I have been working through the Aspen Words 2021 longlist over the past 2 months and, while I’ve been loving the books, they are all (by definition due to the prize’s goal in recognizing authors/fiction about key social issues) a bit heavy and intense. So, I needed something a little lighter mixed in. Cue the contemporary romance. I’ve had this one on my radar and it was available as an audiobook through my library on Hoopla, so I went for it. 

 

Lina, a wedding planner, was left at the alter three years ago. Ironic. But she’s tucked all her emotions about it away and has forged an incredibly successful career and an outwardly unflappable demeanor. When she is invited to apply for a position with a hotel group as their wedding coordinator, the new opportunity is exactly what she wants. However, throwing a giant wrench into her career and life plans, the marketing specialist she’s paired with to create her pitch is none other than her ex-fiancée’s younger brother, Max. The same younger brother who had a hand in her ex-fiancée’s decision to walk away from their wedding. So yea, working together on this project is going to be tough, but succeeding will both help Lina find the stability/upward mobility she wants in her career, while giving Max the chance to finally get out from under her brother’s shadow. Can they do it? 

 

I loved the set up for this story. First, it was such a cool way to handle a job interview for such a hands-on and creative position. Maybe it’s common, but not as much in my field(s), so it was fun to read about. Also, the way Lina and Max were forced to work together from the start because it would benefit them both really lent a lot of reality and gravity to the forced proximity/workplace romance tropes this novel used. It was a situation that really required a lot of opening up and spending time together, in order to really get it right, and that made their interpersonal development wonderfully believable. Plus, it allowed my favorite part of their relationship, the true partnership aspect, to really shine. I am totally here for physical chemistry between MCs, but for something to really last, that more mundane side of things also has to develop, and seeing how it happened here really added quality and depth to their connection. On the flip side though, there was sometimes a little bit of a feeling that things between them (and some situations they found themselves in) felt forced. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, because I loved the partnership and the teasing/banter, but there was just something a little off for me that was enough to not allow me to fully invest in and fall for them as a couple. Also, and this is purely personal preferences, although I felt like they were truly into each other, the sex scenes just weren’t written to my taste, as far as language and vibe. Which sucks. But let me reiterate, is purely a personal preference – I’m sure other readers will have completely different reactions on this point. In the end, I still really enjoyed reading their story. 

 

There were a few other things I want to mention. I loved the infusion of Brazilian food and culture and tradition and Portuguese into the story. These are the touches that take a novel to the next level and it was so fun to read. I thought Lina’s family (and I’ll include her assistant here, too) was awesome and hilarious and fiercely protective and supportive and that’s a vibe I can never have enough of. The way we see her internal struggles with expectations, as a daughter of immigrants, was also an aspect that added depth and value to the story. I enjoyed seeing Max’s soft sides. And though the “growth” there was a smidge too fast, the fact that he accepted Lina’s explanation of her emotional walls, and why they were so necessary, at face value and without question (in fact, with apology) is a great model. His friendship with Dean, the way they talked about actual psychological trauma of past relationships and his issues with his brother to make sure that he was into Lina for real and for the right reasons, was refreshing. I also thought the rivalry with his brother (the ex-fiancée, Andrew), was really realistic, especially in the depth/pettiness and the damage it caused. I liked it all the way up to the end, with Andrew’s final appearance in conversation with Lina, which seemed a bit forced/unlikely. But it is what it is. And last, unrelated at all to the story, but important nonetheless, I very much disliked the Max’s narrator-voice on the audio, which may have contributed to some of my larger issues with the novel, despite my attempts to overlook it.         

 

Overall, this was fun and fast. I was totally entertained and it gave me the lighter “escapist” read I was looking for, but it’s not a new favorite contemporary romance for me. 

 

My 11th Aspen Words Literary Prize 2021 longlist read! I actually have had an earlier novel by Makumbi, Kintu, on my TBR for years. Having read this one first, due to my personal longlist challenge, I have to say that I am blown away by Makumbi’s work and am now planning to pick that one up much, much faster than my original timeline was making it look. (Especially since I think some of the stories in this novel, short tales passed from grandmother to granddaughter about the founding and history and mythology of Uganda, will be told in even greater depth throughout that book. And I am so excited about that prospect!)  

When we meet Kirabo, she is a 13 year old girl living in a rural area of Uganda with her grandparents and just getting to the age where she’s beginning to ask questions about the mother she’s never met. Looking for answers, she reaches out to Nsuuta, the local witch, who teaches not only about the mother who isn’t yet ready to meet her, but about the history of women in the world, in their country, and encourages her to embrace the “wild” streak within her own self that harkens back to the first women. As years pass and Kirabo moves to the city to live with her father and attend school, she also begins to grapple with the ideas of mwenkanonkano (feminism) and what they mean to herself and the other women in her life, as they move through a world that does not allow the space for them to fully be, and the many different ways women choose to handle that. 

There are a few major themes/aspects that are woven together to create this full story, including Kirabo’s personal journey, an exploration on the interactions and roles of women in society and within societal expectations, a history (both in myth and in fact, ancient and more recent) of the nation of Uganda and the intergenerational affects of that development on women, and a number of larger themes related to colonialism and privilege both internal and external to Uganda itself. The writing was perfect for the style of the story, a lush and lyrical in a longer-prose style, a medium-pace that pulled you along but also allowed you to linger in the sense of place that Makumbi created. There is also a story-telling flow to the writing that matched up perfectly with the emphasis of the importance of story-telling that runs as a theme through the novel from beginning to end.     

A few other notes about parts of this novel that I really enjoyed. They don’t really go together with any real connection, so I’m just gong to bring them all together list style. It is what it is! There was a difficult but important emphasis on the damage of widespread internalized colonialism and patriarchy. It was so frustrating to read at times, when the reader was confronted with the ways that the roles women must play as mothers and wives and grandmothers cause them to lose or be forced to hide their selves. It was especially difficult to swallow when it turned would-be allies against each other, both in actuality (like Kirabo and her friend Giibwa) and as a farce because they felt like it was expected (like Grandmother and Nsuuta). And yet, there were so many wonderful moments that Kirabo shared with many different female mentors and friends that helped her learn and grow and push against/subvert those colonialist/patriarchal expectations, each in their own unique ways. I loved reading about the variety of inter-women dynamics and the ways the spirit of mwenkanonkano triumphed, both large and small, in Kirabo’s experiences. There was also some fantastic and insightful commentary on cycles of poverty/education, privilege and the compounding of intergenerational privilege, and the ways that all traditionally shows up, along with the exacerbations that come with Western “interventions” and “perspectives” (a mental transition that was presented in a few ways I hadn’t been exposed to before, which was fascinating and eye-opening. And finally, Kirabo was just such a compelling and recognizable character. Despite numerous surface different to our lives, there’s an underlying similarity growing up as a female that just really drew me to her, through her triumphs and mistakes and grief and joy. 

This coming-of-age and coming-of-womanhood novel, steeped in the folklore and traditions and culture of Uganda, takes the reader on a sweeping journey of self-discovery and realization. And, honestly, Kirabo is just one of those special protagonists that captures a reader’s heart and you cannot help but hope and cheer for her at every turn. If this novel was a body of water, it would be a wide stream, with a subtle but persistent current that sweeps you with it slowly until you realize that you’ve been pulled right into the middle and aren’t strong enough to get back to the bank. What a lovely reading experience.    

 

“What I meant, child, is that we are our circumstances. And until we have experienced all the circumstances the world can throw at us, seen all the versions we can be, we cannot claim to know ourselves. How, then, do we start to know someone else?” 

 

“Water has no shape, it can be this, it can be that, depending on where it flows. The sea is inconstant, it cannot be tamed, it does not yield to human cultivation, it cannot be owned; you cannot draw borders on the ocean. To the ancients, women belonged with the sea like in marriage.” 

