American Dirt | harrowing, persevering, timely

Review: 4 stars

With work winding down before my second mat leave, I took the chance to sneak in some reading after putting my toddler to bed. Cummins’ ‘American Dirt’ was one of 2019’s most anticipated reads, and after its induction into Oprah’s Book Club 2.0, it experienced a surge of controversy. I ordered it off Indigo.ca in hopes of forming an opinion for myself - I was actually quite curious to see how Cummins, as a white woman, would be able to walk in the shoes of Lydia, a widowed Mexican mother.

The novel follows a mother and son duo - Lydia and Luca - as they flee Acapulco following a mass murder of their family. With the Los Jardineros cartel in hot pursuit, the shell-shocked pair rapidly adapt to their new reality, donning the grim, dusty, weatherworn visage of the Latin American migrant. Lydia’s survival and protective instincts keep them alive at every turn, just out of grasp of their hunters. Some of the most poignant scenes are those when Lydia pauses and inhales the scent of her son or palpates his skin to feel the quiet devastation seeping through his body. The novel definitely pulled at my personal heartstrings, as I asked myself what I would sacrifice and what lengths I would go to, to protect the life of my son.

As they strive to make the 1,000 mile journey to ‘el norte’ - the United States - Lydia and Luca undergo drastic physical and mental changes. It becomes commonplace to hurl themselves onto the rooftops of accelerating trains, to shelter in migrant housing with downtrodden and often dangerous strangers, and to cover their tracks with each turn.. Along the way, they encounter Soledad and Rebeca, two Honduran sisters whose double-edged beauty become their downfall. The bonds that forge this foursome together hold strong throughout the novel, and the luck and tragedy that each encounters emotionally entangles the reader.

As a non-Latina, I enjoyed the pounding plot line and Cummins’ spotlight on the travails and circumstances of a highly vulnerable population. It was not a perspective that I had sought nor understood previously, and her ability to build empathy and rapturous attention from the first pages fo the books for the migrant experience is highly effective.

Controversy aside - I felt that ‘American Dirt’ was a highly readable, pulsating work of fiction that well deserves the pop culture dialogue it has incited.

Exit West | imaginative, surreal, intimate

Review: 4 stars

‘Exit West’ was listed as a Top 10 book of 2017 by the New York Times, and so I ordered a copy off Amazon earlier this year. It piqued my interest because the novel seemed to be a contradiction - at once eerily realistic in its description of the refugee experience, all the while ignoring the laws of physics.

‘Exit West’ follows a pair of new, young lovers - Saeed and Nadia, who are" “subversives” in an anonymous Muslim country, teetering on the brink of civil war. The heady concoction of marijuana-tinged forbidden romance draws the two together, as curfews, bank runs and downed phone lines wreak havoc across their city. They catch wind of magical doors that are opening at random, bending distance to teleport willing travellers to unknown destinations. Thus begins Saeed and Nadia’s journey through this secretive network of doors, with each destination warping their relationship slightly more than the last.

Hamid has written a very clever story - one that adeptly blends ambiguity with the detailed emotional tapestry of the migrant experience. Saeed and Nadia could be fleeing Yemen, Syria or Somalia - their origin is of no import. By stripping this away and urging the reader to accept teleportation as reality, Hamid generalizes the refugee crisis so that it is the responsibility of the world. How would we act if a door were to spontaneously open in our bedrooms, shadowy, beleaguered figures emerging at all intervals throughout the day? What would we protect, what would we give? This surreal, yet genius interpretation of global diaspora insists upon activating the reader’s empathy.

