"Homegoing" by Yaa Gyasi

I almost abandoned Homegoing early in my reading. Not because it was boring or poorly written, but because I wasn't sure I wanted to endure the violence essential to Gyasi's story (I was simultaneously reading Parable of the Sower, which didn't help). I'm glad I stuck with it, though. 

Homegoing follows the descendants of two half-sisters born in Ghana during the emergence of the slave trade. One sister, Esi, is taken into slavery, thus beginning her descendants' trajectory as slaves in America. The other sister, Effia, marries a white British official, and her descendants continue lives in Africa. Each chapter provides a snapshot of a descendant's life, with the final chapter bringing the sisters' great-great-great-great grandchildren together in both America and Africa.

Many books play on the theme of family, the inescapable way it shapes our lives, despite our attempts to break free. Homegoing's structure makes that theme all the more visible. Gyasi weaves into that universal theme the characters' Blackness--the way both their particular family and their race insists on defining their lives. Successive generations experience greater freedom (compare Esi's slavery to her great-great-great-great-grandson Marcus' doctorate program at Stanford, where he studies his family's history), but none are independent from their history (of the history of Ghana or America).

Most parents want better lives for their children, but that dream is continually thwarted in Homegoing. In fact, many of the descendants grow up more or less as orphans, and few escape lives of poverty. There's a sense, perhaps especially in America, that the progress of time is always for the better, but Homegoing suggests that is not the case. Each generation's suffering may be slightly different, but they suffer nonetheless. 

Though plenty of books address the time periods in Gyasi's novel, I've never read about them all in one piece. Part of Gyasi's point is that they're all interrelated. Marcus talks about the struggle of completing his research: how can he discuss the convict-leasing system that essentially made his great-grandfather a slave without talking about his grandmother's Great Migration to escape Jim Crow, or about his father's heroin-addiction and jail time, or about the current "war on drugs"? Freedom and success aren't about individual choices and grit but often about circumstance and culture.

I saw some reviewers complain about the incomplete nature of each descendant's story. We typically see them as young children, through the eyes of a parent; then for the longest time during a portion of adult life; and finally as snapshots through the eyes of their child. Because Gyasi covers so many time periods, it also means key events, particularly in American history, have to get covered quickly and somewhat shallowly. Nonetheless, I think the structure is the novel's great strength, as it emphasizes the interrelated theme.

A number of teachers use this book in the classroom, and I can see it being a strong way of engaging with American and African history.

"Rules of Civility" by Amor Towles

(book finished on August 4)

It's obvious that one's expectations going in to a book significantly affect how much a person will enjoy it. Over the years, I've also found that having no expectations, or not knowing anything about a novel, can be dangerous in its own way. A study found that "spoiling" a story actually increases our enjoyment of it, and, to some extent, I think pre-knowledge of a book's general direction also helps us like the book more. It doesn't mean there can't be surprises, but we like to know the situation we're getting into.

All of this is a roundabout way of introducing my experience with The Rules of Civility, a book I'd downloaded onto my Kindle a long time ago, but only got around to reading now. I had no idea what the book was about, and because of that, I don't think I enjoyed it as much as I might otherwise have done.

The book begins with friends Katey and Eve on New Year's Eve 1938. At a bar, they meet a rich man named Tinker, whom they begin a friendship with. Soon after, the three are in a car accident that leaves Eve somewhat disfigured, and she takes up residence (and a relationship) with Tinker. Now, from this beginning, I assumed the novel would be about Katey and Eve's relationship with each other and with Tinker. But, soon, Eve and Tinker largely drop out of the story (though Tinker importantly returns), which then focuses on the trials and tribulations of Katey's life as an independent woman in New York. There's nothing wrong with that story line, but I kept reading it as an interlude to the real story--I just couldn't see where it all was going.

I wanted to care more about Katey's attempts to find happiness and a career in the world, but I couldn't. Her various flings didn't hold much interest either. Again, I think I was supposed to be intrigued by her breaking of social taboos in the time period, but it never felt like she was being all that revolutionary. I also couldn't quite understand her relationship with Tinker nor her condemnation of him when she learned the truth of his past. After all, all of them were trying to climb the social ladder in their own way.

Maybe "period" novels just don't work for me. Or maybe reading on trains and planes was too distracting. Whatever the reason, I just couldn't see the point of Rules of Civility.

"The Scarlet Letter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

When I mentioned reading The Scarlet Letter to a friend, she immediately responded with, "Ugh, I do not feel bad for Hester at all." I was a little taken aback. Is that a common reaction? That Hester's "sin" of having sex with a man she loves is so bad that we feel her and her daughter entirely deserving of being shunned and reviled by her community for years? I found nothing to judge in Hester and her actions. She accepts the town's judgment of her and devotes her life to her daughter, Pearl, and doing good in the community. So what if she doesn't really repent of her crime? Maybe there was nothing to repent of, you Puritans!

Now, if you're looking for an unsympathetic character, I'd go with Hester's partner in "crime," the Rev. Dimmesdale. I don't fault him for sleeping with Hester, and perhaps not even for keeping it a secret, but I do find fault in his grandiose sense of self-worth. He berates himself for years over his crime, moaning to his congregation that his faults are the blackest of those there. And, you know, maybe his sin just wasn't all that bad? Maybe God just doesn't care that much about it. At the same time, he drinks in the adoration of his congregation. It seems Hawthorne is trying to portray him as worse off than Hester for living a lie--suggesting that the congregation's praise only makes his sin feel worse--but I think he rather likes being an adored sinner. Dimmesdale does come to peace and some redemption at the end by confessing his actions in front of the town. But then he also conveniently dies, relieving him from having to face the consequences, which I think are far, far harder to live through than the confession itself. Hester deals with that for her whole life.

The secondary characters are somewhat odd. First, there's Pearl herself, who is constantly referred to as an elf, or devil, or sprite because she's not a quiet, static, obedient little girl. She's also frequently associated with the Scarlet Letter itself, an ostentatious badge of shame upon Hester. Yet Pearl doesn't seem to have a real personality. Hawthorne avoids the suggestion that any oddness, perhaps, arises from being raised, from birth, ostracized from the community. And I certainly don't buy this "Dimmesdale dies and his kiss changes her" crap. What is this, Hawthorne, Beauty and the Beast?