 

“My grandmothers called it kweluma. That is when oppressed people turn on each other or on themselves and bite. It is a form of relief. If you cannot bite your oppressor, you bite yourself.” 

 

“With that kind of perversion, who would not shrink? Who would want to be huge, or loud, or brave, or any of the other characteristics men claim to be male? We hunched, lowered our eyes, voices, acted feeble, helpless. Even being clever became unattractive. Soon, being shrunken became feminine. Then it became beautiful and women aspired to it. That was when we began to persecute our original state out of ourselves. Once we shrunk, men had to look after us, and it was not long before they started to own us. Fathers sold daughters; husbands bought wives. Once we became a commodity, men could do whatever they wished with us. Even now our bodies do not belong to us. That is why when they need it, they will grab it. Things were so bad in some cultures, women had to be hidden away to protect them, in separate spaces where no men were allowed. Soon, they had to be spoken for by men.” 

 

“There is nothing like love lost and found. It is unreasonable; it is reckless; it is hungry.” 

 

“How Zungu [foreign]. You go and hurt someone, and then when it comes to apologising you help yourself to crying as well. She had seen it in films. Man cheats, man confesses to woman, man cries, and the betrayed woman is robbed of her right to tears.” 

 

“It was surprising what a bit of history did to a place, how it coloured it.” 

 

“...oppressed people turn on each other to vent because the oppressor is untouchable...” 

 

“...the fact that poverty and wealth were constructs after all […] the way the world was going, people in the rural were beginning to see poverty from the city’s perspective, while city people were starting to see poverty through Western lenses.” 

 

“Until the law starts to protect us, we must find ways.” 

 

“Because women are brought up to treat sex as sacred while men treat it as a snack.” 

 

“Wife, mother, age, and role model – the ‘respect’ that comes with these roles is the water they pour on your fire. […] every woman resists. Often it is private. Most of our resistance is so everyday that women don’t think twice about it. It is life.” 

 

 

My 10th Aspen Words Literary Prize 2021 longlist read! I’m two thirds of the way there – maybe I will actually make it! Anyways, 

 

Happily Ever After – This opening story has subtle snark and insight about what makes a “happily ever after” for a person, the expectations versus reality, the person to person differences, the “promise” from society of what should make it. But like I said, it’s subtle, it doesn’t hit you over the head, but hits with a slow burn feeling. Similar vibe with the juxtaposition of the falseness of pop culture (the unreality of it, the surface-level and distanced aspect of it) and the reality of actual news/life. It’s all combined in a really unique way that highlights what should be a woman’s own choices for her life/future, but often is not allowed to be (especially Black women), within limitations of expectation, culture, etc.  “What future had there ever been but the imaginary?” 

Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain – This second story really emphasizes Evans’ ability to write a compelling and interesting story, with a subtle but clear message, while also addressing and adding on-point commentary for myriad additional “side” issues. Just wow. The main point here that I loved was the way, with dark humor and a sarcastic bent, Evans calls out the farcicalness that is the American marriage/wedding industry, while also recognizing, on a deeper level, the danger face by women on both a physical and mental/emotional level with the minimizing of self and the lengths that must often be reached to find/keep a man. And she brings it home with an ending that hits the reader hard. “But what did it matter what she deserved, faced with the hilarity of one more person telling her glibly that better was out there when she was begging for mediocrity and couldn’t have that?” 

Boys Go to Jupiter – Well. Holy f*cking shit. What a story. This one is uncomfortable to read on more levels than I even knew could exist in one place. What Evans does in these 30 pages is just beyond genius. I mean, right from the start this story is firmly rooted in displaying white privilege and the absurd degree to which it protects white people. And even if, as a reader, you have any inclination to say “well, she’s young” and “there’s extenuating circumstances” and “she deserves to explain because it’s not what it looks like” (and what does that mean anyway when considering impact over intent?), you still know (or should know) that that understanding wouldn’t extend the other way or in reversed roles. And then, Evans takes that knife of knowledge and shoves it so freaking far in, turning the tables, that not a single reader can be left with a single doubt about the protections and benefit of the doubt afforded only to white people in this country. And even with that experience behind her, our protagonist still only has to sit with a little bit of shame…not real or lasting consequences. And as a white reader, you’re left feeling all of that shame and MORE because we have let (and encouraged) our country stick by this BS so long without real change or repercussion – so what the F are we doing to fix it? Anyways, just, damn.    

 

Alcatraz – Once again, the biting and insightful commentary in Evans’ stories in a way that is neither subtle nor overbearing is ridiculously impressive. Here, she manages to critique the prison system in the US (and the absurd commercialization of it), the dismissiveness/lack of interest in the individual (past their usefulness) that the US military complex has long shown and the long-term effects of the history of racism (in this case, calling out the Jim Crow/segregation period specifically) on loss of connection among people and families in throughout country. And she does it all in a way that is deeply meaningful but also compelling in a basic literary sense. “…you take nothing for granted when the price of it is etched across the face of the person you love the most, when you are born into a series of loans and you know you will never be up to the cost of the debt.” / “There was something comforting about imagining I knew exactly what I’d been cheated out of.” 

 

Why Won’t Women Just Say What They Want –  Ahhhhhhhhh I LOVED this one. OMG the tone was freaking spectacular. The exact right pitch of sarcastic “call you on your BS” for the topic. I loved the way the message was infused with such derision into the bones of the story and the Evans clear condemnation in the perceived untouchability and “I’m owed” countenance that so many men have when dealing with women, both in general and especially with those men who have drunk a bit too much of their own Kool-Aid. Also, the calling out of the (fake) “apology” and the many forms it can take was spot-freaking-on. I think, though it’s a tough call because so far all the stories have been lit, that this might be my favorite so far. “Like it was a technicality that she hadn’t specifically told him she wanted to be treated like a person.” / “He thought the Forgiveness was his to declare.” 

Anything Could Disappear – Wow. This one was more of a subtle burn of a story, with a gorgeous and nuanced emphasis on the connections formed between people, the strength they can have, eve under short circumstances. And really, the title is so accurate, as we see the many, many ways that a person could disappear: in death, being lost, being left behind, moving purposefully into another life (whether of one’s own volition or out of force/necessity) … If you think about, 10 or 20 years from now, all the hazy memories each of these characters will have of their short time with the others, it’s really striking.   
 
 

The Office of Historical Corrections ­­– Oh goodness, what a concept! The novella is a literary length that I don’t have a lot of reference points for, but I can tell you that I loved this one. It was both a page-turner and a “makes you think/reflect” story, which is always a most impressive combo. And the explorations of race (with particular focus on the “one drop rule” in historical context and the implications in present day), as well as the intellectual unpacking of the line between (and arguments about) correcting history versus revisionist addendums and who gets to draw the line where one ends and the other starts, as well as how that can be applied considering the original state of “revisionist addendum” in popularly accepted history are fire. Plus, there’s a side theme about motherhood, and the decisions/actions you’d take to ensure a protected, more advantageous, life for your children…which is a question so many people would answer with “anything” for themselves, but are (clearly) not willing to accept when others do. Amazing. “…the contemporary crisis of truth.” / “Midwest nice was a steady, polite gaslighting I found sinister, a forced humility that prevented anyone from speaking up when they’d been diminished or disrespected, lest they be labeled an outsider.” / “So much violence and lack waiting on the other end of the violence and lack that people poured out of the South to escape, and still they kept believing that there was someplace in this country where they could be Black and safe and make a home.” / “…my job was both done and forever undoable, a simple matter of reconciling record books and an impossible matter of making any kind of actual repair.” / “…the daily trauma of the historical record, the sometimes brutality and sometimes banality of anti-Blackness, the loop of history that was always a noose if you looked at it long enough.” / “it felt unfair, how absurd someone could be and still be terrifying.” 

