What a time for this book, to sit at the top of the bestseller list, for Oprah and Obama to put it on their book club/summer reading lists. The is the history of America - a foundation that we'd rather forget, because for all that we are "the land of the free," this blight on our country haunts us still today. And though we all, perhaps, know of it, the importance of being reminded of what slavery was, the horrors it held and the reality of the long reaching repercussions that still live in our collective memory today (despite myriad efforts to pretend otherwise). We read about these events in school, objectively understand them, but there is something about a subjective telling, a story like Cora's, that it should be our obligation to witness. We are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past, are doing so right now, when we refuse to recognize and learn from them. So this book, this story, this telling - it is so important. And the author does a beautiful job of describing the pain, the guilt, the anger, the tragedy - the obvious and the less so. From daily plantation life to the fear of running, the loss along the way, the paranoia of "free" life, the societal dismissal juxtaposed with a false sense of security, the "choices" (or really lack thereof), the advantages still taken, and most of all, the likelihood that no matter how long you are free or how far you run, you'll never escape these things, not really. He minutely details everything Cora must endure as a symbol, representative of what an entire people endured. And he does so with such wit - a little magical realism thrown in with the actual train running on the underground railroad and an adventure of similar proportions to what Gulliver faced on his travels. A literary work both graceful and raw. And a history that we should not delegate to the past because to do so would be to the detriment of our best future: "The Great War had always been between the white and the black. It always would be."

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

Knowing what this book was about, I was super nervous about reading it. I was afraid of the intensity of the content. But I still had it tentatively on my TBR, because I had read and really appreciated Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad when I read it a few years ago. (In fact, I event went to see him when he was on tour for it. I dragged my husband because no one else wanted to come with me and he ended up really enjoying himself – Whitehead is an amazing speaker.) And because honoring the real-life experiences behind this novel, by stepping up and reading about and recognizing them, is important and necessary. When I saw that Whitehead won the Pulitzer for it (his second!), for this book, I knew it was time.

The Nickel Boys is fiction, but it’s based on the true story of the Dozier School for Boys in Marianna, Florida. In Whitehead’s novel, Elwood Curtis is a young black boy in the Jim Crow South, a senior in high school getting ready to start colleges at a local community college. But when he is “caught” in the wrong place, he is sentenced to time at a juvenile reformatory called Nickel Academy. Although Nickel is cast as a place where “misguided” boys received moral training to learn to be “honorable and honest mon,” it is, in reality, nothing of the sort. Elwood daily faces what is tantamount to torture, mentally, emotionally, verbally and physically. In this environment, Elwood tries to focus on what he needs to do to get out, keeping his gaze on the future, but its nearly impossible under the circumstances. When a decision made by Elwood and his more cynical Nickel friend, Turner, leads to critical moment, they are forced to choose between impossible choices: stay and definitely die (i.e. – be murdered) or run and probably die (i.e. – be murdered), but stand a marginal chance at escape.

Whitehead is just SUCH a storyteller. From the very first page, Elwood’s character was vivid and clear, and the unfolding of his tragic and achingly unjust situation is just so easily compelling. Bear in mind, I mean easily as in, I couldn’t stop turning pages because I was sucked in, not easily as in, the topics and plot were easy to read. Oh no. This is a story that should, and does, weigh heavily. A story that is, as it should be, so hard to read. In fact, this book will freeze your blood and have it boiling in rage all at the same time. The system(s) that created the setting and opportunity for this story are reprehensible in terms I actually don’t have. The knowledge of what happened at this school, the “look the other way” attitude, the misuse of so many resources and lives ran deep and there has never been a real reckoning for that. ALL those children’s lives, generations of them, f*cked up beyond recognition and/or lost in painful and horrible ways is almost too much to think about. What they really needed was systemic support, to help them through and past what they were born with, and that was nowhere to be found. It's a lot, a lot to think about, a lot to handle, a lot to consider. And it should be a more than just a reading experience, but a prompt to address similar systemic issues that are still around, present, very active in the world today. Just because this school has closed, does not mean these structural inequalities, transgressions, mistreatment are not alive and well in many forms – just take a look at the way police brutality against minority (especially black) bodies is an ever-present reality. Unacceptable.

There are a few other things I want to mention, as far as this novel in particular is concerned, now that I’ve (at least minimally) addressed the larger importance its existence plays. Whitehead walked an incredibly difficult line with his writing, to make the violence against these black boys’ bodies absolutely un-missable, yet never voyeuristic. It was masterfully handled. I liked the inclusions of the flash forwards included throughout the novel, as they provided the reader a chance to see the myriad ways the Nickel experience affected all the boys so effectively and irreversibly. The transitions in chronology sometimes felt a bit jarring, it took me a moment to readjust to when we were/how far out from Nickel we were, but perhaps that’s because I listened to the audiobook – maybe they were better marked in the physical book. The “twist” at the end is just one more punch to the gut, just like this whole book. It almost felt inevitable, that an ending like that was the way things would fall out. And getting me to that place as a reader in such a short time is a terrifying (as far as the extrapolation of what one can “get used to” to a real-life way, the normalization of that feeling of defeat and inability to change anything) is an impressive literary feat. Of note, that’s not to say I saw it coming specifically, as I definitely did not. Relatedly, the plot is smooth and yes, there is a twist, but it’s fairly simple, as plots go. The power of this novel is in the story it’s telling, not the luxurious language or fancy plot devices it uses.

Finally, I think it’s important to point out that I really appreciated the glancing, but realistic views at the Civil Rights Movement. It’s a time that is incredibly glorified in history classes around the country. And although the references during this novel were brief, because they represent Elwood’s limited interactions with it, they still painted a more realistic picture of the actual challenges, threats and personal dangers that the Freedom Fighters faced. The rights they fought for did not come quickly or easily or smoothly or without trauma and loss. In Elwood’s case, the look we get at him as an individual living under its shadow, and the day to day “choice” for dignity vs safety, is nuanced and tender and one of the most affecting aspects of the book, for me.

Overall, reading this was less like reading a piece of literary fiction and more like reading an enlightening [fictional] expose. Whitehead took a compilation of real people and stories and created a striking and intense version of the horrors of this reality that so many lived, that was swept under the table for so long, in order to bring it to the attention of the nation. This was an incredibly harrowing reading experience, but one that I feel was important to go through, because it is nothing compared to the people that actually lived it. Heartbreaking.

“...but as it has always been with Nickel, no one believed them until someone else said it.”

“He kept his head down, and was rewarded, just like they wanted.”

“You teach what you’re taught.”

“The country was big, and its appetite for prejudice and depredation limitless. How could they keep up with a host of injustices big and small? [...] This was one place, but if there was one, there were hundreds...”

“It was not enough to survive, you had to live.”

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

I really don’t know where I first heard of this book, but somehow I knew, when I saw it on the used book shelf at my local indie bookstore, that it was the first novel by a Thai woman to appear internationally in English translation. These are the pluses and minuses of being on #bookstagram. I knew that, which is awesome, but I don’t remember who to thank for the knowledge. I feel like I should slow down my scrolling. Anyways, needless to say, I bought it immediately.