Then there's Mr. Chillingworth (what a fabulous name), Hester's husband who devotes his life to seeking revenge upon Dimmesdale. But why? I can understand a man might be angry his wife slept with another man, but we're not given any special motivation for Chillingworth. He's an empty, evil vessel and seems completely unnecessary for the story.

But, Hawthorne isn't interested in these characters as much as I am. He's much more focused on the nature of guilt, sin, and revenge and the way in which these negative traits consume an individual (e.g. Chillingworth literally starts looking evil once he begins his campaign against Dimmesdale). I find guilt and sin largely dull, as were some sections of the novel. Nonetheless, I mostly appreciated the text, and I'm sure I enjoyed it significantly more than I must have in high school.

"The Crucible" by Arthur Miller

In four years of blogging, this is the first play I've read and reviewed. Like most people, I imagine, I just find it weird to sit down and read a play solo. But, I'm teaching The Crucible this fall, so a rereading of this high school staple was necessary.

What I was most struck by is just what great drama The Crucible, a retelling of the Salem Witch trials, makes. I mean, I was angry reading it! I wanted to spit at that smug Abby and knock Danforth senseless. I tensed in frustration as Proctor desperately tries to save his wife's life. And, I even shed a tear at John Proctor and Elizabeth's last conversation as John refuses to save himself by lying and admitting to being a witch. If a play can stir that much emotion read silently, I can only imagine the scenes on stage.

Like the other great play I've taught at the high school level, Inherit the Wind, there's not a ton of depth to The Crucible. Don't get me wrong--there's excellent characterization, clear conflict, and compelling themes, but most of what it is is on the surface. In terms of a text to read, that doesn't bother me, though I have found it can be challenging to pull much from the simpler plays in the classroom. We'll see how it goes this fall, though given my male students' frequent desire to play Juliet, at the very least I do think teenage boys will be clamoring to cry witch as a hysteric teenage girl.

"A Farewell to Arms" by Ernest Hemingway

After the rather unpleasant experience of reading A Red Badge of Courage, I wasn't looking forward to A Farewell to Arms. No matter that they're in different wars (Civil War vs. WWI), have different protagonists (a young untested soldier vs. an American ambulance driver with the Italian forces), and focus on different events (bravery in battle vs. ...well, I'm not sure in the case of Farewell), I went a bit reluctantly into Hemingway's novel. In the end, of course, all war books are not the same, and I appreciated Farewell immensely more.

The best part of A Farewell to Arms is Hemingway's sparse and unsentimental style, which could come off dull but instead seems an apt reflection of the inner thoughts of the protagonist, Henry. Much of his life is routine, and he thinks in that manner, only occasionally pausing to reflect on his life or the people in it. Like the young protagonist of A Red Badge of Courage, Henry is ambivalent about war. He feels a sense of duty in doing his job correctly, but the fighting doesn't inflame his passions or mean much to him. Unlike the youth in Red Badge, though, Henry feels no guilt in this. He's more interested in being good to his friends and in being with Catherine, an English nurse with whom he's fallen in love.

The back flap of my novel seems to describe A Farewell to Arms as a love story, but although Henry and Catherine's relationship is central to the novel, it's hard to describe the book as a romance (at least in the way that most of us think of the term). One of the reasons is because Henry thinks of his relationship matter-of-factly through most of the book, which is perhaps realistic in the situation but not especially heartstrings-pulling. Another reason, for me, is because Catherine is such a flat character. Though we know she initially pursues her flirtation with Henry in order to overcome the death of a fiance, she so quickly subsumes her life into Henry's that it's hard to think of her as a full-bodied person. In my review of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, I lamented that the love interest Maria is "frail and delicate, ...and it is only through her relationship with Robert that she feels whole again. She gives herself to Robert fully and desires nothing else but to provide for his needs." The same is true of Catherine, who dedicates herself solely to Henry, eventually becoming a somewhat cloying partner who fails to recognize Henry's need (and, hey, perhaps her own need? c'mon) for some kind of purpose and independence.

The ending of the novel is almost surprising, especially in contrast to the end of Red Badge. At the end of Crane's work, the youth believes he has become a man and grown from his experience in war. Even the cynical Catch-22 ends with hope. In contrast, A Farewell to Arms ends with no such lesson. Henry has survived war, and people have died, and nothing is different.

Though I had problems with Catherine, Hemingway's writing style is enough to make A Farewell to Arms compelling, and it does make an interesting study in contrast with Red Badge.

"The Red Badge of Courage" by Stephen Crane

Somehow I was never assigned this classic text in high school or college, so this was a first reading for me. I was happily surprised by the short length, though I must have been channeling my inner sulky teenager as I read, because the book felt interminable. Now that I've finished, I can look back with more interest in Crane's work, but man, I do empathize with the generations of teenagers who have slogged through it (I'm a teacher, so note to other teachers: just because a book features a teenage protagonist and is about war does not mean teenagers will like it).

The Red Badge of Courage takes places over several days in the Civil War, and is related from the point of view of Henry (who is more often called the "youth"), a young and untested soldier. Prior to their first real engagement, Henry worries that he will turn cowardly and run in the battle. He later does so and feels ashamed and concerned that others will discover him. However, in later battles, he fights brazenly in an almost crazed manner and decides, in the end, that he has become a man.

To be fair, the exploration of Henry's mental state throughout the battles is well-done. As many critics have noted, Red Badge of Courage was one of the first works to complicate the mythology of war as glorious and soldiers as selflessly courageous and heroic. Instead, Henry goes through a barrage of emotions, from fear to shame to arrogance to self-reflection. Henry doesn't fight because he loves his country or he hates his enemy; instead, when he does fight, he does so for more complicated reasons: fear at being branded a coward; anger at a colonel who calls them "pack mules;" unreasoned group enthusiasm.