 

Well, two short story collections into this year and I have more than doubled the number of 5-star short story collections I’ve (ever) read. Both this and The Secret Lives of Church Ladies are redefining my expectations of short stories. The stories in this collection are all just so fully and deeply realized, in a narrative voice that is a unique and perfect mix of insightful inspection and delightful snark. Evans takes the divides and realities of class and race, along with the history of class and race, and explores the way they indelibly and unavoidably affect interpersonal interactions. And she does it in a way that both illustrates and questions those boundaries. It’s almost intimidatingly intelligent, yet still fully accessible, writing. Just a truly phenomenal collection. 

  

 

Basically everyone, like actually everyone, read this book and said it was one of the best of the year last year (2020). I have never seen a more universally read and recognized book, especially nonfiction. And in a wonderful (and “finally”) turn, it was also recognized on a more “official” level than just the reader/bookstagram reviewer level, as a finalist for the National Book Award (for nonfiction); the first time, I believe, and undocumented person’s work has been nominated for that prize. So even though I’m a bit slower than the masses on getting to it, it was worth that wait. In fact, it was everything I has been promised/expected, and, honestly, even more. 

 

So, I took pages of notes while reading this, but to be honest, I have been putting off bringing all that together into a review because I am so intimidated by this book. It was such a unique writing style, mixing interviews and journalism with personal anecdotes/memoir. And I loved it. But I have nothing to compare it to or anything to say other that, “holy sh*t it’s the perfect mix hard-hitting and emotional writing for the stories Villavicencio is telling.” And beyond that, I just…I learned yet again how much I really don’t know. Like, after years in public health and working to address education gaps from a trauma-informed and inclusive perspective, among other personal knowledge pursuits in the realm of social justice, I really thought I had a solid baseline. And I mean, I’m maybe not wrong. But also, the thing about constantly working on learning is that you continue to learn how much more there is to learn. And Villavicencio teaches that lesson so hard here. Needfully so. Like, bearing in mind the myriad content warnings that come attached to this piece of nonfiction, I truly believe this is a book that all documented residents of the US (and especially white Americans), need to read. Because the entire reality of being undocumented is something that is so foreign for anyone who has never had to worry about that. Of course. But it is foreign in a way that cannot be conceptualized without real effort to do so. And the perspectives shared in this short and unbelievably impactful book are, honestly, priceless in the way they guide the reader through that. So, yea. I once again confront my privilege and have no words in the face of it. 

 

And, now that I have made this review up until now entirely about me, which is the opposite of every lesson I’ve ever read from people of color, I want to just give Villavicencio my thanks, for her courage and effort in sharing this world with the people who need to be taught about it. And I guess I’ll just list out a few of my notes here, so you can get a feel for my reading experience. But it’s less of a “review” and more a list of why it was so amazing and (a partial) list of things I learned. 

  

-          Villavicencio freaking brings it in her introduction. If you are a reader who usually skips those, don’t kip this one. And get ready for be fired up. 

-          The Ground Zero chapter. Like, I had no freaking idea about any of it and I shouldn’t be surprised, but OMG. The fallout we don’t talk about for undocumented immigrants who either died in the attack or suffered mental/physical health issues from helping with the cleanup afterwards: from the lack of recognition for their losses (because they weren’t in “official” enough paperwork to be proven that they were there or their employers were too scared to come forwards) to not being included in the memorial to not getting compensation and healthcare… Oh this one hurt to read because of how much it’s lauded as a time that the country all came together in the face of tragedy, but thinking of those who suffer(ed) invisibly twists the heart to shreds. 

-          The Miami chapter. Discussing “alternative medicine” use for immigrants not as an affectation but as an “only choice,” because access to medical services isn’t an option. 

-          What an informative collection as far as realities of undocumented life that have become routine (finding work - cleaning/day labor, medicine/botánicas, etc.) but never “comfortable” (constant fear of ICE and deportation). It’s really eye opening because this country just pretends like this entire permanent sub-culture doesn’t exist; instead making it even harder to live within those boundaries, instead of doing anything real to address it and make it easier/lawful to navigate. The country creates its own circle of “when there are no other options, you do what you have to.” 

-          The comparisons of Los Desaparecidos in many South American countries and what ICE does is icily terrifying and if even that doesn’t make you want to abolish ICE…then you’re the problem. 

-          The Cleveland chapter. The conversation on deportation is thrown into even sharper relief when considering Covid and the undocumented community (overall income methods, health safety privileges/options, children and school). Also, the look at church sanctuary, which seems like a “good news” piece when shared by media but like, why is its necessity in the first place not being examined more? Also, for me, it feels so counterintuitive to the separation of church and state the country was founded on: like why are church buildings “with reason” sacrosanct but homes “with no cause at all” are not?! 

-          So, the IRS can make it possible for undocumented people to pay taxes legally but the country can’t get them documentation? This I did know, but it literally never makes any more sense, no matter how many times I hear/read about it. The only world for that is bullshit. 

-          OOOOOOF. The effect of all of this on undocumented children/children of undocumented people is beyond imagining and should be far beyond what any child is forced to experience. The weaving through of the stories the author collects with her own experiences on this front is striking and really emotional.  

 

I loved the clear fury in Villavicencio’s words. It suffuses the whole work with a righteous and deserved anger. And it is perfectly juxtaposed with the care and gentleness she shows when sharing the stories of the immigrants she interviews. It’s a beautiful ode and eulogy to the contractions of humanity, of allowing people to be whole. And I love her focus on and highlight of the fact that people are still good even if “unremarkable,” that they are worthy of living fully even if they’re not “heroic.” Villavicencio breaks boundaries and stereotypes with her words, she exposes worlds within worlds that have sprung up out of necessity, invisible in all ways (even those that might help) due to fear of what new horrors exposure could bring. And, she gives voice to a truly silent population that is everywhere, experiencing all the same things (9/11, Flint water crisis, lack of access to healthcare…everything) as the rest of the population but in a completely unique and unseen way. What an absolutely incredible work of nonfiction. 

 

A selection of the many passages I marked while reading: 

 

“This book is a work of creative nonfiction, rooted in careful reporting, translated as poetry, shared by chosen family, and sometimes hard to read. Maybe you won’t like it. I didn’t write it for you to like it.” 

 

“This book will give you permission to let go. This book will give you permission to be free. This book will move you to be punk, when you need to be punk; y hermanxs, it’s time to fuck some shit up.” 

 

“Historically, legislators and immigration advocates have parted the sea of the undocumented with a splintered staff – working brown men and women on one side and academically achieving young brown people on the other, one a parasitic blight, the other heroic dreamers.” 

 

“The fact that The New York Times described them as “idling” infuriates me. […] Workers [day laborers] absorb exceptional emotional and physical stress every day and, because they are undocumented, they’re on their own, with no workplace protections, no regulations, and no collective bargaining.” 

 

“I think every immigrant in this country knows that you can eat English and digest it so well that you shit it out, and to some people, you will still not speak English.” 

 

“In times of crisis, day laborers are often the first responders.” 

 

“The workers think there are people along the chain of command who are watching out for them, but melanin and accents are ineffective binding substances.” 

 

“As an undocumented person, I felt like a hologram. Nothing felt secure. I never felt safe. I didn’t allow myself to feel joy because I was so scared to attach myself to anything I’d have to letgo of. Being deportable means you have to be ready to go at any moment, ready to go with nothing but the clothes on your body. I’ve learned to develop no relationship to anything, not to photos, not to people, not to jewelry or clothing or ticket stubs or stuffed animals from childhood. Sometimes to prove my ability to let go, I’ll write something long and delete it, or go on my phone and delete all the photos I have of happy memories. I’ve never loved a material object.” 

