This is an autobiographical piece written like poetry, which Vuong frames as a letter to his illiterate mother. The writing is gorgeous and heartbreaking; Vuong’s mother is shown lashing out at her young son in one moment, and then her own generational trauma as a war refugee is explored in the next. It’s not an excuse, but an exploration of root causes. Nothing needs to be explained if it’s all out there for you to see. Vuong peppers his experiences with those of his mother’s and grandmother’s, letting us see the impact of racism, class tension, and trauma across generations. He approaches his own experience with love similarly, letting us see his boyfriend in moments of both sweetness and toxic masculinity, showing us just enough of his background to help us recognize him as a product of his surroundings. Vuong has a beautiful deftness with words, and uses them to show how the people in his story manage to communicate love without using words at all.
Tag: genre-history
A Girl and Five Brave Horses, by Sonora Carver
In 1923, then-teenage Sonora answered an ad by William Carver looking for a “diving girl” to ride a horse as it plunged 11 feet from a tall platform into a pool of water below. She ended up joining Carver’s traveling entertainment act, performing around the country, and eventually marrying Carver’s son. In 1931, she hit the water wrong during a dive and suffered retinal detachment, eventually going blind; despite that, she continued to dive horses until their show ended when war broke out in 1942. The writing style of the book is straightforward and simplistic, with Carver demonstrating classic 1920s “spunky girl” attitude – unafraid to speak her mind, but always acknowledging that the men around her had the power and she had to persuade them before she could have her way. I was particularly interested by her detailed description of how both girls and horses were trained to dive (only a few actually took to the training; she makes it clear that in her time with the show, no girl or horse was ever pushed beyond their comfort zone), and the construction of the diving platform and pool. Her account of her blindness and how she dealt with it (and how she preferred others to treat her) is actually a great section on dealing with disability from someone who never had to consider the issue before.: A Girl and Five Brave Horses, by Sonora Carver
The Storyteller, by Dave Grohl
Came for the rock’n’roll stories from an artist whose music I enjoy; stayed for the self-deprecating humor, unashamed fanboying, and poignant, heartfelt stories from a man who never stopped being grateful for the improbable delights in his life. Grohl grew up in northern Virginia, so I was able to identify both with his childhood memories of the DC area as well as his feelings of recognition and homecoming every time he returned. I particularly liked listening to him narrate the audiobook; his enjoyment of storytelling was palpable and a delight to the listener.
The Good Immigrants, by Madeline Y. Hsu
Note: this is a textbook, not an entertaining nonfiction piece; each chapter lays out its thesis and then proceeds to buttress it with a straightforward recitation of facts and sources. Occasionally a person of historical interest appears whose story falls in line with the theme of the chapter, but no effort is made to carry any particular character through the narrative. That said, I found the book direct and focused, and the topic was of particular interest to me as I feel I have likely benefited greatly from the privilege of being seen as a “model minority,” and my own parents’ entry to the US on student visas fell perfectly in line with the path created to admit only the most useful, productive, and assimible immigrants. As Hsu demonstrates, the model minority stereotype was generated purposely by both Chinese governments and their American allies to sell a favorable impression of a certain type of immigrant (read: open to Western-education, non-“coolie”). The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was popular for quite some time, reflecting the “yellow peril” fear that gripped much of America; however, a loose coalition of missionaries, academics, and diplomats banded together to open narrow avenues were opened to the the “right” kind of Chinese immigrant. The avenues had to be narrow, so that quotas and other limitations could remain in place to reassure the racist majority that Chinese would never be admitted in large numbers. Gradually, over decades, the determined PR of the coalition of American allies, as well as shifting political landscapes, successfully sold the favorable stereotype of the hardworking, nonthreatening Chinese immigrant. On the one hand it’s a remarkable success story of the power of patient, relentless PR over reflexive racism; on the other hand it’s enraging to see the knots in which people had to twist themselves in order to appear the right mixture of harmless and desirable, in order to be so grudgingly accepted.
Follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence, by Doris Pilkington / Nugi Garimara
True story of three half-Aboriginal girls who were taken from their homes in 1930 and placed in a settlement to unlearn their heritage (back home we’d call it a residential school). Finding their treatment unacceptable, they escaped, found the fence built across Australia to contain the invasive rabbit population, and followed it on foot for 2400km to get back to their homes. One of the girls was Molly, mother of the author, who told her story to her daughter. The story is very short and self-contained, ending soon after the girls arrive home; it does include many pieces of the historical record, which add a lot of background as to why the government thought it so necessary to round up and confine the girls. Very necessary voice from a generation mostly silenced by history.