I read somewhere that Red Badge was the first anti-war novel, and I'm not sure whether or not I agree. At the end, Henry comes to some peace within himself, believing that he has finally become a man. When I first read the ending, I was angry, thinking Crane equated war with being a man. But, others have argued that the ending is ironic, as Henry's arrogance shows he hasn't really changed or grown. Furthermore, the novel ends with the line, "He had been an animal blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks—an existence of soft and eternal peace." Perhaps his turning away from war suggests that war is animalistic and that being at peace with nature is truly human. Truthfully, I'm not sure yet of which interpretation I support.

There are some interesting things going on in Crane's work, but I found myself skimming and falling asleep while reading. Maybe war books just aren't for me (comforting thought, since A Farewell to Arms is next--blech).

"The Buddha in the Attic" by Julie Otsuka

The Buddha in the Attic is a tiny novella, nearly a long short story, that follows the lives of Japanese "picture brides" through their journey to unknown Japanese husbands-to-be living in America, their wedding nights, their struggle to survive and work, motherhood, and Japanese internment in World War II. However, rather than following one or a few "brides," the entire novella is written in first person plural: "we."

This choice of narrator creates a choral effect--a certain echo--which gives the book a poetic feel. It's a stylistic choice with benefits and drawbacks. On the one hand, the prose is beautiful and descriptive, and the use of "we" to describe individual women highlights both the similarities and the differences in the women's lives. Some marry abusive husbands; some marry timid men; some marry happily; some become prostitutes. Some women toil in the fields; others do housekeeping work in the city. Some survive and prosper; others' lives are cut short. Yet all women feel some excitement and some regret in leaving their homeland, and all feel conflicted about the country to which they've arrived. The downside to this style is that there really are no characters, and the reader feels no specific attachment to the women. Because of this, the book is not especially engrossing, and the point of view certainly would only work in a very short piece (and this book nearly pushes the limits on how long such a conceit can go, even though it's only 129 pages in large print on tiny pages).

Perhaps, too, because of the lack of specific characters, Buddha in the Attic doesn't feel especially new. Though there's plenty I don't know about the lives of such women, the stories are largely expected. The women are disappointed by the reality of living in America; their lives are difficult, and they struggle to communicate with children who are more Americanizes than they will ever be. They feel shock and resignation when the order for internment arrives. Without individuals to focus on, the story remains rather broad and touches on more familiar issues.

The Buddha in the Attic is such a quick book that it's worth a read for those interested in Japanese immigration, but I'm also sure it's unlikely to be a favorite for many.

"A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities has been immortalized by its opening ("It was the best of times...") and closing lines ("It is a far, far better thing that I do..."), and when I began reading the book for the second or third time, I doubted Dickens' renowned words would have much effect on me. So, I was surprised that by the time I reached Carton's famous last words, I was teary and emotional, overwhelmed despite my intentions otherwise.

Dickens' story of the excesses of the French Revolution comes down firmly against the revolutionaries, though it is sympathetic in the plight and exploitation of the people by the aristocrats. I would have preferred some nuance here, but Dickens is so skillful in his description and in evoking emotions of outrage (both against the rich and the mob of the people) that the novel works anyway.

For me, the greatest weakness of Dickens' story is the simplicity of his characters, who are mostly one-dimensional: either noble, true, and innocent or bitter, ruthless, and unforgiving. This dichotomy is most present in his female characters of Lucie Manette and Madame Defarge. Lucie is young, pretty and pure, and because of that, she is beloved by everyone--and I found her annoying. Like Les Miserables' Cosette, Lucie has no real personality yet is the axis on which all the other characters turn. Evil is always more interesting, and so is Madame Defarge, even though she's no less a flat character. Defarge's constant knitting serves as one of the most indelible images from the novel, and her single-minded pursuit of revenge forces the narrative forward. However, even when her backstory is revealed, she is made no more sympathetic, which is a shame.

The male characters are somewhat better, though Darnay is for the most part a mirror of his wife Lucie, and Mr. Lorry benefits only from his age and kindliness. Sydney Carton, the hero of the story, is the only real exception, as he's a man with true good and bad inside him.

Listening to the novel at a leisurely pace was a perfect way to re-enter a story I was already familiar with. Narrator Simon Prebble does an excellent job with the male and female voices and keeps the pace moving appropriately.

I enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities when I first read it as a highschooler, and it was no less enjoyable this time around.

"Cleopatra: A Life" by Stacy Schiff

Schiff's new biography of Cleopatra sets out to dispel some of the myths that have surrounded the famous queen for ages, particularly those portraying her as nothing more than a seductress, a femme fatale who led Julius Caesar astray and destroyed Mark Antony. In A Life, Schiff instead posits Cleopatra as an intelligent strategist focused on maintaining her rule and independent kingdom.

There are a lot of great details throughout the book that make it a fascinating read for anyone interested in the classical world. Cleopatra was part of the Ptolemy dynasty that had ruled Egypt for years, yet they were Greek. The family had a nasty habit of killing each other off in order to gain the throne (and you thought the characters in A Game of Thrones were bad), something Cleopatra gamely participated in as well. So fabulous was Cleopatra's wealth that she gave away horses and couches to Roman dinner guests.

It's Cleopatra's relationships with the Roman leaders Caesar and Antony that have given her the most notoriety. These relationships take up much of the book, though the men come more to life than Cleopatra. In the end, it's difficult to know how exactly Cleopatra felt about the relationships. On the one hand, Egypt needed Rome as an ally, so a relationship with the men makes political sense. On the other hand, Cleopatra had children by both men and famously commits suicide after Antony's death (though, significantly, she does so after being conquered and imprisoned). Did she love them? Did they love her? These questions cannot be fully answered.

Though Schiff's research is exhaustive, in the end, the reader learns more about the context surrounding Cleopatra than the queen herself. This may be largely because history is written by the winners--in this case, the Romans--so the information we have on her is from a biased and critical Roman-centered point of view. Schiff does a nice job of trying to parse through the sources, determining each author's agenda, but it also means she's left with little in the way of fact. Most everything about Cleopatra herself is boiled down to "probably's." It was frustrating to know so much about Caesar, Antony, Cleopatra's wealth, Alexandria's status in the Mediterranean, and the status of women and so little about the the woman herself.