 

“People were scared. And scared people are vulnerable.” 

 

“‘How many years have you spent in this country? How often do you have nightmares?’ / ‘Every night, they say.’” 

 

“What promises can you make to a child about the world of possibility ahead of them when the state has poisoned their bloodstreams and bones such that their behavioral self-control and language comprehension are impaired? How many graves has the government of Michigan set aside for the casualties of the water crisis that will end in a gunshot in fifteen years’ time? We all know how cops respond to kids of color with intellectual disabilities or mental illness.” 

 

“When you’re undocumented, you’re the last to know.” 

 

“What I saw in Flint was a microcosm of the way the government treats the undocumented everywhere, making the conditions in this country as deadly and toxic and inhumane as possible so that we will self-deport. What I saw in Flint was what I had seen everywhere else, what I had felt in my own poisoned blood and bones. Being killed softly, silently, with impunity.” 

 

“Stories in the news often end at the deportation, at the airport scene. But each deportation means a shattered family, a marriage ending, a custody battle, children who overnight go from being raised by two parents to one parent with a single income, children who become orphans in foster care.” 

 

“And the higher moral law here is that people have the human right to move, to change location, if they experience hunger, poverty, violence, or lack of opportunity, especially if that climate in their home countries is created by the United States, as is the case with most third world countries from which people migrate. Ain’t that ‘bout a bitch?” 

 

“The twisted inversion that many children of immigrants know is that, at some point, your parents become your children, and your own personal American dream becomes making sure they age and die with dignity in a country that has never wanted them. […] This country takes their youth, their dreams, their labor, and spits them out with nothing to show for it.” 

 

“For my family, poverty is like walking in a hurricane. I buy my parents umbrella after umbrella; each provides some relief, then breaks – cheap fixes, all of them.” 

 

“It [physical and mental health issues in immigrants brought on by conditions the country puts immigrants in] is a public health crisis and it’s hard to know how to talk about it without feeding into the right-wing propaganda machine that already paints immigrants as charges to the healthcare system and carriers of disease. The trick to doing it is asking Americans to pity us while reassuring them with a myth as old as the country’s justifications for slavery […] the myth that people of color are long-suffering marvels, built to do harder work, built to last longer and handle more […] We can only tell them we’re sick if we remind them that sick or not, we are able to still be high-functioning machines.” 

 

 

This book is a YA situation that appealed to me on a very deep level. I grew up playing soccer because my father played. And my brothers too, though they were younger than me, they started before me and I decided to try because, I don’t know, sibling FOMO maybe? Anyways, it turned out to be a great choice because, though my skill was clearly never what Furia’s was (and though my general experience with team spirit/support definitely didn’t touch Camila’s either), I DID make two of my longest friends from it. In fact, they are half of my long-distance book club today! So, I’d say it was more than worth it. Plus, of course, there is true joy in playing hard and leaving everything you’ve got out on the field. And just in general, soccer is an important sport for my family – we never had cable growing up, but we would get short term contracts for it every four years for the World Cup and we would watch every game – even the ones between low ranked teams or that ended in a draw after 90 minutes of scorelessness. It was just…a big thing. And even with those fantastic memories of watching, and my own personal fun playing (fully supported by my family), there is a lot that about Camila’s story that hit home while reading…we never got as into woman’s games/tournaments and things like “women’s play just isn’t as exciting” was commonly heard. I never really questioned it. And it was nothing like the barriers or backlash Camila faced. And yet…there are recognizable threads of commonality. So basically, that’s a super long intro for me to say: I’m into soccer (and Spanish – that’s what I studied in undergrad), so you know I’m gonna read an Argentinian-set, feminist, soccer-themed, YA novel!    

 

Camila has a big secret. At home, she lives in the shadow of her mother’s expectations, her brother’s fútbol career and, mostly, the looming fear and tension of her father’s anger. But they don’t know that outside of the home, she too is playing fútbol, the star of a local women’s team, even though women are supposed to play, and she definitely wouldn’t be allowed if they knew. On a larger scale she’s living surrounded in a country soaked in dangerous machismo, facing the ever-present danger of becoming the next “disappeared” girl. And of course, there’s the added complication that Diego, her first love, her childhood best friend, is now a major international fútbol star and is back in town. 

 

I loved Camila. From the very first page her ambition is palpable and drives her daily life and decisions and I loved that about her and for her. But even with all her inner strength, she is facing some truly difficult environmental threats to her success, like her father’s temper and societal expectations and judgements. (So, so many judgements; even from many of the supportive people in her life.) So yea, she is dealing with many of the normal teenage stressors, plus the additional issues of inter-family violence and poverty and oppressive anti-feminist culture. And fútbol is her dream and her escape, both in the present and for the future. I loved the way that passion for the game was woven into everything, as a fan and as a talented player. It is central to the story because it is central to the country, the culture, her family, and Camila herself. It was done in a way that might sometimes seem over the top for anyone who is not a fan, but felt so real within the context. I know I already said this, but I loved how focused Camila was – it’s the kind of drive that takes a person from one level to the next, the way that leads to true success. Within that, I loved her team and coach. They were so encouraging of her dream to play on a bigger stage, with all the support and toughness that comes with that kind of co-dreaming. I did feel like, at times, some of her closest people, Coach Alicia and Roxana, got a bit pushy/judge-y about Diego in a way that felt extreme/negative to me personally, but looking at the bigger picture and the sociocultural reality, it also makes sense. Relatedly, I did appreciate that the author presented first love in a nuanced way (though with some very cheesy dialogue) – something that Camila very much longed for and wanted (reasonable), but that she knew when to put her foot down against in order to protect her own dreams and not lose herself to it (impressive). What genuineness and strength! Basically, I love loved Camila’s fire, her fury, on and off the field. 

 

I want to highlight here how amazing the female relationships in this book were. Honestly. They were often not perfect and I love them more for it. This novel is very much based in a reality where the daily limitations and trauma women face are overwhelming (to say the least) and Méndez honored and recognized this reality while cushioning it for the reader by also highlighting the female solidarity that was created within it. As I said, the team support and spirit were gorgeous pieces. As was, though difficult, the inclusion of the feminist movement calling for an end to the insidious and pervasive violence against women. In addition, the mother-daughter relationship between Camila and her mother was so wonderfully complex, developing dual desire to protect, but frustration at being unable to, and the “wanting the best for” the other in a way that is both safe and fulfilling (but again, not always within their power to grant). It was heartbreaking and heartwarming in turns and just so authentic.   

 

I truly loved how the story wrapped up and played out in regards to relationships versus personal dreams, and wanting both and making tough decisions, but not letting that stop one from still indulging in feelings and hope for both. I love the message that it’s ok to be competitive and successful and still want love and the ending leaves us (those who “want it all”) with such hope, but, again, within a realistic boundary. Also, the title is just perfect: Furia is both a great nickname for Camila and encapsulates many of the feelings I had while reading because of the impotence of myself (as the reader) and the characters (as women) to stay safe or affect change or achieve dreams as “normally” as should be the case. Finally, the narrator was spectacular – the perfect voice for Camila and phenomenal in bringing the story and characters and setting and emotions to life.   

 

The novel was just a beautiful ode to achieving dreams while still recognizing the limitations and losses that exist within and around that success in a way that is important for teens to see/read and will absolutely still resonate with adult readers. You can tell the love and pride Méndez has for her country (her barrio) and fútbol, even with full recognition of its flaws and the need for change, and you can feel her heartbeat all throughout this story.  

 

“When boys and men became angry, they tried to fix the world by breaking it down with their fists.” 

 

“Her ears were trained to detect any kind of lie, but her heart was trained to ignore the things she couldn’t deal with.” 

 

“...prejudice didn’t read or obey laws. It was a hard weed to pull from people’s hearts.” 

