the reader. But I do think that cis people who care about trans rights and consider themselves to be allies should read it. A lot of trans narratives that we consume tend to follow the same format, hitting the same beats over and over again. Reading theory like Whipping Girl provides deeper understanding and more nuance.
If that sounds too dry, rest assured that Serano writes in an engaging and sometimes thrillingly snarky style. And if, like me, you enjoy feeling righteously angry about TERFs in an "I need to sword fight someone right now" kind of way, then you'll find plenty of rage fodder here! (Seriously, what is even the point of me being a lesbian if I don't have a TERF-fighting sword?)
While Serano's stance on representation in art/media and her misuse of the word "class" (when "status" would be a more accurate term) grated on me (and my partner), I think Whipping Girl is a valuable book. It covers some basic trans terminology and concepts, dismantles misconceptions about trans women, and analyzes the way society denigrates femininity and how this feeds into the sexism trans women face. It's not the kind of book that I could hand to, say, my conservative parents and expect them to get much out of it; it's not a book that coddles the reader. But I do think that cis people who care about trans rights and consider themselves to be allies should read it. A lot of trans narratives that we consume tend to follow the same format, hitting the same beats over and over again. Reading theory like Whipping Girl provides deeper understanding and more nuance.
If that sounds too dry, rest assured that Serano writes in an engaging and sometimes thrillingly snarky style. And if, like me, you enjoy feeling righteously angry about TERFs in an "I need to sword fight someone right now" kind of way, then you'll find plenty of rage fodder here! (Seriously, what is even the point of me being a lesbian if I don't have a TERF-fighting sword?)
Used as my classic in translation for the Back to the Classics Challenge.
Oh, Albert Camus. After rediscovering (and obsessing over) Virginia Woolf, I decided to revisit Camus. I had only read The Stranger, and that when I was about 16, so I was due a revisit. What I discovered? That Camus is infinitely better when you're an adult and capable of actually understanding what he's doing. Imagine that!
The Plague is a cheery little novel about a city overtaken by the plague. As the death toll rises, the city is quarantined, and its residents have to find ways to cope with both the disease itself and the psychological effects of isolation. Eventually a kind of plague-time fraternity arises around Dr. Rieux, who was my favorite character and the one with whom I could relate most strongly. I found his struggle to find the right balance between protocol and humanity fascinating.
Of the philosophical novels I've read so far, The Plague is by far my favorite because it succeeds where some philosophical novels fail: It actually functions as a novel! The characters do more than serve as cardboard props that carry out the author's ideas! The plot is entertaining! Which of course makes perfect sense, coming from athletic, sunny Camus. His philosophy contains plenty of seriousness and opportunity for despair, but he also knew how to have fun.
Oh, Albert Camus. After rediscovering (and obsessing over) Virginia Woolf, I decided to revisit Camus. I had only read The Stranger, and that when I was about 16, so I was due a revisit. What I discovered? That Camus is infinitely better when you're an adult and capable of actually understanding what he's doing. Imagine that!
The Plague is a cheery little novel about a city overtaken by the plague. As the death toll rises, the city is quarantined, and its residents have to find ways to cope with both the disease itself and the psychological effects of isolation. Eventually a kind of plague-time fraternity arises around Dr. Rieux, who was my favorite character and the one with whom I could relate most strongly. I found his struggle to find the right balance between protocol and humanity fascinating.
Of the philosophical novels I've read so far, The Plague is by far my favorite because it succeeds where some philosophical novels fail: It actually functions as a novel! The characters do more than serve as cardboard props that carry out the author's ideas! The plot is entertaining! Which of course makes perfect sense, coming from athletic, sunny Camus. His philosophy contains plenty of seriousness and opportunity for despair, but he also knew how to have fun.
I love the way that Schulman writes, the way that she uses her personal experience to motivate her writing and add humanity and anger, and the momentum it gives her prose. Seriously, I don't remember the last time I sank into a nonfiction book in quite this way. She has great skill with choosing the most vivid quotes, interview excerpts, and anecdotes to accompany her analysis.