This short novel opens with five-year-old Kampol being told to “wait” by a father who doesn’t come back. Without parents, Kampol is basically adopted by the families that live in his run-down apartment building community and throughout this book, we are given glimpses into their lives and Kampol’s experiences learning and growing up under those circumstances.

My goodness…after just the prologue I was enthralled by the words. So, credit both to Pimwana and the translator, Mui Poopoksakul, for that brilliance. It’s mesmerizing. And the structure of the novel, vignettes that build a picture of a life and a setting, only adds to that feeling. The sections are so short that you cannot help but want to read just one more. And each is so precise and descriptive, giving poignant snapshots of the little moments that make a life. There is no plot, per se, and yet Pimwana brings a deep soul to these moments that would normally be overlooked that it just doesn’t matter. The reader experiences fads in children’s toys, neighborhood drama, flea markets, weddings, children’s “get rich quick” schemes, trips to the carnival and traveling performances, the particular loneliness of youth, and more. And since it’s all presented through the eyes of a child, it’s almost unnoticeable that, by the end, the you’re gifted with such a rich portrayal of a culture. Pimwana shows the way communities interact, culture and traditions are observed, social and economic inequalities play out, and all with a quirky and folkish sort of vibe, showcasing the “good and bad” of local Thai culture in a way that just washes over you. The humanity of these characters and their lives is recognizable on every page.

The very first line of this novel is “The mundane has a hard time showing off its quiet allure.” Well, Pimwana proves that while it may be hard, it is totally possible. I know this is a short review for me, but don’t let that fool you. It’s just that I only have so many ways to say that this short novel completely charmed me.

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

This is another one of the “grab everything you’ve had your eye on and can find” library books that I managed to bring home before it closed due to coronavirus. In fact, this is the second time I had checked the particular one out from the library, but I just couldn’t get to it before it was due back last time. So, a small silver lining to this “shelter in place” situation is that there are no due dates and I’m having a chance to really work through so many backlist and library books that I think otherwise would have continued to get passed over. That, plus I’m glad the timing worked out for me to pick this one up during AAPI Heritage Month – the perfect storm.

Grace Park is a sheltered young woman living in LA, working at her parent’s pharmacy and living at home with them. Her biggest issue is her sister’s falling out with their mother two years ago. Shawn Matthews has left the gang days of his youth behind him (as best he can), living a quiet life with a steady job and a happy relationship. But a violent crime throws their paths together and neither is able to stay in the bubble or ne life (respectively) that they had created for themselves. Grace learns shocking information about her mother that changes everything she thought she knew about her, while Shawn is forced to re-face emotions and loss that he’s tried to forget, or at least learn to live with.

This was a fictionalized story based on the murder of Latasha Harlins in 1991 in LA, a contributing event to the LA Riots (along with many others, and myriad other issues of racism, police violence and racial tension). The “story” of the murder, and the resulting sentence (or lack thereof) for the shooter, Soon Ja Du, are recreated throughout this novel is almost identical detail. The majority of the rest of the plot, that of the events between the two families in current day, based around the perspectives of Shawn (the brother of the fictional version of Latasha) and Grace (the daughter of the fictional version of Soon Ja Du) are created from the mind of the author. I thought this was a really creative way to bring focus to the singular event from the years of the LA Riots and to set this novel is a solid ground of reality, which allowed for some intense exploration of difficult themes of interpersonal racism and structural racism. But it also made it possible to do that without overly encroaching upon the personal lives and details of anyone actually involved. On a more personal level, this time period is really a blind spot for me. I was alive in 1991 and 1992, but at 2 or 3 years old, I was too young to know any of this was happening. But when I was in school, it was too recent to be covered in a history class, especially since I was on the other side of the country, so it wasn’t even local “history” that might have made it into a curriculum. So, I have to say, this novel sparked a lot of Google-ing for more context and information. Which I appreciate deeply; the opportunity to address my personal blinds spots is a major reason that I read. In addition to that, this whole novel presented racial tension through a lens I’ve never read before (Asian and Black), nor, I have to be honest, I’d ever much considered or been aware of. Again, I appreciate the chance to address that blind spot.

As basic review topics go, I feel that I must comment briefly on the writing and plot. Both were fantastic. There was a flow to the writing that made it easy to move through and very compelling. Plus, the back and forth perspectives of Grace and Shawn, with occasional “flashback” chapters that giving insight into the events of 1991 that led to this current day conflict, kept things moving as well. And the plot itself, while not particularly difficult to guess (I “figured it out” pretty early on and I’m not usually that great at guessing plot directions), unfolded in a well-paced way that kept me invested and pulled me along. I wanted to keep reading to see how the characters would act and react, no matter that I already knew major plot points. Overall, this is a book that reads very quickly. One note here: it may not be for everyone, but I was happy with where/how this novel ended. There are no easy fixes to the questions this book brings up (discussed further below), though some are morally clearer/more imperative that others, for sure. And though the state of the country right now makes me guess (in a negative way)what would likely happen next, where blame would fall/be taken out, the way the books ends leaves room for hope that some sort of “end” could be found for these violent and unfair cycles, that a better and fairer future is possible.

And last, I’d like to discuss what I felt like was the “meat” of this novel: the questions it raises and explores. This novel brings up quite a few very difficult and complex questions, none of which have any good or clear answers. Grace and her sister struggle with the concept of “hating the sin, loving the sinner” and at what point that philosophy makes you blinded or complicit. And further than that, Grace deals quite a bit with the issue of “it’s not personal until it is” or until it’s too late. The violent way the bubble she lives in is popped is terrible, but makes her (and the reader) consider how fair it was that she was able to live in that bubble in the first place. There was a quite a bit of time spent exploring the complex overlay of circumstance and decision, that intersection of environment and personal responsibility that is the cornerstone of many “debates” about structural inequalities. And, bearing in mind this is just my opinion of how I read/interpreted it, Cha did a wonderful job presenting it in a balanced and non-judgemental way. And last, a question that I have seen asked/challenged a lot in recent reads (most notably, Chanel Miller’s memoir Know My Name), why is it that a victim must be above reproach, be “going somewhere great” or somehow be greater/more than a normal, average person in order for their life/loss to be tragic and important? A person’s “mundane” place in daily life should be enough worth to make their life important, their loss a tragedy. That question is one that’s been on my mind lately, and it touched me, through Cha’s writing and portrayal in a big way.

I was just entranced by this novel. There was so much complex emotional, reactionary, magnificently realistically flawed humanity in these characters and Cha did a wonderful job bringing them to life, infusing that humanity into stories and histories that so easily are written away with generalizations and the mass forgetting that comes with the passing of time. And she did it all while writing a captivating page-turner. Although it’s been almost 30 years since the 1991 events in LA that inspired this novel, the story is still achingly familiar on a horribly consistent basis and this perspective is such an important one to bring to/keep in the public gaze, to remind everyone that things haven’t changed nearly as much as they should and must.