The book does not begin chronologically, and so I found it confusing at first because it would jump back and forth in time. Once it became traditionally chronological, I had an easier time. I listened to the audiobook version, narrated by Robin Miles. Miles has a pleasant neutral voice, but she's not particularly engaging, and I wished for a bit more spunk. I did fall asleep at intervals during the book, but I'll attribute that more to my tiredness than a failure of Schiff's work.

Cleopatra: A Life is a comprehensive look at an interesting and important period in history and the intersection of two very different cultures. Although at times a tad dry or repetitive, Schiff does much to raise Cleopatra beyond the Hollywood image of her and into her own right as a powerful and intelligent leader of a nation.

"River of Smoke" by Amitav Ghosh

When I first began River of Smoke, primarily about the opium trade in China by foreign merchants, I was a little doubtful. I'd absolutely loved Sea of Poppies, the precursor to River of Smoke in the Ibis trilogy, and had even named it one of my top ten books of 2009. But now, years later, I couldn't really remember why I liked the first book, and I almost felt reluctant in picking up this historical epic. However, I soon began noticing how immersed I was in the story and how quickly the pages flew by--in short, River of Smoke is as utterly engrossing as the previous novel.

This is truly something to commend Ghosh on, for in River of Smoke he has less sympathetic characters than in Sea of Poppies. Where that novel features poor lovers on the run and burgeoning young romance, River of Smoke's main protagonist is Bahram, an Indian opium trader, and its story focuses primarily on Bahram and the American and British traders pushing against China's decision to prohibit the sale of opium. Their cause is without merit and is presented so in the novel, yet the reader is still completely drawn in.

Interestingly, the novel has almost no female characters as women are not permitted in Canton, the primary city of foreign trade. Away from the influences of their traditional society (and women), the men live a different way of life. Male friendships are deep, and the men even dance together at functions! Although there's some teasing from others, it's normal for some men take other men as "Friends" and pursue long term relationships. Furthermore, men of different races, ethnicities, and nationalities mix and socialize together in a way that never would have been possible in England or the U.S.

Of course, when push comes to shove and Chinese officials begin cracking down on the traders, this world also starts crumbling. Homophobic epithets are thrown at those who sympathize with the Chinese objectives, and Bahram recognizes that he'd quickly be sacrificed for an American or British man. It's at this point that Bahram becomes particularly sympathetic. Overall, he is a good man succeeding in a way very few Indian men could at this point, a time in which their country was controlled by the British. He has succeeded in being respected among his fellow merchants, yet that's not enough to ensure him protection in the end.

I was worried that having forgotten much of Sea of Poppies would be a detriment, but River of Smoke is more a companion novel than a sequel. Though some characters reappear from the previous story, this novel is a wholly separate story, not a continuation, and it would not be necessary to read Sea of Poppies to read River of Smoke.

Ghosh is a talented storyteller. The entire world of the novel is rich in detail, and the use of local language and terms adds authenticity. He writes about a fascinating (and utterly shameful for the American and British) period in history, but it's his characters that bring the novel to life.

***This book qualifies for the POC Reading Challenge.

"Wench" by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

Summary: Tawawa House is an Ohio summer resort where white slave owners can take their slave mistresses for part of the summer.  At Tawawa House, four women form a close friendship.  Lizzie loves her master Drayle and hopes he will some day free their two children together.  Mawu hates her owner Tip and desperately wants to escape, which is all the more tantalizing in free-state Ohio.  Rounding out the group are Sweet and Reenie.  Over the course of several summers, each woman must make a choice about the price of remaining a slave and the price of attempting freedom.

Musings: One of the challenges of writing about American slavery is that so many books have already been written on it.  Perkinz-Valdez takes on one particular appalling aspect of slavery--the sexual abuse of female slaves by their white owners--through a unique setting.  Away from their owners' wives, their children, and the plantation, Lizzie, Mawu, Sweet, and Reenie are exposed to new possibilities, both exciting and dangerous.

Lizzie is the protagonist of the novel, and her story is especially uncertain.  Although she feels the pain and restrictions of slavery, most acutely for her children with Drayle, she is also treated "well" by most standards.  In fact, she deeply cares for and loves Drayle, and the small freedoms she experiences at Tawawa, where she shares a cottage with Drayle much like a wife would, bring her closer to him.  But as Lizzie also grows closer with women like Mawu, her feelings begin to change.  Lizzie's an especially interesting character because of that complexity she faces.

Probably the most difficult aspect of the book for me was the sexual abuse.  I've mentioned several other times that I find depicting sexual violence against women problematic.  I know Perkins-Valdez describes scenes and events that are an incontrovertible part of slavery, and I wouldn't suggest those parts should be hidden.  Nonetheless, I find graphic descriptions of sexual assault so sickening (which it clearly is intended to be) that it was difficult to want to continue to read the book.  Sometimes I felt the desired effect could be created with less, but that's probably more of a personal feeling.

Wench is told straightforwardly, and at times I craved a richer and more nuanced style.  I felt as though events and feelings were being told to me, rather than allowing me to experience and come to know them through the characters.  Some events happened too abruptly, and others were delayed with unnecessary suspense.

Nonetheless, Wench uses a variety of characters to explore the lives of slave women and effectively shows the ways in which sexual abuse played a role in restricting the women's lives.

***This book qualifies for the POC Reading Challenge.

"The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien

I totally missed it, but I celebrated my second blogging anniversary yesterday on January 10th.  Woot!

Summary: O'Brien's collection of fictional short stories cover his time in the Vietnam War, his relationships with his fellow soldiers, and the continuing presence the war has had in his and other's lives, even decades later.

Musings: I don't know why it took so long for me to read this 20th century classic, but I'm so glad I finally did.  O'Brien's novel is special not only for the stories it tells and its sense of intimate camaraderie with the reader, but for its reflection on the nature of truth in story telling.

I've found myself more and more compelled by this issue of why we write, the nature and importance (or lack thereof) of "truth" in writing, and the intricate relationship built between author and reader.  I've mentioned it before, but in Life of Pi the author Martel has a fabulous quote about fiction "twisting reality" to "bring out its essence," and O'Brien makes the same argument in The Things They Carried.  He makes this argument not only through the strength of his fictional-as-truth stories, but through his own reflections on the nature of his writing.  As O'Brien argues, this understanding of what constitutes "truth" is all the more important in war stories, since these are stories which have been so told and mythologized and dramatized since the beginning of human history that it's easy to overlook the complex, paradoxical effects such wars have on individuals and their (and our) ability to see things like we used to.  O'Brien writes, "In war you lose your sense of the definite, hence your sense of truth itself, and therefore it's safe to say that in a true war story nothing is ever absolutely true" (82).