I was born in 1988, so the AIDS crisis is not something that was part of my consciousness beyond what I absorbed through school, art and literature, and my mother's stories of working as a nurse who treated a patient with AIDS. She framed his anger much differently than Schulman frames the justified anger of those who suffered and died or watched their friends and loved ones do so, under the shadow of official denial and neglect. I thought of him, whose name and face I don't know, multiple times during my reading. Where was his family? Did he leave behind a partner who lost a home in the wake of already devastating grief?
Schulman provides (to me) eye-opening coverage of how AIDS irrevocably changed communities not only through the deaths themselves, but in their aftermath: tenants evicted from apartments they had shared with partners, rents jacked so high that only wealthy outsiders could afford them, the diversity of neighborhoods flattened and whitened. And she makes a convincing argument for how this gentrification has rippled into other aspects of queer culture, wherein only the most respectable to mainstream (read: conservative and heterosexual) culture have access to acceptance, platforms, and power. You can see this pretty clearly in a lot of the queer art that's being produced; I certainly see it in books (the art form I interact with most frequently as a writer, reader, and librarian), how authors will be lauded and their books praised if they are palatable enough. You see it when you walk into a bookstore and find their LGBTQ+ section way in the back and oddly devoid of the literary fiction by queer authors, which hides in other, more respectable sections of the store. As a lesbian writer, I've thought about what kinds of stories I want to tell, and what compromises they might have to make in order to find an audience, and Schulman talks about those kinds of compromises.
However, I'm struggling with what comes across, toward the end of the book, as Schulman's disdain for marriage and lesbian motherhood. I absolutely see her point that marriage and motherhood can function as mechanisms to gain respectability, and I am critical of conditional tolerance by the dominant culture that's predicated on respectability. Hell, I've dealt enough with comp het and people asking invasive questions about my reproductive plans to know that marriage and motherhood as institutions can be used as sticks to beat people into submission and normalcy. But I'm also a lesbian who wants to have a wife and a kid, to love and parent in defiance of heteronormativity, and to have legal protections for my family while I do so. I rankle at the idea that these desires are just some bid at accessing power, a shameful diminishment of my creative or intellectual potential, a negation of my queerness, or evidence that I regard marriage equality as the end of the struggle for queer liberation.
I was born in 1988, so the AIDS crisis is not something that was part of my consciousness beyond what I absorbed through school, art and literature, and my mother's stories of working as a nurse who treated a patient with AIDS. She framed his anger much differently than Schulman frames the justified anger of those who suffered and died or watched their friends and loved ones do so, under the shadow of official denial and neglect. I thought of him, whose name and face I don't know, multiple times during my reading. Where was his family? Did he leave behind a partner who lost a home in the wake of already devastating grief?
Schulman provides (to me) eye-opening coverage of how AIDS irrevocably changed communities not only through the deaths themselves, but in their aftermath: tenants evicted from apartments they had shared with partners, rents jacked so high that only wealthy outsiders could afford them, the diversity of neighborhoods flattened and whitened. And she makes a convincing argument for how this gentrification has rippled into other aspects of queer culture, wherein only the most respectable to mainstream (read: conservative and heterosexual) culture have access to acceptance, platforms, and power. You can see this pretty clearly in a lot of the queer art that's being produced; I certainly see it in books (the art form I interact with most frequently as a writer, reader, and librarian), how authors will be lauded and their books praised if they are palatable enough. You see it when you walk into a bookstore and find their LGBTQ+ section way in the back and oddly devoid of the literary fiction by queer authors, which hides in other, more respectable sections of the store. As a lesbian writer, I've thought about what kinds of stories I want to tell, and what compromises they might have to make in order to find an audience, and Schulman talks about those kinds of compromises.