“If this was fire, they were flame. They were part of it, safe within the blaze.”

“She felt guilty about it, but she couldn’t force herself to keep caring about this boy she’d never met, not with any passion, not when it seemed like the rest of the world was moving on.”

“...an ordinary girl who meant the world to him.”

“...he hated that perfection was what the world required to mourn her.”

“...they’d built their house on sand, and the rain had come down and the waters risen, the cold swallow of the real world.”

“Maybe this was just how the world worked: people forgot awful truths all the time, or at least they forgot to remember.”

“His innocence didn’t protect him. He couldn’t choose his way to a life without trouble.”

“It was enough to make him wonder why anyone bothered – kids were gonna be kids, and no matter what you did, some would get in trouble; some would get arrested; some would die. He knew the answer, of course. You bothered because you had no choice. There was no love without the bothering.”

“This city of good feeling, of tolerance and progress and loving thy neighbor, was also a city that shunned and starved and killed its own. No wonder, was it, that it huffed and heaved, ready to blow. Because the city was human, and humans could only take so much.”

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

I have wanted to read this for so long! There’re so many books I say that about, but this is one I knew right away I wanted to read. I think the only Dominican author I’ve read is Julia Alvarez (In the Time of the Butterflies) and while I thought it was amazing, it was also years ago. Oh! And how can I forget Elizabeth Acevedo?! Both The Poet X and With the Fire On High are phenomenal! Anyways, I also have truly have enjoyed all the Women’s Prize books I’ve read over the years, so being on the shortlist for that definitely just increased my interest. I had to wait extra time to get the audiobook from the library, since they’re all closed to borrowing physical books right now, but it was worth the wait.

When Ana Canción is just fifteen, she marries Juan Ruiz, a man twice her age and whom she has no feelings for, because he offers to take her to America…and with that, there is a promise that the rest of her family can follow one day. Juan takes Ana to 1960s NYC, where, with no friends, no true family and no language, Ana is forced to spend all her days alone in their small apartment in Washington Heights. Juan fails to follow through on most of his promises, like allowing her to go to school or sending money back to her family, and as time goes his violence and her loneliness lead her to try to escape back to the Dominican Republic. But Juan’s brother, Cesar, convinces her to stay. And when Juan returns to the DR for “business” in the face of the political turmoil there, Ana finally has a chance to get out, explore the city, learn English, make some money of her own, and find a relationship that makes her happier... But with the promise of Juan’s return on the horizon Ana faces yet another decision between her own happiness and her family’s stability.

I’m going to start with the basic things. I thoroughly enjoyed reading (listening to) this book. The story itself was fantastic. Ana was such a compelling character to follow. She was so young, so cut off, so strongly pushed into situations that were against her own wants/needs/health for cultural and familial reasons that are completely out of her control. But watching her grow into her own, despite and through the way being powerless and unable to communicate affected her so strongly, was wonderful and inspiring. The story left me full of hope and expectation for her future, that I hope she was (will be?) able to fully experience. I liked that the main characters other than Ana (because of course she was fleshed-out, as our protagonist), especially Juan and Cesar, but also Ana’s mother, at the end, were…fluid. They were presented with legitimate complexities, neither all good nor all bad, and were allowed to change as they underwent experiences that would, for anyone, cause changes. I don’t always see that kind of completeness in the flaws of humanity. And while some, like Juan’s violence, aren’t and shouldn’t be forgivable, there are others like Ana’s mother’s judgement and Cesar’s many women, that have a lot more grey-ness under the circumstances. Anyways, the point is, I appreciated the nuances in who they were as people. The writing itself was very solid, nothing spectacular, but it brought me through the story with good pacing, solid dialogue and overall smoothness. There were a couple devices that were used, like the letters, the “husband/wife” scene-setting sections, and the animal references, that came across a little weirdly. Maybe that was because I was listening and couldn’t see how they were presented stylistically in the physical book, but even if not, they were never enough to pull me out of the story, they were just a little strange sometimes.

There were a number of recognizable themes in this novel as in many novels of the immigrant experience, but the primary one being that America is seen as a proverbial “land of plenty” where anyone with a work ethic can achieve big things. But the reality, in general and especially for those with darker skin and/or without documentation, is that that is an empty promise. A myth that is thrown into even starker relief now than if I had read this months ago. (And that is my privilege speaking loudly, privilege I’m working to better recognize and leverage.) But we see, with Ana arriving in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement, that her experiences mirror today’s, still: the overt and structural racism, police brutality, the need for protests and riots to incite change, and more. Reading this against the backdrop of the terribly necessary groundswell of the #blacklivesmatter movement in the US and, now, also internationally, was really an important experience. I do not read too much set in the 1960s, so this is a time period I have only “learned about” in history classes…which I haven’t taken since high school and, for many reasons, cannot be trusted to have given me the full picture (which I have learned again and again in my reading). But anyways, seeing the Civil Rights Movement and experiences of the time period from Ana’s perspective (that of a newcomer to the country who didn’t fully know what was going on, but nonetheless experienced it, as an Afro-Latinx person) was a new experience for me, which as I’ve repeatedly said, is a part of reading that I absolutely love. In addition to that, it’s a perspective that for many reasons, of language and “legality,” is silenced. And, yet again, this book is an example of white-washed history, news, and over-stepped international involvement. I got more of this social justice and voicing-the -voiceless story—telling than I was expecting from this novel and I loved that.

I am walking away from this book wanting Ana’s potential to be able to have been fully recognized in the US. And while she’s fictional, so of course I’ll never know, there are so many similar real-life examples of how it wouldn’t have been. And reading Ana’s hopefulness and continued big dreams for her future, even against all the odds (those she knew of and those she couldn’t have imagined), just deepened the deep ache I had as a reader when I was done. It’s a unique mix of hope and sorrow that I don’t know how to describe, but is very affecting.

Listening to the author’s interview with the narrator at the end, I want to just add a few notes. First, I love that this was based on the author’s mother’s story – what a heart-filling tribute. In addition, her thoughts on literature as a force for social change, by opening minds to other perspectives and increasing empathy, is so important. I have long felt that reading is an antidote for many forms of ignorance, not just that of literal facts/information; it has been for me personally. Every book I read adds something…from this interview, and hearing Cruz talk about how the ability to fall in love is a privilege, struck me deeply. It's the first time I’ve considered that as a concept and it’s heartbreaking. So yes – the unique perspective of this book is definitely one that will, I feel, help open minds to social change through literature.

Some quotes that stuck out to me (please note I transcribed these from the audio, so my punctuation may be off):

“What satisfaction I feel to see a Dominican stand up for himself.”

“Their anger makes me nervous, but I understand it. To be angry, and not have the power to control your life. To not feel safe. To depend on a person who reminds you how they can hurt you, even kill you, at their whim. I understand.”

“Men can only perform like men, mama always says, when women are doing everything. We’re invisible little workers so they can puff out their chests.”