It's the sense of "truth" and "reality" which pervades O'Brien's stories that makes them so compelling.  He writes and talks about the stories in such a way as to make you believe you are reading a memoir, and by the end, it's clear that The Things They Carried is a memoir--of his life and others'.  Even though the stories aren't true, the essence is there.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (wartime setting category).

"The Warmth of Other Suns" by Isabel Wilkerson

Summary: In The Warmth of Other Suns, Wilkerson uses the stories of three individuals to provide a broad overview and understanding of the Great Migration, the fifty-five-year period in American history in which southern blacks migrated to the North.  Centering the book are Ida Mae, a sharecropper who migrates to Chicago in the 1930s; George, a grove picker who flees Florida for New York after attempts at unionizing in the 1940s; and Robert, a southern doctor who moves to Los Angeles in the 1950s in order to practice medicine.

Musings: The Warmth of Other Suns is the perfect nonfiction novel; it effectively blends the narrative with the sociological, and in doing so, it brings an intensely personal and human element to a significant part of American history while also demonstrating the large-scale effects the Migration has had on our country.

In choosing her subjects to focus on, Wilkerson has been careful to capture very different stories and experiences that, nonetheless, have important similarities.  Ida Mae, for example, was among the poorest who came North, and though she found contentment in life, she was never wealthy.  Robert, on the other hand, came from elite southern black society and was among the highest educated.  Through practicing medicine he became extraordinarily wealthy.

But, regardless of education level or background, Ida Mae, George, Robert, and the many others who traveled North did so for many of the same reasons and faced many of the same problems.  They left because there was little available to them in the Jim Crow South, where segregation and hatred made it not only difficult to make a living, but to live safely.  Although the North did provide significant more freedom than the South, it was not perfect.  What was most heartbreaking was how much prejudice the migrants continued to face, even in the North where Jim Crow did not legally exist.  In the South, a person of color knew what restaurant he or she could enter--it was clearly posted.  In the North, there were no signs, but that did not mean places were any less segregated--a person of color had to enter the establishment and potentially be refused service in order to find out.

Wilkerson is especially effective at detailing the daily indignities migrants faced in both the North and the South while also showing the ways in which the migrants were able to find success for themselves despite the virulent racism.  Although, logically, I was familiar with many of the racist policies, it was all the more poignant to hear them in terms of individual stories.  One of the sections that most stuck with me was the difficulty in migrants finding housing in the North, and the extremes white residents went to to ensure their neighborhoods remained all white.  It was sickening and saddening, and it happened within the lifetimes of many people living today.

At times some of the material could be repetitive as Wilkerson retells portions of the characters' stories as a reminder or continually reinforces the idea of a caste system, but that style also means that the main points were clearly driven home.  I liked that the book is broken up into short sections and frequently switches between Ida Mae's, George's, and Robert's stories, as it make the relatively long book feel fast-moving.

Like the other nonfiction book I recently read, Unbroken, The Warmth of Other Suns has made a number of "best books of the year" lists.  Since I spent time while reading Unbroken considering what made a nonfiction book "best," I felt like I needed to do the same with Wilkerson's work.  For me, Other Suns was a significantly stronger piece, and I think that's because Wilkerson uses the stories of individuals to help the reader understand a macro-level movement.  Hillenbrand, on the other hand, uses a major event (World War II) to tell the story of an individual, and long term, that was less compelling.

The Great Migration is a largely overlooked part of American history, but it has shaped the makeup of our country and race relations ever since, and The Warmth of Other Suns is an engaging look at that period.

***This book qualifies for the POC Reading Challenge.

"Unbroken" by Laura Hillenbrand

Summary: The true story of the life of Louie Zamperini during World War II.  Zamperini was an Olympic runner when he joined the Air Force, with the potential of medaling in the next Olympic Games.  Switching his life of running for a life in the military, Zamperini worked in the massive B-24 planes.  When his plane crashed into the Pacific Ocean during the war, Zamperini spent weeks adrift at sea before being captured by the Japanese.  That capture began years of internment and abuse as a prisoner of war.

Musings: Unbroken has been making the rounds on the "best of 2010" book lists, and because I feel like I know little about World War II, I was interested in learning about one man's tale.

Zamperini has a fantastic story, though it's clear from this book that his story is only one of many incredible stories coming out of POWs.  There's much in Zamperini's life that brings amazement--his skill as a runner, his ability to survive weeks aboard a life raft, and his endurance of years of torture as a POW.

Hillenbrand has done an exceptional job of bringing various pieces of Zamperini's life together in a cogent and compelling narrative.  She portrays a multi-dimensional view of Zamperini, showing his boyhood as a trouble maker, his resilience during the war, and his struggles with PTSD after returning home.  Although Zamperini is clearly a brave man, Hillenbrand doesn't hide his dark moments, nor does she glorify the idea of "war heroes."

In fact, one of the issues that most stuck out to me was despite the important justifications for going to war, there was so much senselessness in what happened.  For example, Hillenbrand explains the extraordinarily high injury and death rate from accidents, particularly within the air force.  Military personnel were more likely to die by mistakes than through combat.  This is clearly the case for Zamperini, whose plane goes down while on a rescue mission for another downed plane.

Hillenbrand also details the extraordinary difficulty of POWs adjusting to "normal" life after the war's end.  Men who had remained hopeful and alive through the worst circumstances were too traumatized to enjoy the life they had held out for.  Zamperini was fortunate to be able to find solace (for him, in God), but undoubtedly many more were unable to.