I also thoroughly appreciated the deterioration of Saeed and Nadia’s romance, proving that circumstance and proximity are not enough to sustain love. Saeed is drawn more and more to the trappings of his home country, and shrouds himself in devout prayer. In contrast, Nadia finally feels as though she can shed her skin, and camouflage herself to be whoever she desires now. Their growing chasm is so honestly captured, and feels like a story repeated in every city in the world. Hamid writes this to illustrate their tenuous bond:

“Saeed wanted to feel for Nadia what he had always felt for Nadia, and the potential loss of this feeling left hm unmoored…Saeed made a point to smile with Nadia, at least sometimes, and he hoped she would feel something warm and caring when he smiled, but what she felt was sorrow and the sense that they were better than this, and that together they had to find a way out.”

This story feels old and clairvoyant at the same time. Refugees escaping certain persecution with uncertain promises awaiting at their destination. Upcroppings of peripheral migrant neighbourhoods, like outstretched tentacles from the world’s urban apexes. The right to electricity and connectivity wielded as new-age weapons by iinvaded authorities, against the invaders. New generations of ‘natives’, lighter in colour than those who previously donned the name.

This timeless novel successfully melds reality with fantasy, while providing a gentle, patient periscope into an unravelling relationship. I found it to be a thought-provoking read, and highly recommend it for those who would enjoy an inventive lens on today’s refugee crisis.

Home Fire | incendiary, daring, unexpected

Review: 4 stars

I walked into BMVQ over the summer, and was immediately taken by the stunning cover of ‘Home Fire’. I’m a fairly risk averse reader - I try not to judge a book by its cover, and I rely heavily on awards, reviews and ‘best of’ lists before affirming my choices. Luckily, Home Fire was a Top 100 pick of 2017 by the New York Times, so I happily bought it.

‘Home Fire’ is the story of three siblings - Isma, Aneeka and Parvaiz, who are ostracized from their Pakistani community in Britain because of their father’s legacy as a jihadi fighter. The novel is told in four voices - one for each sibling, with the final reserved for Karamat Lone - the father of Aneeka’s love interest, Eamonn, and Britain’s Home Secretary.

Isma fatefully meets Eamonn while studying abroad in America, igniting a collision course that leads to fatal consequences. Three parallel plot lines weave in and out, steadily ratcheting up the novel’s tension. The first - Isma’s blossoming friendship and affection for Eamonn, which is countered by Aneeka and Eamonn’s passionate love affair. The second - Aneeka and her family’s burning disdain for Karamat, born from his rejection of his Muslim community and refusal to help resolve their father’s death. The third - Parvaiz’s seduction by ISIS and his subsequent journey to Syria to honour his father.

Shamsie’s writing is poetic and heartbreaking. The novel reads as a thriller at times - so compelling are the plot and the protagonists’ struggles. She employs mixed media to evoke the realism of how public opinion is presented (tweets, hashtags, news headlines), how youth communicate across oceans (texts, skype messages), and also how ISIS guides their pilgrims to the frontline (poems, Quran verses).

The ending is one of the most moving and shocking conclusions to a novel that I’ve come across. It requires re-reading to fully absorb the enormity of each person’s actions, and to fully bear witness to all-consuming love. Shamsie wields the perspective of a removed onlooker in the final scene to create an immutable newsreel of horror and beauty, and to allow the reader to pass judgement and propose motives.

I recommend this book to those looking for a moving, ambitious exploration of the intersection of political and private agendas, and the wide spectrum of Muslim expression.

Sing, Unburied, Sing | timely, tragic, soulful

Review: 3 stars

'Sing, Unburied, Sing' was the first pick of the 'Now Read This' bookclub. It has also been awarded the National Book Award and appeared in a number of Top 10 Books of 2017 lists. Needless to say, it's been on my to-read list for quite awhile, and I dove into it during a family vacation to Santa Cruz. 

The novel is a railroad track with two parallel stories - one involving teenage Jojo, his toddler sister Kayla and a road trip with his mother Leonie to retrieve their father Michael from Parchman penitentiary; the other follows River, Jojo's Pop, and his time own time at Parchman decades earlier. Throughout, these parallel tracks cross, as spirits from the past - Richie, Pop's fellow inmate, and Given, Leonie's deceased brother - assert themselves on the protagonists' reality, insistent on their own agendas. 