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

I’ve been meaning to read Danticat for years and @bookofcinz’s encouragement to just hurry up and do it for her #readcaribbean celebration this year was just the push I needed. I decided to go with this one because it’s the title I had heard of most frequently. Also, I have to be honest, I was totally intrigued by the title and really wanted to find out what it referred to/meant. Yes, I know I could have Googled it, but that is not the point! And I found out in the opening story (but no spoilers from me, you’ll have to read it yourself to find out…I promise it’s worth it).

This collection delves into the recent/contemporary history of Haiti and the myriad, individual ways it affected families and lives (of those who stayed, those who left and those who returned). There are wonderful moments and tastes of Haitian culture and difficult moments of the violence the country and people have seen. And through it all, there is a deep-rooted theme of mother and child (especially daughter) relationships that stood out to me as a connecting thread. In addition, I really enjoyed the few commonalities, like names or events or, that were referenced in other stories. That type of connection, bringing things together in small ways, is a device that I always love reading.
As with all short story collections that I read, here is a short reaction, and likely a pull-quote (or a couple) because the writing is lovely, for each piece:

Children of the Sea ¬– Holy. F*ck. What. An. Opening. This is one of my favorite short stories that I have ever read. Ever. It’s longing and wistful and brutal. I loved the writing back and forth. I loved the two voices speaking to each other and the way it unfolded their story/stories. I loved the imagery of the messages of the butterflies and the memories living in the sea (it brought to mind themes from The Deep, which I also loved). Stunning. “They say behind the mountains are more mountains. Now I know it’s true. I also know there are timeless waters, endless seas, and lots of people in this world whose names don’t matter to anyone but themselves.” “all anyone can hope for is just a tiny bit of love, manman says, like a drop in a cup if you can get it, or a waterfall, a flood, if you can get that too.” “people are just too hopeful, and sometimes hope is the biggest weapon of all to use against us.” “i love you until my hair shivers at the thought of anything happening to you.”

Nineteen Thirty-Seven – This is a beautiful ode to survival of the spirit and the way beliefs and mythology can help maintain that spirit. However, it’s simultaneously a dark spotlight on the depth and breadth of trauma that the spirit has to overcome. This story also sent me down a Google research hole about the 1937 massacre of Haitians on the Haiti/Dominican Republic border on Trujillo’s orders. I knew about Trujillo from a DR perspective, but had never heard of Massacre River (tens of thousands of Haitians were murdered!) or Trujillo’s feelings about/actions towards Haitians before. “Our mothers were the ashes and we were the light. Our mothers were the embers and we were the sparks. Our mothers were the flames and we were the blaze.”

A Wall of Rising Fire – This story created a poignant juxtaposition of the despair and minimal options of a present-day reality with hope for the future and next generation. The device of a boy learning lines for a play about the Haitian Revolution (and another Google research hole for me) that he then recites after the suicide of his father who doesn’t have pride in or hope for the life he’s currently living (centuries later)…that mismatch of the revolutionary lines and the truth of his own life…is haunting. A favorite of mine from this collection for sure. “Pretend that this is the time of miracles and we believed in them.”

Night Women – What women will do for their children, to protect and care for them, especially in the face of extremely limited choices, is a common enough theme in literature. But the way this story is crafted, with the mother using stories of angels visiting in the night, to keep the truth hidden from her son as long as possible…it’s sweet and sad in a quiet way that struck a deep chord. “I want him to forget that we live in a place where nothing lasts.”

Between the Pool and the Gardenias – This one was haunting. Stories about women who long to be mothers and cannot, for whatever reason, are always so affecting. The way the narrator here imagines and expresses her sorrow, projecting life into the corpse of someone else’s child is just heartbreaking. This one was intense. “It’s so easy to love somebody, I tell you, when there’s nothing else around.”

The Missing Peace – A snapshot of aftermath: confusion, loss, violence, looking away, people lost without a trace, questions unanswered and answers unknown. And the pain of those left behind, with a special focus on mothers and daughters and the unique relationships therein. Quite touching. “‘They say a girl becomes a woman when she loses her mother,’ she said. ‘You, child, were born a woman.’”

Seeing Things Simply – Art adds light and hope to every dark place. I always love an ode to art, as this story was. It also included some wonderful insights into a local, historic culture and, similar to the previous story, a layered look at the interactions between local people and tourists, those who stayed versus those who were able to leave, and the differences, the way the distance between them grows. “The sky in all its glory had been there for eons even before she came into the world, and there it would stay with its crashing stars and moody clouds. The sand and its caresses, the conch and its melody would be there forever as well. All that would change would be the faces of the people who would see and touch those things, faces like hers, which was already not as it had been a few years before and which would mature and change in the years to come.”

New York Day Women – Seeing a mother-child relationship through the eyes of a grown child, usually including the disconnect between the parent they grew up with and the way said parent interacts with the greater world, is a unique perspective. And here we also have the added complexities of an immigrant mother with a more “acclimated” child. I loved the snippets back and forth between what this child remembers and what they are now seeing in this quick story. One of my favorite stories of the collection.

Caroline’s Wedding – This was by far the longest story in the collection and it really clearly explored the theme of immigration and the contradictions of longing for the past/nostalgia for a home country and traditions versus the reasons for leaving/hope for a better future. I also really enjoyed the way that the big/special moments, like a wedding in this case, can bring mothers and daughters together even if in so many other ways they have grown apart or are not recognizable to each other. A sweet, and also partially somber, look at female-only family dynamics and the interactions of that with cultural expectations. “These were our bedtime stories. Tales that haunted our parents and made them laugh at the same time. We never understood them until we were fully grown and they became our sole inheritance.” “‘The heart is like a stone,’ she said. ‘We never know what it is in the middle.’” “Even though you are an island girl with one kind of season in your blood, you will make a wife for all seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter.”

Epilogue: Women Like Us – Wow. Just wow. This collection was bookended with two of the best short stories I have ever read. The weight of expectations, and expectations failed, is visceral in the words of this story. Yet the urge to create, the need to write, to tell the stories of one’s (female) ancestors is felt just as strongly. The feeling of the writer behind the words in this piece is spectacular – you can tell this is Danticat’s truth. Also, the general flow of this story was fantastic, the sentences just pulled me along. Amazing. “A thousand women urging you to speak through the blunt tip of your pencil. Kitchen poets, you call them. Ghosts like burnished branches on a flame tree. These women, they asked for your voice so that they could tell your mother in your place that yes, women like you do speak, even if they speak in a tongue that is hard to understand.” “The women in your family have never lost touch with one another. Death is a path we take to meet on the other side. What goddesses have joined, let no one cast asunder. With every step you take, there is an army of women watching over you. We are never any farther than the sweat on your brows or the dust on your toes.” “And this was your testament to the way that these women lived and died and lived again.”

In the Old Days – This additional story, new to the 20th anniversary edition, was stirring and emotional as it explored the impossible decisions between country and family, present responsibilities and hope for a better future for one’s homeland. It really added perspective to the other stories about the history of Haiti and individual experiences of violence and immigration and family that are included in this collection as more of a retrospective angle, like the author of the rest is looking back and adding context because of what she learned as she grew up (at least, that’s how it felt for me).