However, while I enjoyed the story and learned much from Zamperini's experiences, I felt bothered about judging the book itself.  One of the things that gnawed at me as I read was the definition of what makes a book "good." I had seen Unbroken on so many "best of" lists that I think I expected something more.  When a fiction writer tells an amazing story, we laud them for it, but should we do so for a nonfiction writer?  Is Hillenbrand's unquestionable ability to research and pull together so many disparate sources enough?  For me, a truly great book has to have something in style and form that sets it apart, and I just didn't see that in Unbroken.  The story is clearly told chronologically, and Hillenbrand keeps the narrative moving quickly, investing in strong character detail throughout.  However, in the end, the book is still a standard narrative, and because of that, it didn't stand out to me as something special, beyond the extra-ordinariness of the story itself.  I don't say this to be critical--I thought the book was very good--but it's not the kind of book that would make a top reading list for me.

P.S.  On a separate note, I accidentally requested the large print copy of Unbroken at my library instead of a regular copy.  I was worried that the enormously large size of the text would be a distraction, but I found it didn't bother me much (though I didn't like the size of the book because of the large print--it was over 700 pages and quite heavy).

"Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves" by Sarah B. Pomeroy

Summary: A comprehensive look at the lives of women in Ancient Greece and Rome.

Musings:  Although I think I've always been a feminist, I didn't know the words for it until some eye-opening women's studies classes in college, which led to me being a women's studies major (along with English).  I found that my classes in women's studies easily transferred to my English major, and I became more and more interested in looking at the books I read through a feminist lens, most frequently considering whose voices were missing from a text (often women's and people of color) and how power structures played out.  It was this critical viewpoint that allowed me some excitement in an English major I otherwise did not enjoy.

I've brought my interest in women's voices to my teaching as well.  The Odyssey, the first major piece of literature my students study, is a great text to look at women.  It's unique in that there are many prominent female characters with varying degrees of desires and interests (contrasted with the Iliad, in which women are mainly there for Achilles and Agamemnon to fight over).  However, the Odyssey is also a poem very much of its time, and certainly aspects of it would reflect the restricted lives of women in Ancient Greece.

I chose Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves because I wanted increased background information to present to my students on women's lives in Ancient Greece.  I hoped to be able to answer several questions my students ask.  How could a society create powerful female goddesses while also maintaining a firm patriarchy?  How accurately does a work of fiction like the Odyssey reflect the lives of real women in Ancient Greece?

Pomeroy's book is special because it was the first to truly examine women of classical antiquity.  It was published in 1975, so undoubtedly one of its drawbacks today is the lack of new research that has been done in the area.  Nonetheless, the book is comprehensive in its study of women through several ancient time periods.

I was happy to see that much of what I teach my students is correct.  Women of Ancient Greece were under control of a guardian and had relatively little social freedom.  Marriages were arranged for the purpose of power and childbearing.  Women married young (early teenage years) to men who were much older.  The duties of women were specific and distinct from men's, and upper class women were largely secluded.

The book does spend time on the fictional characters in the Odyssey.  Pomeroy addressees the way in which the major female characters (Penelope, Nausicaa, Calypso) play important roles in the work while also acknowledging the way in which each character reinforces an established archetype of female behavior. A reader can easily see the virgin/whore dichotomy in the epic poem.  The same is true for the major Olympian goddesses.  This way of looking at the female characters is something I can certainly take into the classroom.

Interestingly, Pomeroy suggests that as Greece (Athens, in particular) moved from an aristocratic society to a democratic society, women actually had less freedom.  She argues that without the power structures inherent in a outwardly hierarchical society, men had to find other ways to distinguish themselves.  Pomeroy writes, 'The will to dominate was such that [men] then had to separate themselves as a group and claim to be superior to all nonmembers: foreigners, slaves, and women" (78).  The time period depicted in the Odyssey was likely a time where women had more rights, comparatively speaking, than women several centuries later.

Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves has great background information for anyone interested in the subject matter.  The book does read like a textbook, so from a "pleasure reading" perspective, I would have enjoyed a more lively tone.  The stories told and the examples used are so interesting that the book could have easily been made more reader-friendly.

Pomeroy also tries to straddle the line between a book for the lay person and a book for academics.  The book does rely on some general knowledge of Greek and Roman history, so the person unfamiliar with that (uh, me) may have some difficulty with all the names and events mentioned.

I'm definitely interested in reading more recent studies about women in antiquity, but I know I will be consulting Pomeroy's book throughout my students' study of the Odyssey.

"The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks" by Rebecca Skloot

Summary: In this nonfiction piece, Skloot examines the personal stories, science, and history surrounding the HeLa cells.  The HeLa cells were the first "immortal cells," as they were capable of indefinitely reproducing in culture.  Although these cells are in labs around the world and have been used to develop treatments for and research into the world's most deadly illnesses, few people knew the truth about who the HeLa cells came from.  Henrietta Lacks was a poor black woman dying of cervical cancer in the 1950's when her cells were taken without her knowledge, and her family has struggled with their mother's history ever since.

Musings: This book has been getting a fair amount of press recently, and after reading it myself, I believe the discussion is completely warranted.  Skloot has done an excellent job of weaving together the personal stories of the Lacks family (particularly Henrietta's daughter Deborah) with an understanding of cell biology and a timeline of the development of cell research over the last sixty years.  Henrietta's story is intriguing both for its ordinariness and for its heartbreak.  Uneducated and pregnant by her cousin at fourteen, Henrietta nonetheless raised her children through hard work and determination.  But when she died young of cervical cancer, leaving her children with abusive relatives, many of the children entered a downward spiral they are still trying to emerge from decades later.

Going in, I assumed the book would be an exposure of an African American woman abused and exploited by the white medical system, much like in the infamous Tuskegee syphilis experiment.  However, the real story turned out to be much more nuanced.  Through a history of case law and scientific codes, Skloot shows that it was not illegal for doctors to take a person's cells and use them in research--it wasn't illegal in 1951, and it's not illegal today.  And though Henrietta died of cervical cancer, it wasn't through a lack of medical care on the part of John Hopkins, the hospital she entered.  Nevertheless, there are more subtle instances of racism at play, particularly in the education of Henrietta's family.  Her children only learned that their mother's cells were being used around the world decades after their mother's death, and throughout the years, despite becoming minor celebrities because of the HeLa cells, the family members never really understood what had happened.  They didn't understand the concept of "cell," let alone the complex biology behind what was being done with the cells.  They were pulled among scientists who wanted information from them to study HeLa better, journalists who wanted information for their own pieces, and people out to make--or convince them to make--money off of HeLa.  Through it all, the family continued to suffer, both physically and mentally.