The Porcelain Moon, by Janie Chang
Janie Chang’s historical fiction is always delightful on multiple levels; I learn new tidbits about history even as I get to read about star-crossed romances and young people trying to find their own way amid war and upheaval. The love stories and protagonists in this book are perfectly enjoyable to read about, but for me the surprise was the focus on the Chinese Labour Corps, which I had no idea existed. The Chinese Labour Corps (CLC) was composed of thousands of Chinese laborers sent to aid the British and French governments during WWI, performing essential frontline work such as loading and unloading materials, clearing trenches, and repairing roads; after the war, they were required to stay on for cleanup, recovering bodies and refill the trenches. CLC workers were cheap labor and treated as such, and many fell ill. At the conclusion of their terms of service, most were shipped home, but a few thousand stayed in France and seeded what would become later Chinese communities. The events in Chang’s book directly around the protagonists strain belief a bit, but the glimpse that she creates into the role of Chinese on the Western Front was very eye-opening and well done.
Gay Bar: Why We Went Out, by Jeremy Atherton Lin
I was expecting a somewhat more academic treatment of the role of gay bars in society and in history; instead, this is author Atherton Lin exploring his own personal journey through the succession of gay bars that he visited along the way. His perspective, that of an Asian-American navigating London and San Francisco, means that racism occasionally adds an additional layer of alienation onto his experience. He mixes everything together until none of it can be teased apart, from musings about identity and expression in social spheres, to analysis of society’s changing relationship with homosexuality, to detailed descriptions of smells and sensations of bodies in close contact, sometimes all within the same paragraph. He also illustrates ambience by rapidly listing off a succession of musicians, or brands, which I’m sure would have served as anchors for people who recognized them, but for me merely placed his already-foreign (to me) experiences into a landscape which I… didn’t recognize either. Still, it was definitely both educational and entertaining to journey along with Atherton Lin through his past, from adventurous naïf to jaded elder, interrogating society along the way. He doesn’t hesitate to turn the analysis on himself either: “I went out to bars to be literary. I drank to create content. If I earned a reputation for making trouble, it was so that I could write about it the following morning… There was an agency in the retelling, in the self-deprecation and of course self-mythologizing. Memoir is how you groom yourself. Memoir is drag.”
Stay True, by Hua Hsu
Part coming-of-age memoir, part elegy for a lost friend, this account by Hsu focuses mainly on his college years at Berkeley and how they formed his personality. The son of Taiwanese immigrants in search of an identity, Hsu aligned himself with the alternative to anything that was mainstream, creating zines and looking for undiscovered gems at record shops; when he meets Japanese-American Ken, a fraternity member clad in Abercrombie & Fitch and a fan of Dave Matthews, Hsu initially writes him off. They end up being friends though, teaching one another to love things neither would have chosen, sharing extremely Gen X formative experiences, and growing close in the way that only happens for college kids thrown together for long stretches at a time. However, when Ken becomes the victim of a senseless murder, Hsu is set adrift and must figure out how he wants to define himself once more. The moments in which he muses about all the adult experiences which he was unable to share with Ken are especially poignant.
The Land Before Avocado, by Richard Glover
Written as a riposte to people who claim that Australia of the 1960s and 70s was a better time, Glover’s book takes you back to the decade of his childhood in Canberra with witty, biting detail. He amazes his son with facts like the scarcity of avocado and coffee (unrecognizable in the Canberra of today, where sushi rolls and toast come with generous helpings of avocado, and even the tiniest restaurants boast a gleaming espresso machine), and racism, sexism, and corporal punishment are the norm. He mines his own memories as well as those of his radio listeners, and also cites fascinating snippets of the historical record in order to paint a picture of the era. He makes it very clear that he’d take being in the present over the past any day, warts and all, and makes the reader grateful for progress as well.
The Lincoln Highway, by Amor Towles
This story comes together so patiently and beautifully that you don’t mind that Towles obviously puppeted all of his characters into their places. The narrative switches between the leads as their storylines intersect, diverge, and braid together again; they observe one another, make piercingly astute observations and conclusions about one another, and then each proceeds to do exactly as he or she pleases. Serious, stoic Emmett, recently released from a boys’ work camp, is determined to do his best by his little brother Billy. Billy, who worships Emmett, is adorably innocent as well as stunningly perceptive; he thinks they ought to retrace their absent mother’s journey down the Lincoln Highway. Their road trip is complicated by the presence of two of Emmett’s former buddies from the work camp, Duchess and Woolly, who have their own ideas of where Emmett should be driving. What ensues is a roundabout journey by car, on foot, and by train that is shaped by accident as well as by intention. The book has weaknesses – coincidences are too pat, and the characters unrealistic in their quirks (even solid Emmett and practical Sally are somehow TOO solid and practical), but the writing is so beautiful that you can’t help but enjoy the ride.