Overall, this was a very striking collection of stories. It is poetic and full of deep straits of emotion. It explores many shades of suffering, but also holds many small moments of connection to cherish. The portrayal of the Haitian community and culture both at home and abroad is rich and full of a clear pride in the people and traditions, despite the shared pain of both the past and present, which is a feeling I think many readers can identify with. This is the first thing I’ve ever read by Danticat, but I really enjoyed it, and I do not expect that it will be the last.

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

It’s really hard not to notice this novel, with a cover like that. Honestly. It’s bright and gorgeous and one of those covers that absolutely makes you want to judge the book inside and read it even if you really don’t even have an idea what it’s about. So that’s about where I was with it. And then I saw some reviews on bookstagram that had nothing but good things to say (especially from @blkemilydickinson), so I started it as soon as the audiobook was ready for me at the library!

Adunni is a 14-year-old girl living in a rural village in Nigeria. Although her beloved mother has died, Adunni is keeping her memory alive by fighting for the one thing her mother told her would provide the best future she could have: an education. And despite her father selling her into a marriage as a third wife, despite a tragedy in her “married home” that forces her to run away from everything she’s ever know, despite being trafficked into domestic slavery in Lagos, despite all her suffering and people continuing to tell and show her that she isn’t worth anything…Adunni never stops fighting for a better future for herself, for her right to have not just a voice, but a louding voice.

Let me just start by adding my voice to the praises other have sung about this book. It is something really special. I’ll get into more detail, but I just need to say that the story on the inside of this novel shines just as brightly as the colors on the cover. There is just so much life and vibrancy on every single page. Adunni’s voice is clear and personal and distinctive and proud in a way that filled me up a little more with every chapter I read. For all the violence and challenges and struggles and pain that Adunni has experienced in her short life, there is a spark in her that just cannot be doused. There are moments of infectious joy and hope and optimism from her all throughout, no matter what else is going on, and I can only wish for that kind of life outlook for myself. Truly. Her feelings are so big and are conveyed with such depth and fullness. And the rest of the language, in addition to Adunni’s own voice, like the settings and relationships and character development/interactions and story pacing and general creativity and tangibility in vocabulary and descriptions…all of it is spectacular. I am really in awe of Daré’s writing.

There are a few other things I loved about this book that I want to share. First, I feel like this is a novel that completely transported me in space. I have never been for Nigeria, so I have nothing to compare this novel to, but I felt like the way Daré wrote about it, from the settings to the culture and traditions, to the speech patterns and more all really brought the country to life for me. I am adding what I “learned” here to everything I experience from Americanah in an effort to start to build a more nuanced understanding of this country. To that end, I loved the way Daré used the (fake) book of facts about Nigeria that Adunni was reading to add some greater context to this story. It was both educational and allowed the reader to learn from these facts while simultaneously learning from Adunni’s experience with and interpretations of them as well. I’ve rarely seen this device used better. I also loved the way all the female characters were created in this story, from Adunni herself to her to Khadija (the second wife), to her “employer” Big Madam, to her friend/benefactor Ms. Tia to all the smaller side characters that were highlighted throughout. They represented so many difference experiences with being female in Nigerian culture, so the reader could see and learn that, like in all places/cultures, no single experience represents the whole. And yet at the same time, all were clear in showing the various ways women face challenges and discrimination that man do not have to deal with. Finally, as a side note, the narration was freaking fantastic, so full of inflection and feeling, and really come of the best voice acting I have heard in an audiobook in a while.

This novel was simply wonderful. My heart broke for everything Adunni had to deal with at just 14 years old (and it was so, so much – this novel covers a lot of ground without ever feeling rushed or overfull). And yet I couldn’t help breaking into great big smiles at her many moments of joy and empathy. I fell headfirst into Adunni’s story and life and cheered at every moment that she took a step closer to achieving the education and louding voice that she dreamt of and deserved to have. She was an amazing, resilient character and I loved reading her story and watching her work towards a better future for herself…one that would allow her to turn around and help other girls just like her. So inspiring.

A few quotes/passages that stood out while I was reading:

“…I don’t just want to be having any kind of voice…I want a louding voice.”

“But I don’t want to born anything now. How will a girl like me born childrens? Why will I fill up the world with sad childrens that are not having a chance to go to school? Why make the world to be one big, sad, silent place because all the childrens are not having a voice?”

“Death, he tall like a iroko tree, with no body, no flesh, no eyes, only mouth and teeths. Plenty teeths, the thin of pencil and the sharp of blade for biting and killing. Death is not having legs. But it have two wings of nails and arrows. Death can fly and kill the bird in the air dead, strike them from the sky and fall them to the ground, scatter their brain. It can be swimming too, swallow the fishes inside the river. When it is wanting to kill a person, it will fly, keeping hisself over their head, sailing like a boat on top of the water of the soul, waiting for when it will just snatch the person from the earth. Death can take form of anything. It clever like that. Today, it can take form of a car, cause a accident; tomorrow it can shape hisself as a gun, a bullet, a knife, a coughing-blood sickness. It can take form of a dry palm frond and flog a person until the person is dying. Like Lamidi the farmer. Or as a rope to squeeze all the life from a person, like Tafa, Asabi’s lover.”

“We all be speaking different because we all are having different growing-up life, but we can all be understanding each other if we just take the time to listen well.”

“‘My mama say education will give me a voice. I want more than just a voice, Ms. Tia. I want a louding voice,’ I say. ‘I want to enter a room a people will hear be even before I open my mouth to be speaking. I want to live in this life and help many people so that when I grow old and die, I will still be living through the people I am helping. […] The girls in my village don’t have much chance for school. I want to change that, Ms. Tia, because those girls, they will grow up and born many more great people to make Nigeria even more better than now.’”

“You just need to hold on to that belief and never let go. When you get up every day, I want you to remind yourself that tomorrow will be better than today. That you are a person of value. That you are important. You must believe this…”

“I want to ask, to scream, why are the women in Nigeria seem to be suffering for everything more than the men?”

“…sometimes even the strongest of people can suffer a weakness,”

“I fall to the floor and start to cry […] for myself, for the loss of everything good and happy, for the pain of the past and the promise of the future.”

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

This book was chosen by a friend as the first book of an Anti-Racist Book Club that she started. I know that the reactions to white people, white women, starting book clubs like this to address racism is very understandably skeptical as an empty gesture that will soon be moved on from… All I can say in response is that that’s true. I accept that criticism and can give only my word, for what it’s worth, that for myself, I am learning and un-learning and will continue to work on that with consistency and open-mindedness and my level best to accept criticism and grow from it. And that I will take what I am learning and translate it to actions that leverage my power and privilege. So, in this space, I will continue to read and review and share awareness and knowledge of books from Black authors and other diverse populations. That is what I can do in this space. And in my “real” life, I will be continuing to take this knowledge into my relationships and interactions and efforts in the wider world.