Ward's writing modulates easily to craft each narrator's unique voice. It is effortless to empathize with Jojo in his role as Kayla's protector from a seemingly deadbeat, drugged-up mother. Similarly, I can easily meld myself into Leonie's conscience, urging her to love her children right, to be more than what circumstances have defined her to be. Ward effectively puts forward her thesis - that the restless souls of so many wronged black men and women are actively invading our present consciousness, influencing the actions of their ancestors generations later. The corpses are buried but their stories of injustice linger, demanding witness and reparation. Each character in the novel perceives these spirits to different extents, but not one is immune to the consequences of these African American lives. This is most poignant during the scene when Jojo and his family are pulled over by a cop, and Jojo, an unarmed black teenager, stares down the barrel of the officer's pistol for no good reason at all. It is a nightmarish history repeating itself again, different scenery, different weapon, same tragedy. 

Ward's novel is creative, unflinching and timely given our social struggle with ongoing racism and police brutality, particularly in the U.S. While I felt her novel was highly successful, for some reason, the story was less resonant with me. Perhaps I am not the right reader, in the wrong country. While my opinion and rating of the novel may be debatable, I do feel however that it is an important contribution to the prevailing discussion on racism. 

The Leavers | realistic, cultural, sensitive

Review: 2 stars

I was perusing the NPR top books of 2017 list and came across Lisa Ko's 'The Leavers'. I've been wanting to read more from Asian writers ever since I read Celeste Ng, so picked this novel up from Queen Street Books in Leslieville (a great spot). 

'The Leavers' is centred around the mother-son relationship of Polly and Deming, and the mystery behind why Polly suddenly vanishes one day. As we learn through flashbacks, Polly forged her own path to New York City from rural China, relying on her ambition and resourcefulness. However, upon arriving at the doorstep of the American Dream, she falls into the trap of many first-generation immigrants - working long, toxic hours at a nail salon, with her meagre paycheck doled out for basic necessities. The dissonance between the beautiful, independent life she has imagined for herself, and the harsh grey dependency of reality is one of Polly's key internal struggles. 

The novel nicely details the small moments of warmth that envelop mother and son amidst their battles for financial stability and belonging in the concrete jungle. It is also largely effective in portraying the identity crisis that Deming faces as he becomes 'Daniel Wilkinson' to his adoptive parents, Kay and Peter. Deming reflexively responds to triggers from his Chinese childhood - the intoxicating aromas of xiao long bao and lilting intonations of Mandarin conversations, while Daniel immerses himself in a life of self-described comfortable mediocrity with music as his only escape. Both lives beckon to him, and repulse him simultaneously.

I also enjoyed how the novel dove into a controversial notion in our society - the mother's right to be selfish. When we discover Polly's actual fate, and the battles she fought against herself as a new mother, I truly emphasized with her character's dilemma. To nurture a self that is separate from your children is difficult as a parent, yet this is a desire that I think many women (and men) face. Most of us acquiesce to the popular perspective that we should sacrifice our whole self in order to be a good parent, and that the deeper the sacrifice, the more perfect our love. However, I think this is worth debate, and that the balance between self and selflessness is different for each one of us. 

While I enjoyed many of the themes, there was something that fell short for me. I was sufficiently absorbed in the plot, but it was difficult for me to truly connect at an emotional level with the characters, particularly with Deming. Many of the reviews celebrated how timely and essential a novel this is, given the Trump administration's immigration stance. While the issue is broached in the novel, I feel as though deeper exploration of it was warranted in order for this to be celebrated as a political statement. I think there was also further richness left untapped in Kay's experience as an adoptive mother - the ease that she was relegated to a temporary stand-in seemed cold and underdeveloped. 

Overall, it was a promising read, but I felt that an author like Celeste Ng was more deft at handling the Asian American identity struggle, and would recommend her books over this novel.