Kaminsky is a masterful storyteller, but personally these poems didn't sing to me in the same way as Dancing in Odessa, it felt like they were missing soul. I didn't feel connected to the characters in the same way, and maybe that was the point. The jarring poem at the end about American violence was in many ways the most effective.

Triggering. All I could think about is the way my mother would always look at me and sigh and say "you'd be beautiful if only..." and that yearning, the empty hunger in her eyes is what fills Awad's expansive stories, each cataloging a moment of a former fat girl's life, collected together like a skeletal figure.

Daniel said "this is wack"

What I liked most about this book is that Mrs Wang and I share similar opinions on other works, from Ron Power's No One Cares about the Crazy People to Jamison's The Empathy Exams. Wang makes excellent, nuanced arguments about involuntary hospitalization, mental health and disability in colleges and addressing mental health in Asian American communities. It's as much of a personal memoir as it is cultural commentary.

I am just so.... confuse??? Like what in the what? But also I just wanted to shake the narrator into wakefulness?

In between the stories of teen angst, surprisingly supportive parents and a fair number of lesbian love tales there's a fair bit of representation in this book in terms of sexuality, religion, caste, etc. However, there could be more especially in terms of socioeconomic status. It felt like a book firmly for middle to upper middle class Indians, namely those whose parents migrated post 1965 with multiple degrees and a steady source of income.

There is just so much to love about this book, from the spotless arguments and the well placed comebacks to the gut wrenching truths McMillan Cottom lays out plainly for us. And the love that inspired McMillan, the deep rooted connection and belief in her people that propels the book is clear to see and appreciate.

Sometimes you read and wonder how many Bangladeshi women think about the same moments from 1971 as though the bloody memories was etched in our veins? The terror and rape of over 200,000 women by the Pakistani militia in one of the largest genocides of the 20th century paints Faizullah's work, as it does for many Bangladeshi authors. Her short, terse, tense pieces address the duality between her two worlds, America's oil fields and Bangladesh's rivers, the seam running between the country, the thread holding it and ultimately the author together.

Set in the bucolic Southern hood, Ward's debut novel is a tale as old as Cain and Abel complete with blind grandma's, crack fiends and a biblical Eve/Laila. What I liked most about the book was the way time worked. At times, Ward lingers on the moment drawing it out long and sultry like a summer evening slick and at other times she zips through action slipping through the reader's blinking eyes.

Wowowowowow I wish I could put into words what reading this book was like. The moments of vulnerability, like Jacob showing us her own biases and prejudices as a high school student, the heartbreak of teaching a young child about racism and colorism and all the ugly truths in the world, the sheer validation of seeing another woman who has gone through the same experiences as you. By turns hilarious, emotionally wry and stunning, Jacob delivers a heartfelt narrative.