This book is a collection of statements and interviews and speeches related to the formation of the Combahee River Collective (CRC). It begins with an introduction about some of the historical context related to the formation of the group, followed by a re-printing of the CRC’s statement in 1974 (here’s link to that statement: http://circuitous.org/scraps/combahee.html). It then follows with interviews with three of the founding women (Barbara Smith, Beverly Smith, Demita Frazier), as they explore how they got introduced to feminism and political activism in the first place, what led to their joining/forming the CRC and what the need for Black feminism was, and more about their own lives and experiences. The final interview, with Black Lives Matter co-founder Alicia Garza, explores the BLM movement, how it began, how it pulls from the principles of the CRC and Black feminism and some more thoughts on the situation of Black people in America today. And it closes out with a speech/comments from historian Barbara Ransby about CRC’s impact at a socialism conference in 2017.

First, I have never read anything structured like this before, as a collection of documents and interviews brought together by an editor. I mean, I guess I’ve read some fiction pieces that use this as a device, but nothing so elaborate or educational as this. It was a phenomenal first experience with this type of oral history for me, having all these perspectives and history collected together in their own words but in one place…it was completely enthralling. I took so many notes and bookmarked so many passages. I’ll try to get in all in some semblance of order to share here. First, I’d like to reiterate how educational this was for me, from the obvious (learning about CRC and the foundations of Black feminism) but also many other things I had no idea about, like much recent history about the second wave feminist movement (both what they did and where they failed in big ways) and general racist/patriarchal practices that I cannot comprehend happened so recently (like, there was still forced sterilization practices in the freaking late 70s and 80s…?!). It’s all just more examples of how the education system in this country needs decolonization in a way bigger than I have words to explain – I shouldn’t be just hearing about so much of this as a 31-year-old reading educational nonfiction in my spare time as a hobby.

Also, strongly related, these women’s lives and accomplishments are BALLER and should be so much more widely known and talked about! We hear about the same Civil War and Civil Rights eras activists ad nauseum (and I mean yes, Frederick Douglass and Rosa Parks are very important), but there are SO many more names we should know. It’s a disservice (to put it lightly) to them, to our country, to our students and especially to our Black citizens/students, that these names and movements are never mentioned. And yet the number of lessons I had about white generals during the Civil War is…well, it’s more than I can count on my fingers, that’s for sure. Refocusing on this book, I loved hearing these women’s impressive and inspiring stories in their own words. I loved their “how I became a feminist” stories and how they’re already so different from today where it’s so easy to say and understandable to identify with that; it was inspiring to read that courage.
I also want to mention a commonality that stuck out to me. First, so many of these women participated in anti-war demonstrations (with Vietnam) and it’s amazing how much that contributed to their political awakenings, as frequently as Civil Rights and Black Nationalism insofar as how often those protests are mentioned. And it’s simply amazing what they did for other causes (like fighting for reproductive rights and agency over your own body and sexual openness as well), more than many who would have even directly benefitted, before realizing that they’re bodies and realities weren’t even recognized/included in those movements. Their transition from that to creating the CRC, to directly help themselves because there was damn sure no one who was going to do that for them is awe-inspiring.

And in this last little section, well likely to be a fairly long section actually, I want to point out some of the major points and lessons that stuck out to me or that I learned while reading (in addition to what I’ve already mentioned, of course). First, the discussion about the common reaction to the terminology/ideology these women used is that they were so ahead of their time as far as inclusion and intersectionality (i.e. creating press/publishing for women of color, defined as “any woman who identified with the indigenous people of her respective land or nation”), but like I feel that it’s more than that. I feel more like they were spot on for what should have been happening/addressed and the rest of us are just that far behind…and that is so much of why their work and words are still so apropos of today. They weren’t “radical” in their inclusion, we are just so damn exclusionary…in a way that does nothing but harm. More currently, Garza talks about the layered experiences of Black folks, that they’re not just one thing, but they can be immigrants, mixed-race, LGBTQ, etc. and how those experiences are being included (or not) in this movement for BLM and in the world of social justice at large. She also mentions how the outlook of multiculturalism erases individual histories because they become part of the “melting pot” and how that can be very harmful, which was a big learning point for me personally. In both the historical context of CRC’s founding and in Garza’s comments in a present-day context, the re-affirming of identity politics not as a narrowing, but rather a broadening of the collective political vision, at stated in in the CRC’s statement, is an important touchpoint. The phrase has been horribly co-opted and learning about its origination and actual meaning was a big education point for me here. Finally, across all interviews, the need to reframe our thoughts and shift the narrative about reality about Black people in America is paramount. As Frazier says, “Black brilliance and capacity,” which has always been there, has not been allowed to thrive; it’s about confronting the illusion of white supremacy from the perspective that there is no such thing because being white does not make, in fact, one superior in any way. Black people do not need to become closer to whiteness to be great, but rather deserve the space to make their greatness known. It’s just, so powerful.

This collection is a beautiful bringing together of Black feminist voices, voices I absolutely wish I had heard before today. But I am so glad I have heard them now. There are very important arguments for people (read: WHITE PEOPLE) needing to decide that justice is more important than their status and their privilege. This is a succinct and precise account of a history of a movement and the beginnings of officializing identity politics and intersectional feminism, political freedom and racial and economic justice in the US, which is absolutely central to the fight for equality in this county. I urge you to, at the very least, read the CRC’s statement that I linked to at the beginning. But I encourage you to pick up this full book as well, using it as a resource as we do the work in our own lives. Join me in learning/un-learning and so that our efforts to affect change for Black people (and, as a natural result, other people of color) in this country – the inclusive framework of Black feminism is the standard we should all hold ourselves to in this fight.

Included below are some specific passages that I marked while reading, and, in some cases my personal thoughts/reactions to them (in parentheses afterwards):

“The ability to distinguish between the ideology of the American Dream and the experience of the American nightmare requires political analysis, history and often struggle.”

“…what we meant by identity politics when we originated the terminology was […] we have a right as people who are not just female, who are not solely Black, who are not just lesbians, who are not just working class, or workers – that we are people who embody all of these identities, and we have a right to build and define political theory and practice based upon that reality. […] That’s what we meant by identity politics. We didn’t mean that if you’re not the same as us, you’re nothing. We were not saying that we didn’t care about anybody who wasn’t exactly like us.” (As an update, the current day outlook that if you do not have an experience with a struggle, then you do not have the ability to fight against that particular oppression…and there is no hope for you to give solidarity. That is also not what was intended…people who interpret it otherwise should revisit the original statement and also consider the time frame when the Collective was created. Also, this sounds like an excuse for those who aren’t interested in doing the work and crossing the bridge across differences…or the idea of coalition politics, because that’s the only way we can win, by working together.) -Barbara Smith

“So I feel like what we contributed was a politics that says ‘No, it is not as simple-minded and flat and one-dimensional as you all may think it is.’ And you can look at many different identities or opinions.” (A first reckoning in politics with the idea of intersectionality.) – Beverly Smith

“There was a whole lot of suddenly emerging information about the way that the state and the heteropatriarchal state had controlled and limited women’s agency through their bodies. […] ‘You know, we stand at the intersection where out identities are indivisible.’ There is no separation. We are as Black women truly and completely intact in our paradox, and there’s nothing paradoxical about oppression.” (In reference to: agency over the body with sexuality and sexual openness and reproductive rights, sterilization abuse against women of color and poor women, Tuskegee experiment, Henrietta Lacks, and more. And again, importantly, the intersection or intersectionality of their sex, sexuality, race and class.) – Demita Frazier

“Black feminism is a representation of Black women’s power. Black women’s agency. Black women’s right to look at their material conditions, analyze it, interrogate it, and come away with an analysis that’s about empowerment. That’s why. We had to.” -Demita Frazier (In response to “why Black feminism?”)