 

“One day, when a girl was born in Rosario, the earth would shake with anticipation for her future and not dread.” 

 

“The sense of wonder and possibility – that I owed to the Argentine women who had fought for freedom before the universe conspired and the stars aligned to make me.” 

“Always be proud to play like a girl.” 

 

I read The Mothers a few years ago and generally enjoyed and was impressed by the debut. Bennett did a wonderful job writing real, flawed, “regular people” characters in a genuine and interesting way. So, I definitely knew that I’d look into anything she wrote next. And then The Vanishing Half came out this past summer and basically blew up the literary world (and, honestly, lots of the non-literary world as well), so I knew that at some point I would for sure be reading this sophomore novel. Considering the popularity, it took me awhile to get it, since all the library holds list (no matter the format) were super long. But timing worked out, because I got it in time to read it both as my first long-distance book club choice of the year and as part of my reading the Aspen Words Literary Prize 2021 longlist read-through (this is my 9th book of the 15). 

 

Desiree and Stella are twins, born in the small town of Mallard, LA in the 1950s. As teenagers, they leave together for New Orleans, mostly not looking back, but once there, these formerly inseparable sisters’ lives change course(s) dramatically. Desiree wakes up one morning to find Stella gone without warning. Years later, Desiree comes back to Mallard, with a young daughter that she raises with her mother in her hometown. While Stella lives near Los Angeles, passing as a white woman, living a life with a husband and daughter who know nothing about her past or true racial identity. This novel follow both Desiree and Stella as their lives diverge, as well as, as the years pass, the very different trajectories their daughters’ (Jude and Kennedy, respectively) paths take. But as everyone knows, the past, and secrets, never stay hidden, even if it takes until the next generation to find them. 

 

Well, this novel definitely cements Bennett’s ability to tell a dang story. The flow of these lives was compelling right from the start. And with characters as complex and nuanced as these, with such phenomenal explorations of belonging and what it meant and looked like for each, it’s really no wonder. Although this particular novel highlights some really unique types of journeys, particularly focusing on the idea of passing (from both a racial and gender/transgender perspective, in a parallel whose seemingly effortless interwovenness cannot be overstated), Bennett still shines in the writing of overall “normal” lives. The intricacies of everyday life, from finding employment and financial stability to motherhood/mother-daughter connections (a real star in both novels) to making friends and finding connection to working towards a satisfying life/future are all on display in such a recognizable way. Plus, Bennett is a master of a striking single line summary of big concepts; these types of passages are woven throughout the novel and I pulled out a number of them to highlight at the end of this review. 

 

Generally, I felt like everything was incredibly well-paced, pulling me along in a way that made me want to keep turning pages, but not so fast that depth of character development was sacrificed. The only complaint that I have, on this front, was the way it all wrapped up. It wasn’t the fact that it was “predictable,” because how else could it have possibly gone? It wasn’t the sort of open-endedness we have with many stories, because honestly, isn’t the chance to change and create the future that goal of everyone involved? But it was more that it felt rushed, a bit. With such a character (not so much plot) focused novel, with such care given to their individual journeys, the last chapter seemed too hasty to really do justice to the “open future for each” concept of the ending. 

  

Looking at the topical lessons and considerations of this novel, it was super striking, though in an altogether subtle way. Bennett is so straightforward, but smooth, in the way she presents the conceptualization that “passing” as something/someone else is completely in the belief system of the beholder (and, therefore, society). Both in Stella’s case, as a Black woman passing as white, and in Reese’s case, as a transgender man, they are often exhausted, sometimes frozen, by ever-present fear of and constant vigilance against people finding out their “secret” will lead to swift, terrible (and likely violent) reaction. And yet, while no one “knows,” they are treated as exactly what they are physically presenting as. Although there are many deeper layers to the differences between skin color and gender identity that makes them apples and oranges comparisons, of course, the point that those (surface) “differences” are completely false, totally arbitrary, only present due to the imposed structures and expectations and lines of society, is absolute, irrefutable, truth. 

 

With a deeper look at the comparisons between Desiree’s and Stella’s lives, Bennett also explores the way Stella’s life may be more financially stable and “easy,” but the mental strain/familial costs are high while Desiree’s life is less objectively comfortable and there are the many health and social costs related to being Black in America, but her connections with people important to her are stronger without being based in so many lies. It’s honestly a fascinating “case study” of a story, because neither situation is just plain good, but the questions Bennett raises and the commentary she makes about the reality of life are so weighty. In the end, both twins are just trying in their own ways to escape the societal expectations/limitations they were born into, in their own ways. But, in the end, it isn’t possible to outrun structural issues on a personal level. As a side note here, I did enjoy some of the light ironic humor in Stella’s life choices and the career path her daughter chose. It was a snarky sort of inclusion, compared to the rest of the story, but I felt like Bennett handled it well. And I also want to say that I felt like Stella’s story was more deeply looked at than Desiree’s, which makes sense thinking about their individual lives/arcs, but still presented as a bit uneven. Jude and Kennedy were a bit more evenly portrayed and developed, by comparison, though the mother-daughter relationship between Stella-Kennedy, for similar reasons to Stella’s life be more focal, felt more intricately explored to me. Perhaps because Jude got a separate an extra connection development with Reese? Anyways, that doesn’t really matter, much, just observations in real time as I think back having just finished reading.      

 

This is a great work of literary fiction, providing the reader with insightful societal observations on topics ranging from motherhood to race to gender expectations to personal hopes/desires and more, moving character development and moving emotional connections to the arcs of their stories, and fluid writing that communicates it all with a practiced nonchalance that belies its perceptiveness. A more than worthy follow-up to The Mothers that really delivers – no easy feat considering the level of hype.  

 

“Sometimes who you were came down to the small things.” 

 

“Big thinking crushed by reality – that’s what he’d inherited.” 

 

“That was the problem: you could never love two people the exact same way.” 

 

“She felt queasy at how simple it was. All there was to being white was acting like you were.” 

 

“People thought that being one of a kind made you special. No, it just made you lonely. What was special was belonging with someone else.” 

 

“How real was a person if you could shed her in a thousand miles?” 

 

“But maybe the rich didn’t feel a need to hide. Maybe wealth was the freedom to reveal yourself.” 

 

“Like all colonizers, the conquistador wrote their fiction into reality, their myths transforming history.” 

 

“She hadn’t realized how long it takes to become somebody else, or how lovely it can be living in a world not meant for you.” 

 

“There was nothing more tantalizing than the possibility of total destruction.” 

 

“The hardest part about becoming someone else was deciding to. The rest was only logistics.” 

 

“There were so many ways to be alienated from someone, few to actually belong.” 

 

“...death hit in waves. Not a flood, but water lapping steadily at her ankles. You could drown in two inches of water. Maybe grief was the same.” 

 

 

 

 

 

I've had this one on my TBR since it came out last year, so I'm excited to finally have gotten to it. I don't really have a lot else to say in this little intro. I had both the audiobook and physical book from the library, which I am realizing more and more that I really appreciate with heavier nonfiction like this. It helps me to move through it with the audio (plus, they're often read by the author, which is a favorite aspect, for me), but also gives me the chance to look back and "reread" and spend more time with the parts that strike me strongly with the physical copy. Plus, I've always been more of a visual learner, so the audio is great in many ways, but I also appreciate the chance to process in my preferred visual way alongside it. 

 

In Minor Feelings, poet Cathy Park Hong examines the racial reality of being Asian in America today, how history has created and built to this present-day reality, and spends some time in introspection regarding her education in art and career as a poet, including some critique of poetry and art and how they serve both her and others, but how they are co-opted by our racialized reality as well. 

