This book felt like it took several turns; spoilers ahead. It begins with Isma, a British girl trying to enter the US on a student visa, getting profiled for her Pakistani heritage; once in Boston she is delighted to meet Eamonn, another Londoner, but realizes to her dismay that he’s the son of a prominent UK politician whose advice to fellow Muslims is to assimilate as smoothly as possible. Just when you think this might going to be a story about young love finding a way to build tolerance, the story abruptly pivots away from Isma and focuses on Aneeka, her prettier sister back in the UK, whose photo had caught Eamonn’s eye to the point that he goes back to the UK to hit on her, after which they begin a hugely problematic relationship. BUT THEN the story pivots once more to Aneeka’s twin brother Parvaiz, and we get flashbacks to how he was groomed to follow in their dead father’s footsteps towards terrorism. Everything comes to a massively dramatic conclusion. The story has some really poignant things to say about holding true to one’s culture and religion, and how hard Western society bullies Muslims when they don’t conform to cultural norms, but it all gets somewhat lost in the weird structure of the story.
Tag: genre-social commentary
The North-West is our Mother: The Story of Louis Riel’s People, the Métis Nation, by Jean Teillet
This was incredible and eye-opening. I knew vaguely of the existence of the Métis/Michif, but knew nothing of their origins. Descended from early French/English explorers who intermarried with native women, they formed a culture, identity, and political system derived from both origins but unique to their community. After Confederacy, the Canadians began looking west; although the Métis fought desperately to preserve their lands, both in courts and on the battlefield, they were eventually driven out by deceit and by force. The government in Ottawa broke treaty promises, looked the other way when soldiers committed atrocities, derided the Métis as “half-breeds,” and refused even to recognize the Métis as an Indigenous people until as late as 1982. Teillet, a Métis who has fought for Indigenous rights in court, details the heartbreaking efforts of the Métis as they plead with the government for their lands and their lives. Educated by Catholics and raised with surnames like Riel and Dumont and Grant, they well understood the theft of land and livelihood that was happening to them, and were still powerless to stop it. A large part of the account is spent telling the story of Louis Riel, a Métis icon who led the fight for rights and freedoms. He never gave up hope that his people would be recognized as Canadians of equal status, even as the government in Ontario eventually condemned him to death. (Sidebar: apparently his execution was vehemently opposed in Quebec, where his death became a symbol of Anglophone domination.) Teillet also lets Métis women shine: I loved the stories of Marguerite Caron, who demanded to fight alongside the men, and Eleanor Laurent, who sat calmly scrubbing away evidence of her husband’s conspiracy even as soldiers tore apart her house. The story of Cindy Gladue, victim first of violence against Indigenous women, and then of the Canadian justice system, is heartbreaking. If there’s one criticism of Teillet’s book, it’s that she paints the Métis peoples in a very rosy and romantic light… but given that they were abused and maligned for most of Canadian history, it honestly seems only fair.
Sink: A Memoir, by Joseph Earl Thomas
This memoir is beautifully written, even though it’s hard to read. It starts out tough and doesn’t get any easier, which pretty much encapsulates young Joey’s life growing up in poverty and violence. The characters in his family behave in ways both cringingly awful and yet recognizably human; the details that Thomas chooses to share illustrate both their helpless despair and the love that sometimes finds its way to the surface. The storytelling is brilliant, mixing reality with the fictional worlds that Joey picks up from geek culture and video games. One of my favorite passages (out of many fiercely beautiful passages) dealt with his helpless protectiveness of the minor Pokemon Zubat, whilst playing the game: “so many Zubats, everywhere, with nowhere to go, no one to protect them. Their entire lives consist of knocking into Pokemon trainers and being slapped around by stronger Pokemon who already have homes and social resources, warm Poké Balls to sleep in.” Though the metaphor is obvious, it is no less poignant and heartbreaking.
One Hundred Days, by Alice Pung
This was a tough book to read. Melbourne teen Karuna lives under the iron control of her mother, a first-generation Filipino-Australian who was abandoned by her Caucasian husband. You know that Karuna gets pregnant despite her mother’s best efforts and has a baby, because the book is narrated by Karuna and addressed to that baby (great framing device, by the way); however, you don’t know how events progress to that point, so you must read on to find out. As Karuna’s pregnancy progresses, her mother responds by exerting more and more control, until she is literally locking Karuna in their flat while she is away. On the one hand this is a touching tale of an immigrant mother’s struggle to do her best by her second-generation daughter, and her daughter’s fight to make her mother recognize her own agency; on the other hand this is also a story of toxic emotional abuse and generational pain, with the background of the sexism and racism directed at darker-skinned people in Australian society. The characters do make peace with one another eventually, but it is a hard and painful fight to get there.
