"Ducks, Newburyport" by Lucy Ellman

Ducks, Newburyport is not for your casual reader. I don't say that in a snooty way, as its text is certainly accessible for a broad audience, but it's the kind of book that screams to be appreciated for its structure; its audacity; its singular, unrelenting voice--rather than its plot. English nerds who love that kind of thing will be rewarded, feeling they've gained something at the end of the 1000-page opus. Everyone else will give up a page or two in.

The story primarily takes place inside the head of a middle-aged mother in Ohio who runs a from-home bakery business. Like the famous chapter of Joyce's Ulysses, it's told in a one-sentence, stream-of-consciousness format, though over multiple days. Like most of us, the narrator's voice runs from the prosaic to the philosophical, the intensely personal to the all-encompassing. She worries about her pies; she worries about her relationship with her children, particularly her oldest child from a previous marriage; she worries about her lack of social skills. She worries about school shooters, about police violence against Black Americans; about Trump's pull on America. She mourns the loss of her mother many years ago; she dwells on her relationships with her father, siblings, friends, and ex-husband. In between she recounts random dreams and walks through the plots of classic books and movies.

The common thread among all of these is worry and recrimination. Ellman expertly captures the constant state of (usually) low-level anxiety and guilt that runs through many mothers. It's not enough to take care of the daily needs of your children; it's not enough to take care of the emotional needs of your children (besides, that will fail); there's also a sense of needing to be on guard at all times. The protagonist worries particularly about shooters, but beyond that is a sense that the world is not safe. That our children will not be okay, and that it's our fault.

The protagonist's state of mind is occasionally interrupted with detailed descriptions of a mountain lion mother seeking to protect her cubs. It's a jolt at first, not only because the style is so different, but because--beyond the commonality as mothers--the stories seem too disparate. As the book progresses the protagonist's and the lion's stories intertwine, but not as much as a reader might expect. Instead, the focus seems to be on the parallel paths of mothers everywhere, the single-minded devotion to children.

Given the grainy "realness" of the novel, the ending is unexpected: a perhaps too-easy story of triumph and happy resolution. Somehow, though, I didn't mind. A lot of our world is shit, and our minds are still going to be stuck in that shit most of the time. So take a success story when it comes.

"A Burning" by Megha Majumdar

A Burning tells the story of class aspirations through three characters: Jivan, a Muslim girl living in the slums; PT Sir, a physical education teacher at a girls' school; and Lovely, a hijra who wants to be an actor. As in many stories (particularly many of the stories set in India that I've read), poverty is a primary obstacle, but so too is discrimination. Jivan, part of a Muslim minority, is framed for the bombing of a train station. Her poverty and religion make her an easy target, but so too is her belief that she can make it, that she can rise out of the slums. She's able to be framed because of her job at a retail shop which gives her some money and thus access to a phone and the internet. Ironically, had she been resigned to her life in poverty, there would have been no "evidence" to use against her. Even while in jail, she retains the hopeful belief that once people hear her story, they'll understand she's innocent. As before, it's her belief that she can better herself--the "work hard and you'll make it" attitude we so prize--that blinds her to reality. It reminded me very much of Gatsby, despite being set worlds apart.

In The Great Gatsby, all the characters who try to rise above their impoverished roots are "punished" for their hope. However, in A Burning some do succeed. The reader roots for Lovely from the moment they meet her. Her joyous energy and optimism stand in contrast with all those around her. But she also seems hopelessly naive, and I assumed Mr. Debnath, her acting teacher, was only taking advantage of her. As a transgender woman, she actively faces discrimination and has few employment opportunities. Yet, shockingly, she is discovered. She ends the book acting in a big-budget film that respects her experiences as a hijra. She does walk away from her friendship with Jivan, who had been teaching her English, but it's not a stunning betrayal--Jivan's fate was already sealed. But even separate from her relationship with Jivan, her success is bittersweet. Lovely makes it, but her success doesn't undo the the discrimination and poverty most of her hijra sisters face. It doesn't make the entertainment industry or the economic system broadly more fair or just. She's a success story that works to obscure systemic injustice.

PT Sir's story feels a little different than Jivan's and Lovely's, perhaps because he's a man or perhaps because he's more acutely aware of how to work the system for his advantage. PT Sir works his way from teacher to powerful politician the same way most politician do--through favors to those in power. He's actively aware of the wrongs he's doing, but he's too intoxicated by power to change his behavior. Like Jivan and Lovely, he's a player in a system that he can do little to change, though his choices feel far more selfish.

Majumdar easily captures the characters' voices, particularly Lovely's sing-songy, present-continuous, gerund-y style (okay, it's hard to describe!). The tension builds easily as the characters' stories intersect. A Burning isn't an exceptionally long book--just over three hundred pages--but it still clocks in as one of the fastest I've read in awhile. 

"Wordslut" by Amanda Montell

Wordslut is subtitled "A feminist guide to taking back the English language." It's a powerful slogan, though perhaps a bit misleading. Wordslut is less an action guide and more a overview of feminist linguistics, outlining the ways in which language shapes and is shaped by our understandings of gender.

Most of the content of Wordslut will be familiar to anyone who's taken basic women's and/or gender studies courses: the way in which language categorizes women as either virgins or whores. The sexual nature of most vulgarity and its role in perpetuating sexism. Catcalling as a form of dominance. It's all important information, but if you've chosen to read this book, it's probably not new either. Even the section on Polari, a cant slang used in gay British subculture, was covered on an episode of the Allusionist podcast I listen to.

I found myself skimming the information that felt familiar, but there were some sections that I slowed down for. I was familiar with the sexist denigration of "teenage girl" speak, but Montell analyzed both the nature of the language (spoiler: it's no different than that of other English speakers) and why it's so hated.

Montell thoughtfully explores the double-bind many women feel in navigating language. Speak "like a woman," and a woman is likely to be dismissed for lacking confidence. Speak "like a man," and a woman is likely to be dismissed as too aggressive.

Montell's tone is casual, which makes the reading feel breezy. At the end, though, I left without feeling I had much of a call to action. True, I could try to invent some new profanity that didn't rely on denigrating women. Not sure how likely that is to catch on. Perhaps the broader message is to not accept language implicitly but rather to think explicitly about the messages we're conveying--intentional or not--when we use certain words.