 

Looking first at the opening essays that center on race in America and the specific place Asian Americans hold within that, I was so impressed with Hong's examination therein. It was very reminiscent, as far as Asian American identity, of what Yu dissects in Interior Chinatown, but brings an elite level of intellectualism to the topics, as the nonfiction format allows. Hong speaks magnificently to the flattening of Asians in America from a varied (geographically and culturally) people, to a monolith within model minority myth, in a way that disappears them, within the greater racial struggle (with the exception, as she mentions, of those who outwardly appear Muslim or in combination with another similarly marginalized/"feared" identity). This moves her into a discussion of Asian's role in racial tension, both as the victims of numerous racial oppressions and, on the other side, perpetrators of it (both inter-racially and intra-racially)...a situation with endless shades of grey in which she unabashedly "comes clean" on her own related mistakes, shortcomings, oversights and growth. One concept that she mentions in this first section that really stuck out to me was the contradiction of minority childhood and adulthood. She points out the way that white people force minority youth to grow up/"lose innocence" incredibly young (especially compared to white children) while simultaneously infantilizing/condescending to minority adults, which leads to the unique inability of racial minority family parents to protect themselves and their children from the white cultural majority. She presents what is really a complex situation in the most concise, straightforward and (rightfully) condemning way I've ever seen it and it's very affecting.      

 

In the sections that lean more memoir-ish, I really enjoyed Hong's discussion of how her female Asian identity has informed and been intertwined with her own art and poetry, the way she struggled against it and wanted to represent it. There are a few examples and comparisons that she uses, almost like case studies, including Richard Pryor's comedy and Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee, that really helped me, as a reader, conceptualize the esoterica of what she was talking about. I also particular liked the essay "Bad English" in which she talks about reclaiming language (vocabulary, speaking patterns, accents) that used to embarrass her in her poetry. In addition, the discussion about what is cultural appropriation and what is cross-cultural inspiration is fascinating and difficult. Though Hong technically provides no answers, the questions are thought-provoking and important to consider. The other art parts, especially about Hong's time in college and her experiences with friends and fellow artists there, was just not my cup of tea. I did admire her openness to showing her own "ugly" or darker sides/moments, but I just was less invested in that entire section, as a reader. 

 

Overall, this was a really great addition to historic and cultural/media racial inequalities criticism in the US, particularly from Hong's Asian American lens. I felt like in general it was a bit disjointed, both within the essays themselves and in the changes of style/topic from essay to essay throughout the collection. I would have loved a little more cohesiveness or consistency in the flow and format. However, Hong brought the fire, no equivocations, from the very opening. Though there was some drag in the middle for me, she brought it back in the end to close things out with similar passion. I really appreciated my time with this collection and can say for sure that it added to my knowledge-base and awareness.        

 

MANY passages were highlight while reading. Here are a few: 

 

“But while I may look impassive, I am frantically paddling my feet underwater, always over-compensating to hide my feelings of inadequacy.” (Well, that couldn’t be more relatable.) 

 

“Patiently educating a clueless white person about race is draining. It takes all your powers of persuasion. Because it’s more than a chat about race. It’s ontological. It’s like explaining to a person why you exist, or why you feel pain, or why your reality is distinct to their reality. Except it’s even trickier than that. Because the person has all of Western history, politics, literature, and mass culture on their side, proving that you don’t exist.” 

 

“It’s a funny thing about racialization in America [...] Whatever power struggle your nation had with other Asian nations – most of it the fallout of Western imperialism and the Cold War – is steamrolled flat by Americans who don’t know the difference.” 

 

“...the illusion of assimilation. The privilege of assimilation is that you are left alone. But assimilation must not be mistaken for power, because once you have acquired power, you are exposed, and your model minority qualifications that helped you in the past can be used against you, since you are no longer invisible.” 

 

“Literature supposedly bridges cultural divides, an axiom that rang false once I understood the inequities of the publishing industry.” 

 

“The ethnic literary project has always been a humanist project in which nonwhite writers must prove they are human beings who feel pain.” 

 

“...minor feelings: the racialized range of emotions that are negative, dysphoric, and therefore untelegenic, built from the sediments of everyday racial experience and the irritant of having one’s perception of reality constantly questioned or dismissed. Minor feelings arise, for instance, upon hearing a slight, knowing it’s racial, and being told, Oh that’s all in your head.” 

 

“Minor feelings occur when American optimism is enforced upon you, which contradicts your own racialized reality, thereby creating a static of cognitive dissonance.” 

 

“Innocence is both a privilege and a cognitive handicap, a sheltered unknowingness that, once protracted into adulthood, hardens into entitlement.” 

 

“My shame is not cultural but political. It is being painfully aware of the power dynamic that pulls at the levers of social interactions and the cringing indignity of where I am in that order either as the afflicted – or as the afflicter.” 

 

“Suddenly Americans feel self-conscious of their white identity and this self-consciousness misleads them into thinking their identity is under threat. In feeling wrong, they feel wronged. In being asked to be made aware of racial oppression, they feel oppressed.” 

 

“Denial is always the salve, though it is merely topical...” 

 

“Capitalism as retribution for racism. But isn’t that how whiteness recruits us? Whether it’s through retribution or indebtedness, who are we when we become better than them in a system that destroyed us?” 

“I want to destroy the universal. I want to rip it down. It is not whiteness but our contained condition that is universal, because we are the global majority. But we I mean nonwhites, the formerly colonized; survivors, such as Native Americans, whose ancestors have already lived through end times; migrants and refugees living through end times currently, fleeing the droughts and floods and gang violence reaped by climate change that’s been brought on by Western empire.” 

 

“I’d rather be indebted than be the kind of white man who thinks the world owes him, because to live an ethical life is to be held accountable to history.” 

 

This is the 8th book from the Aspen Words Literary Prize 2021 longlist that I have read (halfway through the list!)…and I am pretty sure it’s going to make it onto my shortlist prediction. Because holy *deep breath* this is a powerhouse of a novel. 

Against the Loveless World is narrated by Nahr, a Palestinian woman currently serving a (likely) life-sentence in an Israeli solitary confinement prison known as the Cube. We meet her in that present state and, as the novels unfolds, she walks us through the four walls and daily life in the Cube, as well as the story of her life that led from working in beauty salons to her time, if you will, as a political activist and revolutionary. She begins the story with her time as a young wife, abandoned by her husband and led to work as a dancer and escort in Kuwait. We follow her and her family’s escape to Jordan as refugees after Iraq invades Kuwait. Her time in Jordan is marked by a loss of place and self, so she travels to Palestine to finalize her divorce and visit her own country after years away. While there, Nahr really find her stride, finding strength in who she is as a person and what she has endured, as well as a deep pride in her homeland and culture. She joins a resistance group led by Bilal, a man with whom she develops a deep personal and emotional connection, and we see her final transformation into a woman willing to risk everything to bring her native land back to her family and people. 

That was a long summary blurb, but I wanted to get all the parts of the story in there, because this review is going to really focus in on the writing and story and political messages within the novel and I wanted to make sure the scene was fully set for that. This book demonstrates the generational and intergenerational repeating trauma of forced displacement and being refugees with horrifying precision. Within Nahr’s family, she and her mother and grandmother are forced out of homes as refugees two, three, four times within their lives, having to restart over and over in places that are not and will never be their true homes, treated as outsiders in all cases. In a similar vein, Abulhawa writes the trauma of colonialism, the way that even is Nahr and her family had not been forced to flee Palestine, they would still be living within the tragedy of the “colonial logic of interlopers who cannot abide our presence or our joy.” It is such a desolate universal Indigenous experience and reading the way Abulhawa writes it, the reader cannot help but both empathize with Nahr and also completely understand the clarity of the road to radicalization. It is, in fact, such a human response to the “ceaseless accumulation of injustice” she, her family, her friends, her homeland face; one that should, truthfully, be harder not to imagine or agree with. 