The uncertainty of what happened to her mother had a large impact on Henrietta's daughter Deborah.  In one of the most interesting sections of the book, Deborah travels with Skloot as they investigate the family's history.  Deborah wavers between giddy excitement and terror as she learns more in a few days than she had in so many years.

Although the Lackses' family history is the backbone of the story, Skloot's sections on advancement in scientific research are no less researched or less interesting.  These chapters of the book are also filled with the histories of the doctors who made these advancements possible.

I was shocked by how quickly I finished the book and how difficult it was to put down.  It's a fascinating look at the history of one part of science from the focal point of one woman and her cells.

P.S.  This is the 83rd book I've read this year, which means I've officially surpassed my total read (82 books) from 2009!

***This book qualifies for the POC Reading Challenge.

"In the Fullness of Time" by Vincent Nicolosi

Summary: In the days following President Kennedy’s assassination, Tristan Hamilton begins looking back on his life, particularly his involvement in President Warren G. Harding’s candidacy and presidency.  A lifelong resident of Marion, Ohio (Harding’s hometown), Hamilton spent much of his life furthering Harding’s career and, after Harding’s sudden death, commemorating the late president’s life through the construction of the giant Harding Memorial in Marion.  In recollecting his earlier years, Tristan also tries to come to terms with his relationship with Mitzy von Leuckel, one of the President’s mistresses.

Musings: In modern times, President Harding is not a particularly well-known president, and when he is mentioned, it’s typically to appear on “worst presidents” lists.  This novel, taking place in 1963, is in some ways Tristan’s attempt to “set the record straight” about Harding.

In the Fullness of Time moves back and forth in history, covering the present day, where Tristan in an old man, and his days as a youth and a middle-aged man.  Throughout the book, Tristan expresses contempt for all the people who have “gotten it wrong” through rumors spread by unscrupulous neighbors and dastardly historians.  But despite Tristan’s insistence that anyone thinking poorly of President Harding or “jumping to conclusions” has misunderstood, it’s not clear that Tristan is really in any better position to know or tell the truth.

In fact, I came to enjoy the novel more when I began to understand Tristan as a wholly unreliable narrator, although it’s not clear whether Nicolosi intended for him to be understood as such.  Tristan is a man who is convinced he has never behaved badly in his life; he repeatedly refers to his selflessness, upstanding moral character, and devotion to those around him.  In areas where he clearly has done wrong, he shows no remorse, arguing instead why there should be no blame for his actions.  He tries to hide his pompousness and arrogance toward others through the repeated insistence on his virtue and honor. 

He defends Harding, a man whom Tristan says he personally hates, in the same manner.  Harding is a man whose character has been damaged by the scandals of his presidency, and Tristan defends Harding as if he were defending his own self.  It’s never fully clear why Tristan is so devoted to the late president, going so far as to erect an obscene colossus of a monument in Marion, Ohio—a Greek-inspired rotunda more at home next to the great monuments of the great presidents in Washington, D.C.  But it did seem clear to me that in building the monument, Tristan insists on Harding’s positive legacy, and in doing so, defines his own positive purpose in life.  Tristan has spent so many years in service to President Harding’s memory that to admit wrongdoing, on his or Harding’s part, would mean to admit a worthlessness to his own life.

Nicolosi builds up a number of mysteries throughout the book, some specifically from the Harding presidency (did Harding really die of natural causes?) and some from Tristan’s life.  Because the story is not told linearly, but in pieces, and because Tristan refuses to talk about those aspects of his life that he is uncomfortable with—despite the fact that they are the most interesting—the mystery builds slowly but becomes more intriguing throughout the book.  However, by the end, most of these mysteries are left unexplained.  As a reader I found that a bit unfulfilling, although I suppose the lack of neat endings is in keeping with the historical nature of the novel.  After all, in real life, many things remain unknown.

Tristan’s age shows in his narration, as he frequently breaks in his telling to return to an earlier event (“Once, again, I’m getting ahead of myself…”) which then gets elaborated upon.  It’s like talking to an elderly relative who has difficulty staying on target, frequently straying to other thoughts and then coming back only to defend what he has said with such insistence that you can’t help but think it must not be true.

In the Fullness of Time provides a unique look at a largely overlooked presidency, and while, for me, it didn’t shed much light on Harding, it did offer a glimpse into the people whose lives are shaped by presidencies and damaged by secrets.

Disclosure: Provided to me by the publisher for my honest review.

"The Help" by Kathryn Stockett

Summary: Taking place in Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960s, The Help follows three women: Aibileen, Minny, and Skeeter.  Aibileen is a black maid who has spent her life raising white children; she cares for her newest charge, two-year-old Mae Mobley, but she knows she plans to move on when Mae Mobley is old enough to be just like her racist uncaring mother.  Minny is also a maid, but despite being the best cook in the area, she has a hard time finding a job because she's known for "sassing" her employers.  Skeeter is a young white woman just out of college; she wants to be a writer, but there is little opportunity for her living at home in Jackson.  The novel alternates with each woman's perspective as the three join together for a secret--and potentially dangerous--project to address the complicated relationship of white women and their help.

Musings: I had been reluctant to start this book for awhile, primarily because I'm suspicious of super-popular books (ugh, I'm such a snob sometimes!) and I wasn't sure if I was ready to read about such a difficult period of history.  I suppose sometimes it's easier to read about oppression and mistreatment in my dystopian novels because the novels are, in the end, fantasy.  But the racism and segregation present in The Help is not only very true, it's so very recent (heck, my parents grew up in the '60s--my dad can remember when his high school was integrated), and that makes it all the more infuriating.

Nonetheless, The Help deserves all the praise is has received.  Each of the women comes fully alive through her narrative, and each is given a distinctive voice.  The three main characters are fully multi-dimensional and must deal with their conflicting feelings.  Aibileen can't stand her employer, Miss Leefolt, but despite her best efforts, she can't help but love Mae Mobley.  Minny may be known as a woman who speaks her mind, but she also puts up with her abusive alcoholic husband.  Skeeter wants to write something meaningful, but she also wants to have friends. The book details the women's cautious steps toward finding something more in their lives by standing up in the way they best can.  The book ends not with happy endings, but with hopeful beginnings.