“I think what we did in publishing that statement and then continuing to remain unapologetic Black feminists over time despite everything just really tells the story – in my mind, speaks the truth about the message that we were choosing to put out. […] I have nothing but a sense of pride and a sense of humility that we didn’t know it, but what we were doing was incubating the next revolution.” – Demita Frazier

“Just remembering that so much of what brought us together was the unique combination at the intersection of our lives, that made us demand an analysis that incorporated the truth of what we were living and experiencing historically and currently, and that made us uninterested in adhering to what people decided was their dogma, their theory, their whatever, if it wasn’t about recognizing complexity of the lives of Black women.” – Demita Frazier

“And so that’s how I get introduced to Black feminism because I’m getting introduced in the worst ways to white feminism.” – Alicia Garza (This is such a profound statement on how white feminism was non-inclusive from the start and continues to celebrate those beginnings/do little to make its work/outlook more intersectional to correct/address that, i.e. Planned Parenthood celebrating Margaret Sanger because of what she did for [white] reproductive justice without taking into account, at all, her racism.)

“Anyways, all that to say, there’s these folks who should go down in history as theorists because they are and theory is not reserved for white people…Or for men.” – Alicia Garza (On the women who created the Combahee River Collective and wrote their statement. This is super important as a concept, to me, because this is an academic double-standard that is very strong. White people and men have theories that are widely studied in philosophy classes and more…regardless of the ability of those theories to be realized…so where are the voices of Black women and others, who not only created theories, but created ones that are more actionable and, truly, necessary?)

“…our movements can’t only be composed of the people who are most disenfranchised. Our movements also have to be composed of people from across the class spectrum and people who also have power. Right? If we want to compete for power, then part of what it means is we also have to amass our power as a unit. And it also means we have to take some of their theirs. That’s how you compete, right? You’ve got to break some of their folks off and be like, ‘Well, which side are you actually on?’” – Alicia Garza

“…sometimes we talk about these empowering, important historical moments, and we are looking for blueprints or road maps. Unfortunately, history does not offer us that. We have our own work to do, in our own time.” (Historical context is key.) – Barbara Ransby

“…always ally yourself with those on the bottom, on the margins, and at the periphery of the centers of power. And in doing so, you will land yourself at the very center of some of the most important struggles of our society and our history.” – Barbara Ransby

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

I don’t read a lot of poetry. I never really have. And though I’ve picked up and loved a few collections over my years on this blog (notably: If They Come for Us and Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings), I haven’t really been what I would consider “converted” to the art form. However, as is clear, I’ll occasionally pick up a collection that I have heard a lot about or for some other reason catches my attention. In this case, Jericho Brown’s The Tradition, won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry this year (2020) and realizing that I hadn’t read any poetry yet this year pushed me to go ahead and request it from my (finally open for contactless curbside holds pick-ups) library.

Like I said, I am not really experienced in reading poetry and, therefore, feel like my ability to review it is questionable and anything I say here should be taken with a (large) grain of salt. However, I want to share some reactions and my favorite pieces anyways. Do with my words what you will. First, I tried to slowly read through this, taking breaks at the end of each section, re-reading poems, and generally taking the time to think through each piece. But I still sped through this collection in a single day. The overwhelming “sense” that I have after finishing, like a feeling about the general vibe and message of the collection, is that it is a strong reckoning with the trauma in the US for Black queer male bodies (as a single entity and as individual characteristics as well), as well as the trauma specific to Brown’s own experiences, emotions and relationships. These themes are sometimes explored separately and sometimes as they intersect with each other. He addresses many salient topics related to fear and terror in the US today, from police brutality to rape to family violence and more. And he connects them through the way they both result from and feed into the creation of an atmosphere of oppression that invades every part of a person’s life, especially and most particularly, Black people’s lives. All in all, this was a true lyrical examination of the path Black and Brown bodies were forced to take and must fight to break from in the US; an intense and weighty collection.

Some of the poems I liked best (with some thoughts/reactions for why):

Every Duplex piece – I read afterwards that Brown invented this style. I am almost not surprised because overall they were my favorite poems, the ones that I felt (subjectively) were the “best” – every single one of them. So that fact that he created them makes sense, you can feel the passion for and understand of the style in each. Anyways, I loved the wordplay in them, the flow and rhythm they create. And the topics he chose for each are some of the strongest in the collection. And then the last one – the closing poem of the collection, the way he pulls together the words and themes from the rest for one final emotional combination blow, is stunning.

Hero – This one got me emotionally, looking into motherhood and the thanklessness of Blackness and Black motherhood in the US.

After ‘Another Country’ – An emotional gut punch, very affecting look at mental health and (TW) suicide and suicidal ideation.

Bullet Points – That this is even something that it must be said so clearly, in this country…it’s what we accuse our worst “enemy” countries of, and yet…here we are. It’s terrible, not-to-be-believed, but oh, Brown says it with such beautiful harshness.

After Avery R. Young – Just…wow. This is one where I don’t feel like I understood enough to really comment specifically, but the emotional impact and overall impression were strong.

A Young Man – The sibling relationship here really touched me deeply, and that last line, the inherent assumption of what is to come, the use of “yet”…damn, it carries an indescribable heaviness.

The Legend of ‘Big’ and ‘Fine’ – A strong an indicting message about ownership and the deep assumptions about it that form the formation of white cisgender patriarchy in the US…phew.

The Long Way – The way the poem accuses present (white) generations of ignoring their ancestors’ transgressions because it’s easier and not something they had to experience or know or live with; And what good would Brown’s refusal to comply/efforts to acknowledge that past on the daily really do in the grand scheme when those in power continue to ignore it? The message here is strong and brutal and one of the clearest of the collection, at least for me.

Of my Fury – So sorrowfully touching,

Stay – This poem is one of the shortest in the collection and yet is packs one of the strongest emotional deliveries. I read this one like five or six times. So evocative.

Stand - This is an intense combination of personal and “political” and the way its unavoidable for Black people in the US today.

And just a few lines from other pieces that stood out to me, even separate from the whole of the poems they were part of:

“… I am not a narrative / Form, but dammit if I don’t tell a story.” (After Avery R. Young)

“And I sing, again, those songs because I know / The value of sweet music when we need to pass / The time without wondering what rots beneath our feet.” (Shovel)

“… I’m more than a conqueror, bigger / Than bravery. I don’t march. I’m the one who leaps.” (Crossing)

This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.