However, I'm struggling with what comes across, toward the end of the book, as Schulman's disdain for marriage and lesbian motherhood. I absolutely see her point that marriage and motherhood can function as mechanisms to gain respectability, and I am critical of conditional tolerance by the dominant culture that's predicated on respectability. Hell, I've dealt enough with comp het and people asking invasive questions about my reproductive plans to know that marriage and motherhood as institutions can be used as sticks to beat people into submission and normalcy. But I'm also a lesbian who wants to have a wife and a kid, to love and parent in defiance of heteronormativity, and to have legal protections for my family while I do so. I rankle at the idea that these desires are just some bid at accessing power, a shameful diminishment of my creative or intellectual potential, a negation of my queerness, or evidence that I regard marriage equality as the end of the struggle for queer liberation.
For whatever reason, Fullmetal Alchemist slipped through the cracks back in high school, my first foray into manga and the most logical time for me to have read it. (I'm going to blame not having much money to buy manga combined with the library not having as robust a graphic novel collection back then.) But as I find myself doing in multiple domains of my life, I'm now making up for lost time, and reading it on my girlfriend's recommendation.
This first volume provides an episodic crash course to the world, the characters, and to the rules of alchemy as it exists in this universe. The pieces presented here are incomplete, but promising, which is kind of all you could hope for in the introductory volume of a long series. Great art style and comedic timing, as well.
This first volume provides an episodic crash course to the world, the characters, and to the rules of alchemy as it exists in this universe. The pieces presented here are incomplete, but promising, which is kind of all you could hope for in the introductory volume of a long series. Great art style and comedic timing, as well.
Oh, so this series is going to hurt me, I guess.
Really liked this one, which introduces more characters and includes more worldbuilding, giving the reader some idea of what state alchemists do and why some people have compelling reasons to hate them. I already found the elements of moral ambiguity interesting, because I like reading about characters with troubled pasts and some chaotic good tendencies, and the context of the civil war adds more moral gray area and conflict.
Also, the subplot with Nina and Alexander is horrible and executed so well. I love/hate when I'm enjoying characters and realize that something bad is going to happen to them, but I've been lulled by the author and they've pulled me in too deep to back out.
Really liked this one, which introduces more characters and includes more worldbuilding, giving the reader some idea of what state alchemists do and why some people have compelling reasons to hate them. I already found the elements of moral ambiguity interesting, because I like reading about characters with troubled pasts and some chaotic good tendencies, and the context of the civil war adds more moral gray area and conflict.
Also, the subplot with Nina and Alexander is horrible and executed so well. I love/hate when I'm enjoying characters and realize that something bad is going to happen to them, but I've been lulled by the author and they've pulled me in too deep to back out.
This volume picks up several years after Griffin and Sabine's disappearance, resuming the story with the rather odd postcard addressed to Matthew. More characters are introduced, adding to the tapestry of penmanship and stationery and countries both real and imaginary that make up this series. I can't say that I fully understand everything that's happening--something to do with alchemy, and telepathy, and a sinister figure--but I love it, anyway, in the pure and trusting way that one loves something that defies full comprehension. (Don't most things worth loving do?)
There's so much pleasure in reading this series, in opening each envelope and reaching back in for something you missed (a nude photograph) or being surprised when something tumbles out of the folds of the letter in your hand (a ticket). It's ergodic lite: If House of Leaves is a domme with her high-heeled boot on your neck, then Griffin and Sabine is a bratty bottom who's going to pout and sass but ultimately let you have your way with her. Which is fine by me... I find brats charming.
There's so much pleasure in reading this series, in opening each envelope and reaching back in for something you missed (a nude photograph) or being surprised when something tumbles out of the folds of the letter in your hand (a ticket). It's ergodic lite: If House of Leaves is a domme with her high-heeled boot on your neck, then Griffin and Sabine is a bratty bottom who's going to pout and sass but ultimately let you have your way with her. Which is fine by me... I find brats charming.
I fell in love with Sabine as I read her letters, and I wish I had checked out the rest of the series before the winter storm (which has afforded me ample reading time and closed the library) hit. Though the text is brief, it is immersive, due to the very physical epistolary style: the letters are not printed on the pages, but enclosed in envelopes, giving some illusion that you’re handling actual correspondence.
(Read as part of my continued exploration of ergodic literature.)
(Read as part of my continued exploration of ergodic literature.)