I also have to mention the way Nahr herself, her life and story, are handled. Every relationship she develops has a nuanced and complicated development, one that infuses it with a believability and depth that made her, for me as the reader, seem so absolutely real. That is a testament to Abulhawa’s writing, research, knowledge and passion for this story and the topics within. Back to Nahr, her fight to be her own person, accepted for and with her flaws and passions and “ruin,” within strict boundaries that don’t allow that much obvious and loud spirit/strength for her, both a woman and a refugee, is inspiring. It takes her time, and experiencing more pain that I can even imagine (loss, violence against her own person and many of those closest to her, judgement, loneliness and more), but it makes the transformation, the personal decision to fight alongside those she loves most for something she believes in deeply, that much more stirring. Specifically, here, I want to take a moment to highlight her relationship with Bilal. It is both independent of and thanks to their Palestinian roots that their connection grows. And it is, quite simply, a gorgeous testament to the power of emotional love and connection. Their relationship, its sacrifice and openness, despite the harshness of each of their lives/truths, forges a bond that is incredibly strong and profound and that feeling I had while reading that will stay with me for a long time. Their defiance in loving that hard in the face of the “loveless world” devastated me. And Nahr’s unbelievable courage in showing vulnerability after everything and in such an uncertain and dangerous world will shatter you.         

This novel is a heartfelt love letter to Palestine; the author’s devotion to its people, culture, land, nature, traditions are demonstrated with word and action and remembrance on almost every page. This novel is also a plea to the world to recognize unbelievable colonial atrocity occurring in real time that is not just ignored, but supported, by the great world powers. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking and Abulhawa’s passion as an activist is so distinct. Against the Loveless World hits with the emotional impact of a freight train, the intellectual criticism to support it, and phenomenal writing that both softens and intensifies the blows. 

 

“Nothing can move in confinement, not even the heart.” 

“But I know now that going from place to place is just something exiles have to do. Whatever the reason, the earth I never steady beneath our feet.” 

“No therapist or clergy can substitute for the confidence of a whore, because whores have no voice in the world, no avenue to daylight, and that makes us the most reliable custodians of secrets and truth.” 

“But even the best inventions for confinement and subjugation cannot account for life’s resolve to freedom.” 

“Their friendship revived and spread roots in the terrain of a grief particular to martyrdom, where the anguish of less mixes with pride, resolve, the desire for vengeance, and camaraderie.” 

“What’s truly revolutionary in this world is to relinquish the belief that you have a right to an opinion about who another person chooses to fuck and why.” 

“Honor is an expendable luxury when you have no means or shelter in this fucking world.” 

“Western do-gooders were trying to bring Palestinian and Israeli kids together, as if our condition was just a matter of two equal sides who didn’t like each other, instead of the world’s last remaining goddamn settler colonial project.” (THIS, why can’t we all see this?) 

“...concepts of respectability and modernity are manufactured.” 

“...it occurred to me that happiness can reach such depths that it becomes something akin to grief.” 

“I suppose that’s what made them revolutionaries. They were all-in, with everything they had, and that meant rummaging through defeat and disappointment to find a new plan and cause for hope.” 

“The tenacity of heartache can take a toll on the body.” 

“...but I knew I could never again be complete in one place. This was what it meant to be exiled and disinherited – to straddle closed borders, never whole anywhere.” 

“To survive by loving each other means to love our ancestors too. To know their pain, struggles, joys. It means to love our collective memory, who we are, where we come from…” 

“Tragic, how we adjusted our sense of normal.” 

“I indulge an illicit fantasy of a world that would have allowed us to simply live, raise children, hold jobs, move freely on earth, and grow old together. I allow myself to imagine the dignities of home and freedom might be the purview of the wretched of this earth.” 

 

 

I’ve seen literally nothing but rave reviews for this collection. Some major bookstagrammers who always have the inside track on great new releases, as well as some smaller ones whose recommendations I’ve come to just really just will line up with my own appreciations. So naturally I added myself to the library waitlist for this one and my hold finally came in! Before I jump into my review, let me just take a moment here to note that this book is so perfectly little, almost like the size of a devotional, which is both adorable and hilariously, snarkily, on point. 

As always with short story collections, I’m going to give a little blurb/reaction for each story as I read it and then I will end with some overall thoughts. 

Eula – Well oh my goodness and holy sh*t, if this is the start, then I already get the hype. This is 11 pages of freaking perfection. Cuttingly and succinctly, this story stabs right into the heart of a religious matter that I have long wondered about/not understood: so many people who are marginalized and condescended to and hurt by the church still so strongly have faith. I admire that in some ways, but in others, the pull-quote I included sums up my feelings. If you are belittled and harmed on account of/in accordance with the word of God, as so many peoples (women and LGBTQ being two of those groups I personally Identify with) have been over the centuries, how is there not more questioning? If not of the belief itself, then at least a more critical examination of those who “interpret” it to/for us and the way it’s used to rationalize so much evil. In any case, Philyaw is asking the tough questions from the word go! “‘I don’t question God.’ ‘But maybe you should question the people who taught you this version of God.’”    

Not-Daniel­ – Short, but impactful, insight into grief, the way it drives some people together (looking for knowledge of mutual understanding and need for escape) in a way that is both real and…not, in the greater picture. A tender look at what, to use the character’s word, relief physical connection can provide, essential even if/when it’s not morally clear. 

Dear Sister – Mmmmm, this one is pretty heart-wrenching, but its all wrapped up in a outer layer of dark humor and love and some absolutely gorgeous commentary on how no matter what brings people together, even if it’s bad, there is a goodness, a powerful supportiveness, a reaching out that comes with the connections formed from those circumstances. Also, a touching look at the way different people deal with those who let them down, especially when it’s a parent, the different defense and coping mechanisms and hope that carry them through. “Is it better to have the one big hurt of your father not being around and not all those little hurts that come when he disappoints you? Or is it better to have a piece of a father, hurts and all?” / “Because he was a man who took without giving, he left us nothing to grieve.”  

Peach Cobbler – Oh my goodness, this story of involuntary intergenerational patterns, internalized shame and the expectations of deserving that come with money/power (in this case, the power of being a faith-based leader…and the veritable mountain of hypocrisy inherent there), and a whole heap of the “stuck” that comes with no better options being available is enough to make your heart crack right open with sorrow. A hit straight to the solar plexus. “They can raise their child however they see fit. But I’m not going to raise mine to go through life expecting it to be sweet when, for her, it ain’t going to be. The sooner she learns to accept what is and what ain’t, the better. She get a taste of that sweetness, she’s going to want it so bad, she’ll grow up and settle for crumbs of it.”

Snowfall – Such a bittersweet feeling. The having to choose between missing and nostalgia and a history of love or living a current truth and fulfilling the place in your life where a partner lives. Unimaginable choices between types of home and family. Immeasurable small moments of trauma that you have to both learn to deal with and accept/forgive when it doesn’t happen (or causes lashing out). And yet, there are still so many small wonderful moments too. Phew. This was a tough one to read. “But like a beautiful quilt in summertime, my mother’s love was the suffocating kind, the kind you chafe against and don’t miss until the seasons changes and it’s gone.” / “And I wonder if I will ever stop noticing and cataloging all the things we do here that we didn’t – couldn’t – do back home. I wonder if that catalog will ever grow long enough to become enough. For me.” / “My mother who had been my soft place to land. Until she wasn’t.” 