Becoming, by Michelle Obama
For me, Michelle Obama’s memoir was a good mix of known and unknown: enough familiarity to resonate with my experiences, with enough differences to fascinate and educate me. I loved learning about her childhood, growing up aware of class differences but buttressed by a supportive family; I was in awe of her journey from Chicago’s South Side to the Ivy League and Biglaw; I sympathized with her struggles with work-life balance and search for career fulfillment, while keeping in mind what she owed to her roots and her family. I also loved seeing Barack through her eyes; her tolerance and affection was palpable through her voice in the audiobook. I could have used a little more of her perspective on the global events that happened during the Obama administration though; instead, she pointedly kept out of politics for the most part and concentrated the bulk of her narrative on her initiatives for child nutrition and her concerns about raising her daughters with as much normalcy as possible. The major awkwardness about this book is that although Michelle Obama is an impressive woman by any measure, at the end of the day she becomes defined by traditionally feminine roles: wife, and mother. She works with the title throughout the memoir, “becoming” first one thing and then another; as her husband retires from politics and her daughters grow into their own, she may find herself more free to transcend traditional roles.
The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World, by Eric Weiner
Reporter Weiner (aptly pronounced “whiner”), having amassed a collection of self-help books in pursuit of his own happiness, decides to visit the happiest places of the world in order to see if he can find some clues for success. The resulting book is part travel memoir, part occasional forays into happiness research, and part observations and sweeping conclusions about entire cultures and societies. I found the book a little too glib and Weiner’s sense of humor was a bit grating; the characters he met were also sometimes presented as cultural stereotypes, which was off-putting. Nevertheless the writing style was smooth and easy and I made it through the book without too much trouble. I did like the detailed portraits painted of each country; as an NPR reporter, Weiner definitely knew how to create a vivid descriptive image.
Honey & Spice, by Bolu Babalola
Sassy, delightful rom-com. Undergrad Kiki, smart and cynical, runs a radio show encouraging women to stand up to toxic masculinity… which is why it’s problematic when she’s seen kissing Malakai, one of the more notorious players on campus. When she tries to figure out how she can finagle her relationship with him to best protect her image, she finds him to be unexpectedly helpful. The characters trade brilliant barbs and snappy comebacks at a dizzying pace, and although the story follows a very typical romance arc, it also manages to explore themes of race, identity, self-image, public image, and friendship along the way. Super fun.
The Trials of Nina McCall, by Scott W. Stern
Nonfiction, a deeply detailed and infuriating delve into the American Plan, a little-known and widespread government program, which for decades empowered authorities to detain women on the flimsiest of premises, perform invasive procedures on them without consent, imprison them without trial or hope of appeal, and force them to undergo dangerous and ineffective treatments if (highly unreliable) tests found them to have venereal diseases. This program ensnared and abused tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands, of American women, including the titular Nina McCall; when the program finally faded, it was buried from history. The book was clearly well-researched and the subject is horrifying, but unfortunately the writing drowned the reader in mind-numbing detail; it if weren’t for the urgent subject matter (and the fact that I had a book club deadline), I likely would not have forced myself through to the end.
Babel, by R.F. Kuang
This book is subtitled “or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution,” which clues the reader into the fact that there will be linguistics nerdity, class struggle, and obviously magic. When words are translated between languages, nuance is sometimes lost; in Kuang’s alternate history, this elided nuance becomes actual magic. What follows explores the British Empire’s domination and exploitation of other nations through the lens of language: how those in power try to make it just another tool of oppression, and how native speakers of those languages are forced into choosing between buying into the system and benefiting from the oppression, or rebelling against it, and losing everything. Robin, the narrator, is taken from China to England at a young age, so that the British magicians can train him to use his language to serve the empire. His gradual awakening to how he is being used, and how he can use what was given him to fight back, makes for a gripping and urgent read. This book made me want to flip madly through to follow the action, and at the same time want to linger over each page, savoring the insights and turns of phrase. A fantastic and beautiful read.
Blackfish City, by Sam J. Miller
This is a post-apocalyptic (or more accurately, during-apocalyptic) cyberpunk novel, which focuses so much on humanity that as a reader, I almost stopped seeing the cyberpunk altogether. It’s almost the opposite of William Gibson type novels, in which the humans are cyphers and the tech is cool; Miller’s humans’ emotions are deep and raw, and the fact that they live in a futuristic city run by mysterious AIs is just another part of their daily lives (though it’s also a huge part of the story). The geothermal city of Qaanaaq, an arctic refuge for those escaping the wars and chaos of a warming world, is visited by a mysterious woman who may or may not be bonded to an orca through exotic and secret technology; meanwhile, ordinary citizens are afflicted by a disease called “the breaks,” which bombard them with glimpses of strangers’ lives. Miller weaves these disparate threads together in a fast-moving and urgent story that also becomes a commentary on how those in political or economic power can dehumanize others, and the importance of family and community in a world being torn apart by climate change.