There were so, so many things about this book that caught my eye and put it on my radar. The gorgeous and colorful cover, including and especially the fact that Felix himself, a young trans male with top surgery scars visible, is highlighted in all his beauty. Then, there’s the title (I’m a sucker for fairy-tale references like that, I can’t lie). Plus, and probably most important, is the fact that this own-voices novel centers and celebrates trans identity, love and a generally all-encompassing and wonderfully queer cast. I love reading YA because it can be so affirming in ways that I don’t often see in adult literature. And I want to support the authors and stories that I feel like were not as available when I was the “YA” age. I don’t remember reading many, if any, books that had queer voices, much less the even more marginalized trans and gender non-conforming voices. And even if I did read books with queer/trans characters in them, they weren’t “big” enough characters to stand out…they for sure weren’t centered and celebrated like this. Anyways, I requested this book from my library as soon as I was able and waited impatiently while it was ordered and came in and my name moved up the waitlist.

Felix is 17 years old and dealing with everything that normally comes with that age, like finishing up high school and figuring out what comes next, working on a portfolio and applying to colleges, dealing with friend and family drama and a deep yearning to experience being in love and being loved by someone. But he also has some other things to reckon with, like the fact that he is “one marginalization too many” – Black, queer, transgender. When Felix’s identity is dismissed and called out in a very public way, and followed up with anonymous transphobic messages, he comes up with a plan for revenge. But that plan leads to much more than he anticipated, and he finds himself dealing with some truly complex relationship questions, both with others and within himself.

I just binge-finished this book and I have so many emotions! First, this is like, the YA book stuff of dreams. It’s fantastically written, compelling, full of both wonderfully supportive and realistically damaged/damaging relationships, well-paced, educational and beautifully inclusive. I know I said this already, but I never read anything like this when I was “YA-age” and I so wish I had been able to…this kind of representation in literature is extremely important, not least for those who are able to see themselves reflected as the leading voices in their own stories on paper, but also for those of us who don’t know what it’s like to not feel at home in our own body and who don’t have to deal with the dangers of living who we are out loud in a world that doesn’t recognize it. In reading the afterward by the author, where they discuss not discovering their non-binary, transmasculine identity until their twenties, because they weren’t exposed to the option before that…it’s breathtaking. And in part recognizable. I understand conceptually that feeling of knowing but not knowing something. I have always been attracted to both boys and girls, but I truly didn’t know that being bisexual was a thing, an option, until my twenties either, having no exposure to anyone bi before then. I cannot even imagine how much…worse (maybe not the right word, but I can’t think of better vocabulary right now) that must feel for someone transgender or gender-nonconforming, because it’s the body they’re in every single day that’s the “discomfort” and not simply a question of outer attraction. Anyways, bringing it back around, this book is fantastic and important.

Looking a little more closely, I want to talk a bit about Felix’s relationship with his best friend, Ezra. Honestly, I love how healthy their relationship is portrayed. They ask each other tough questions, get in arguments, can be insensitive and/or blinded by their own issues, challenge each other…but at the end of the day, they communicate through it, apologize, listen, consciously make efforts to do better, and just generally are THERE for each other. Yes, they were blind to some things, but hey, welcome to all relationships and, also, being a teenager. That didn’t stop their unconditional support for each other at the end of the day. I literally could not have loved that relationship more (from the beginning to, especially, the end). There is also a great range of the types of ally/friend and performative/damaging relationships presented by the supporting cast of characters. It provides great insight for anyone looking for what types of questions and actions might be helpful or offensive, under different circumstances, and the various ways people can be trans and queer phobic or hurtful (whether intentionally or not).

Relatedly, Callender does a fantastic job exploring privilege and marginalization in this novel. There are myriad and very complex levels to privilege, from skin color to sexuality and gender identity to family to economic status (and more) and most of the characters in this novel, as in life, experience challenges related to some/all of these. Although initial reactions to these various privileges may not be handled perfectly, especially since not all of them are easily visible, Callender shows how they are all legitimate, valid problems. At the same time, they show that while some may be more immediate that others and therefore do deserve a priority, none of them mean you can ignore or minimize others’ problems. This is a strong, consistent and poignant message throughout the novel.

I also loved the messages about self-love and owning your own life. It’s wonderful to see how, from the very beginning, Felix outwardly lives the truth of who he is. It’s heart-warming to see how proud he is of all his identities. And yet, in large part because of those intersecting identities and internalized marginalization related to them, he still privately believes that he’s not worthy of love, success, outward recognition, and many other acceptances that he craves. Taking this coming-of-age journey with him, as he truly chooses to inwardly take the same chances he’s taken outwardly, choosing to risk pain and loss in order to step off the sidelines and jump into the action of his own life, is inspiring. I love the beauty and profundity of the message Callender crafts over the length of this novel: that it will be difficult, but you have to learn to fully accept and love yourself before you can really take a chance on loving/being loved by someone else. Real love is scary, but it’s worth it. The way that Felix’s art helps him with this process and, in reverse, how opening himself up allows his art to flourish, is an added bonus to this already great book. Any time creativity is honored and/or used as a coping mechanism is a “win” for me.

There is just so much life in this book – it almost vibrates with it! I think I experienced every possible emotion while reading this, and all with so much purity and intensity. There is a look at the many challenges and realities that trans people, and especially trans people of color, deal with. But there is also much more than that. In these pages Felix is written as a fully dimensional character and being trans, while important, is just a part of his person; he both is and is not defined by it in a way that feels incredibly genuine. Felix and his story will grab you from the very beginning and it won’t let go until you are taking fast, deep, dramatic breaths as you turn the final page. Do yourself a favor and give this book a read.

“I’m not flaunting anything. I’m just existing. This is me. I can’t hide myself. I can’t disappear. And even if I could, I don’t fucking want to. I have the same right to be here. I have the same right to exist.”

“You don’t get to use my pain to make your point.”

“Only I have the power to say who I am.”

“I mean, I WANT to be in love. That’s something I’ve always wanted to feel. What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s like you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love? And what’s it like to break up with someone you love? What’s it like to decide to try again, and let yourself fall in love with someone else? To decide to take that chance you might get hurt, but still want to try? I don’t know. But I want to.”

“We all make mistakes. We all have the chance to learn and grow from them. But we all also have the right to choose whether or not we’ll forgive someone for the mistakes they’ve made…”

“Loving and accepting and celebrating yourself, and loving and celebrating and supporting […] who will come next. Changing this world, yes – we need people who will fight for our rights, fight for justice in the courts so that it will be better for the next generation. But creating our own world, not just for ourselves in our bubble, but one that can spread to those who need it most – one filled with our stories, our history, our love and pride – that’s just as beautiful. That’s just as necessary. Without that, we forget ourselves. Crumple under the pain of feeling isolated, unaccepted by others, without realizing that, above all else, we need to love and accept ourselves first.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with love. There isn’t anything embarrassing about love.” (ALL LOVE)