How to Make Love to a Physicist – Ohhhh I loved the format and flow of this story. I enjoyed the way is really got into the human interpretation of “the word of God” and the limits that puts into, the guilt it infuses into, his purpose/message/goals. A really unique and great take on science and religion! I also loved the way this story was about about self-discovery and the discovery of compatibility with another and how one (the second) cannot be “full” without the other (the first) being developed/ready. The mental self-talk here, talking oneself down/out of something, is recognizable as all hell. Also, the connection between the MCs made me feel super good in this one – that’s what “true” love is for me, that connection. “Even Einstein “So…I say all of this to say that sometimes wheels are set in motion long before the spark is manifest. Is that the same thing as fate? I don’t know, but I do know that rare, brilliant events take time.” 

Jael – Oh, wow. I loved this one. It might be my favorite so far. What a build in the story and (not knowing the Bible myself) what a way to connect a biblical name/story to this present-day character. I loved the way Jael’s history, what she’d experienced (horrible as it was), shaped who she became and the choices she made. Plus, the alternating great-grandmother/great-granddaughter perspectives, that gave two unique and opposing interpretations of Jael’s story, with their separate judgements and justifications and “sins” and acceptances gave such nuance to the narrative. Just really spectacularly developed overall. “Granny always say, Every shut-eye ain’t sleep. And that’s how I am. I don’t tell everything I know. I keep some stuff to myself. Sometimes forever, sometimes till the time is right. I just let people think I don’t know what’s going on. And then, when they least expect it…I strike.” 

Instructions for Married Christian Husbands – This story has snark and a bite and I am here for it! I want this to be about the daughter, Olivia, from Peach Cobbler. In my head, it is. But yea, this one had me smirking from start to finish, physically, literally. SO good. “You can’t save me, because I’m not in peril.” 

When Eddie Levert Comes – This is a tough one, a complex mother-daughter relationship with pain and hurt from the past, the yearning for love despite that and the unknowable horror of losing mind/memory to illness as you age. It’s a tender and harsh in equal measure, as the story demands. Probably the least strong, for me, of the collection, but still, the quieter burn to this one is quite the lingering feel to end on. “She understood how your heart was still connected to your mama, even if she hurt you sometimes.” 

Whoa. The hype for this one was real – it lives up to it and more. It might, in fact, be the first short story collection I ever give 5 stars to. I always struggle because with collections, as some are stand-outs and some, inevitably, fall flat. But seriously, this entire book was brilliant from start to finish. Spanning “blasphemous” decisions/acts from abortion to murder to queer love to parental disrespect to violence to infidelity to more, these stories really do expose the “secret” lives of religious/faithful men and women. The title is spot on and the stories deliver, showing the hidden lives behind the faces you see (or no longer see) in church versus what is shown/told to the world. Plus, the many ways that family connections can be and grow and exist, especially and particularly with a focus on mother-daughter relationships, is touching and fulfilling and heartbreaking in many ways. I was engrossed in each story, loved the experience of reading this collection, and am just so impressed with the ringing truths within each character’s reality, displayed with such equal compassion and severity. I highly, highly, highly, recommend this (physically) small but (emotionally) vast collection.  

As an “afterwards” I’d like to add the following: I watched an IG live with Philyaw and @ablackmanreading when I was about halfway through reading this and they were talking about the screen adaptation of this collection that was just announced (yay!). Philyaw talked about how she is considering connecting these in a sort of universe, where certain characters in some stories show up as side characters in others, beyond what was actually in this book. And I spent the second half of my reading experience trying to imagine any/all possible “universe” combination connections. It was super fun. And now I really can’t wait to watch how it actually happens!  

 

 

My 7th book on the Aspen Words Literary Prize 2021 Longlist and this is one that was neither on my radar at all prior to this list nor one that I read anything about before picking it up (or, to be fair, starting the audio...the narrator for which has a particularly grating voice, in my opinion, though it did end up fitting the overall vibe of the story pretty well). Anyways, the point is that I went into this one with no expectations or preconceptions, which is pretty rare for me these days. 

 

A Children's Bible is a sort of post-apocalyptic, parent/privilege judging, Bible parable. A very strange combination. It opens with a group of families going on vacation together, but, as it is told from the POV of the children (one in particular) it's got a very harsh "adults are dumb" tone to it. Though, in this case, it's hard to argue, since these adults seemed particularly detached from reality and the amount of attention they put into parenting appears to border on neglect. Anyways, a large hurricane hits and sends their location into an end of the world situation, with a children-adult split, illness, lawlessness, violence and all sorts of doomsday-prepping situations. And, as I said, it is all set against the backdrop of Bible allusions and the absolute opposition of realities of the "haves" and have-nots" of the world. 

 

I need to just go ahead and say, right off here at the start, that this book just wasn’t for me. I am going to say a number of things I was impressed by or appreciated objectively, because I think that’s only fair. And I cannot honestly think of many things truly wrong with it, nothing struck me as particularly problematic, which is the only type of thing I give negative review for (at least, that’s my goal, in being critical and opinionated, but fair). So, this is still getting a neutral three stars from me. But I definitely was not a personal fan of this book. It just didn’t vibe with me.  

 

First, there was so much Bible stuff up in here. And now maybe I should have guessed that, based on the title and cover design, but the number of references and sort-of parallels (both overt and more subtle), as well as the clear attempts to subvert the original and or make some sort of commentary about it, was all a bit much for me. And this is coming from (for full disclosure) a very not-at-all-religious person. I will say though, I did in some ways appreciate the interpretation of the Bible from a “non-indoctrinated” child’s perspective, as well as the clear lines drawn re: God and Jesus being essentially the same thing as, metaphors for perhaps, science and nature. It was an interesting and unique take. 

 

The other major theme, that of the contempt children have for parents/adults was almost theatrical in how hard the author pushed it. I mean, Millet definitely captures the dismissal of age that youth have. And, since it’s written from the children’s perspectives, the actual level of parental disinvolvement is up for question, since I feel like they’re very unreliable narrators on that front, but the evidence does point towards these particular parents being pretty shitty guardians. The one thing about this blatant theme that I did feel was well done was the portrayal of the difference in what is important for youth versus for adults: the status placed on certain things (life, money, power, etc.) and the belief in systems along with the willingness (ability, even?) to adapt to new systems and situations. There is, truthfully, a resiliency and adaptability that children have that is really played up here, versus the “set in their ways” aspects of adulthood and adults’ (especially, in this case, privileged adults’) psychological incapacity to handle the end of everything that is familiar and knowable. It’s extreme, the way the children’s perspectives represent this adult separation from reality, almost to a satirical level (maybe?). But I see the points being made.   

 

This whole novel felt weirdly surreal to read. The writing was gorgeous, creating a sort of sarcastic and detached melancholic vibe, which is not a set of adjectives that I ever imagined using together. This novel is original and has some fascinating commentary about the social structures of the world as we know it, the way an inability to act selflessly, to let go of arbitrary social constructs and resistance to change will bring about an eventual downfall. But the strange and violent (CW: death/killing, light torture, general violence, substance use/misuse) Bible retelling parable style was just not a feel that worked for me.    

 

“If you could be nothing, you could also be everything. Once my molecules had dispersed, I would be here forever. Free. Part of the timeless. The sky and the ocean would also be me. Molecules never die…” 

“We knew the drill: leave no trace. Of course, there would always be traces. The trick was to hide them.” 

“Dryness was a temporary state. Like safety.” 

“What people wanted to be, but never could, traveled along beside them.” 

“We figured it was healthy, for the parents especially, not to try to deny the fact of what had been lost but to acknowledge it.” 

“’I think you solved it, Jack. In your notebook. Jesus was science. Knowing stuff. Right? And the Holy Ghost was all the things that people make. You remember? Your diagram said making stuff.’ ‘Yes. It did.’ ‘So maybe art is the Holy Ghost. Maybe art is the ghost in the machine.’ ‘Art is the ghost.’ ‘The comets and the stars will be our eyes,’ I told him. And I went on. The clouds the moon. The dirt the rocks the water and the wind. We call that hope, you see.”