There are clearly issues of privilege at play here--both within the book itself (Aibileen and Minny have a lot more to lose than Skeeter) and in the writing of the book.  After all, Stockett is a white woman writing about black women's lives.  Stockett does try to address this through the book's very content and through an afterword, but it's still something that played on my mind.

Nonetheless, I'd highly recommend the book for its strong characterization and ability to illustrate one complex view of the Jim Crow South.

***This book qualifies for the POC Reading Challenge.

"The Secret of Sarah Revere" by Ann Rinaldi

Summary: Sarah Revere, the daughter of the famous American patriot Paul Revere, has a secret.  But in her household, there are a lot of secrets, including what her father really knows about who made the first shot at the Battle of Lexington and Concord.  The novel follows Sarah and her family at the beginning of the American Revolution as they navigate the changes shaping the country's history forever.

Musings: I read almost no genre historical fiction, but a student recommended Rinaldi's books and loaned me several to try.  Unfortunately, the books sat on my shelf for almost the entire school year until I realized I had to read one so I could return her copies before summer break!

Funnily enough, my students would probably get more out of the historical setting than I did.  My students often ask me questions about basic U.S. history, and I have to tell them that they've had history much more recently than I have--while they probably had it yesterday, I haven't taken a U.S. history course since high school (I scored high on the AP US History text and thus was exempted from college courses in the subject).  Nonetheless, Rinaldi does a good job of situating her story within a famous part of history while also offering a new and nuanced view of that event.  In fact, Paul Revere's famous ride is only a small part of the story.  Instead, Rinaldi focuses on overlooked areas: How did Revere's large family feel about his actions?  In what ways did family members' beliefs about the revolutionary activities differ?  How did an event that is so mythologized now appear to those who actually lived it?  There is no rabid patriotic sentiment; instead, each character must grapple with his/her personal beliefs and balance those beliefs with the needs for his/her family.  Revere himself is made into an ordinary man rather than a comic book hero of history textbooks.

However, the book was too simple and slow for my tastes.  Sarah is a flat character for me, and her "secret" is truthfully boring.  The main theme of the novel is "What matters?  What's true?  Or what people think?".  If you decide to read this book and forget the theme by the time you do read it, don't worry: the theme is repeated in nearly every chapter.  Word for word.  Again and again.  I've no problem with books with messages, but young people are smart enough to pick up on them on their own.  Very little happens throughout the course of the novel.

I appreciate Rinaldi's use of history to create a new story, but would only recommend this novel to history buffs desiring an easy read.

"A Great and Terrible Beauty" by Libba Bray

Summary: Gemma Doyle is a 16-year-old British girl living in India when her mother is suddenly killed in mysterious circumstances only Gemma is aware of.  Gemma is sent off to boarding school in Victorian England where she befriends three girls: the beautiful Pippa, the conniving Felicity, and the meek Ann.  With her friends, Gemma begins to explore a group known as the Order and realize that she has powers that enable her and her friends to visit the other-worldly realms.  But Gemma learns that there are dangers as well as pleasures to the realms, and that her mother is more wrapped up in it than she had imagined.

Musings: This is my first audiobook review here.  In general, I've not been particularly interested in audiobooks except for when my husband plays them on long car rides.  But, now that I can download a number of audiobooks free from the library (and straight onto my iPhone), it's even easier to listen to them.  I listened to A Great and Terrible Beauty whenever I was doing chores or other monotonous work around the house, so it took me well over a month to finish the book, rather than the few days I'd normally take.

Typically this book would not be on my to-read list.  The cover has a photograph of a girl's back (photographs and disembodied people all equal "ugh" in my mind), and "Victorian boarding school novel" is not something I'd immediately run to.  But, I loved Bray's Going Bovine so much that I was willing to give this book a chance.

I knew going in that Going Bovine and A Great and Terrible Beauty were significantly different, and that's certainly the case.  The zany wackiness, absurdity, and humor I loved in Going Bovine are not present here, and the story--for the most part--is significantly more conventional.  In fact, I was initially turned off by the standard beginning of the novel.  Gemma is a slightly rebellious teenager who spends most of the opening whining about her life.  When she gets to the stuck-up boarding school, she is made roommates with the unpopular dumpy girl Ann and the cool and popular girls--Pippa and Felicity--hate Gemma and try to make her life miserable.  Ho-hum.  Fortunately this set up is done away with quickly, and the book moves into the four girls' tentative friendship and their exploration of the Order and the realms.

The girls are standard archetypes, but they're also shown as multi-faceted people.  Each of the friends is "damaged" in some way, and much of the allure and danger of the realms comes from each girl's desire to change her course in life.  I also loved the way the girls are willing to break the rules, acknowledging that Victorian girls could be just as "bad" as teenagers today.

The supernatural elements of the novel never quite settled with me fully, and perhaps that was because I was listening to the book in bits and pieces.  I couldn't get a full grasp of what it was and the good and evil elements of the place.  Nonetheless, I liked the mystery that the realms provided.

Bray also includes significant feminist commentary throughout the book, particularly related to the social expectations of how women should act and the limited options available to women.  The realms give the girls power they cannot have in the real world, which seeks to control their every action.

The only significant male figure in the book is Kartik, a mysterious Indian man who follows Gemma from England and warns her against the danger of entering the realms.  Bray does a great job of making Kartik hot and dreamy, and the book includes probably the most erotic scene I've read in YA (especially odd considering there really isn't any romance), but I just didn't understand Kartik's presence.  He's around but never does much, and I don't know that the novel would have been any different without him.  I'm assuming he'll play a large role in the following two books of the series.

Josephine Bailey, the narrator of the audiobook, does a nice job distinguishing the girls' voices. As I mentioned, Gemma comes off whiny early on, but I grew to like her.  Unfortunately the second book in the series, Rebel Angels, isn't available in audiobook from my library download, so I'll have to actually read it.  It'll be interesting to compare my experiences with the series in two different mediums.

I'd recommend the book to anyone who likes light fantasy and a twist on the standard boarding school drama.