Forbidden Notebook

Review: 5 stars

During a recent business trip to London, I took a detour to the airport to visit Foyles, one of the largest and most impressive local bookstores. I was in heaven - imagine five stories of neatly stacked books, with feature tables and end-caps tiled with intriguing (not only bestselling) titles! I was specifically looking for ‘Forbidden Notebook’, which I have been wanting to read for a while.

The novel is set in 1950s Rome, and follows the inner narrative of Valeria Cossati, a committed mother to two, dedicated wife and office worker. On impulse in a tobacco shop, Valeria purchases a black notebook, in which she secretly chronicles all the things she does not say to those around her. This simple act of subterfuge - writing her thoughts in a diary - is a rare selfish indulgence for Valeria, and it sparks a re-education and re-examination of her entire life. It also unleashes a pandora’s box of deceit that infiltrates the household. Valeria’s daughter Mirella becomes ensnared in a scandalous romance with the much older Cantoni; her son Riccardo goes to the point of no return with his girlfriend Marina, and her husband Michele pursues a fraught partnership with her filmmaker friend Clara. These tribulations are tirelessly archived by Valeria in the midnight shadows. As she enters into evidence the thousand ways that her family transgresses against society, she realizes as well that they transgress against her rights to individualism. As she sheds her titles of ‘mamma’, ‘daughter’, ‘wife’, ‘friend’, ‘breadwinner’, ‘employee’, ‘paramour’, she simultaneously begins the process of reclaiming ‘Valeria’ for herself.

Elena Ferrante (of ‘My Brilliant Friend’ fame), listed Alba de Cespedes as an inspiration ina , single-handedly reviving recent interest in works that are over seventy years old. But the ideas are as fresh as ever. I would dub De Cespedes to be the 1950s predecessor to Esther Perel, a globally recognized couples therapist and love expert. The incisiveness of de Cespedes’ insights into motherhood and marriage, and how these come to define and unravel one another, was astonishing.

Throughout my reading, I found myself shaking my head in admiration for how perfectly crafted and revelatory her writing is. For example, as Valeria finds herself struggling to connect with her husband of over twenty years, she writes “I felt an uncontrollable sadness rising in me. I’m afraid that because my way of being seems so natural to him it no longer has any value in his eyes”. Then later, she attributes lack of intimacy in marriage to the following: “It’s because we feel that husband and wife who unite in an obscure, silent relationship, after talking all day about domestic matters, about money, after frying the eggs, washing the dirty plates, are no longer obeying a happy, joyful desire for love but a gross instinct like thirst, or hunger, an instinct that is satisfied inherent dark, rapidly, eyes closed. How monstrous.” Or even more poignantly, when forcing her daughter to admit a painful fault: “She spoke concisely, as if to consume as quickly as possible the need to wound herself and to wound”.

Even more interesting are the artificial narratives that Valeria constructs, even as she writes in the notebook - the one place she can be freely honest. Her reluctance and inability to piece together her husband’s infidelity, and how she conjures up a nemesis in her future daughter-in-law, become fictions that are logged as truths. The notebook in the end becomes a version of herself that Valeria vehemently denies, burning it to ashes to return to a skin she wants to wear again - that of the weary, saintly matriarch that gives everything and receives nothing.

One review of the book simply said it was “incendiary” and I cannot agree more wholeheartedly. I am in awe of how deftly de Cespedes took simple moments of everyday life and wove them into an intricate meditation on womanhood. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is a lover of fiction at its finest, and to every mother who feels even the slightest bit unmoored.

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.

Pachinko | bracing, hopeful, absorbing

Review: 5 stars

‘Pachinko’ had been on my ‘to-read’ list for quite a while. I am finding that most National Book Award finalists are turning out to be some choice picks for my style of reading. This dynastic, sweeping sophomore novel from Min Jin Lee captivated me from start to finish. It follows several generations of Koreans, struggling to make sense of their self-identity in their homeland and in a highly stratified Japanese society.

At its heart, it is an immigrant story - one of unwanted pregnancy, of discrimination, of cherished yen earned through toil and desperation, and of the eventual reckoning of one’s self with parentage and parenthood. The story follows various characters, but Sunja’s voice rings throughout. Her actions as a teenager set off an inexorable series of events that culminates in hope for future generations, and a devastating blow to one branch of the family tree. Her secret affair with wealthy Koh Hansu on the shores of her fishing village is the genesis of how Hansu covertly becomes the puppet master of her clan. This includes protecting her family from certain death during the war, providing her with reputable employ to keep her family afloat, and funding their son Noa’s education to help him transcend the class he was born into. Despite Hansu’s behind-the-scene machinations, it is Sunja and Kyunghee’s powerful roles as breadwinners and family binders that make this a female-forward story.

The prose is delicate, honest and incredibly compelling. I was completely pulled into the narratives of each character, and invested in an internal debate between what qualifies as honourable and dishonourable. As a Chinese-Canadian, while I haven’t experienced anywhere close to the degree of ostracism that Noa and his brother Mozasu suffer in Japan as Koreans, I empathize with the impulsive desire to assimilate completely at times. Noa’s journey to mask his ethnicity through education and later through adoption of a Japanese name and personage proves futile in the end - his Korean heritage and struggle to come to terms with it becomes his eventual undoing.

This was an incredible read - and one of my most recommended books to friends. I also increasingly appreciate tragic, bittersweet endings, which ‘Pachinko’ successfully delivers upon. Hope you have a chance to delve into ‘Pachinko’ - it is well worth your while.

Little Fires Everywhere | relatable, tender, detailed

Review: 3 stars

I loved Celeste Ng’s ‘Everything I Never Told You’, so I eagerly grabbed her sophomore novel, ‘Little Fires Everywhere’ when it came out. I’m also trying to read more from Asian authors, so this was a great fit for my booklist.

Ng sets her story in Shaker Heights, a meticulously designed neighbourhood in Ohio, her native state. It follows the collision of two families - the Richardsons and the Warrens - and the consequences that arise as each member pursues their selfish interests. The conflicts begin small and crescendo quickly - a hidden teenage affair, a regretful abortion, an adoption controversy, a stolen surrogate baby. The drama ignites and grows into a blazing conflagration by the end, forcing Mia and Pearl Warren to flee town in haste, to the devastation of the four Richardson children.

I found Ng’s writing to be particularly powerful when delving into the pasts of Mia Warren and Elena Richardson, the two matriarchs in the story. She deftly captures the faded could-have-beens for each woman, rendering them as more than mothers. Elena’s epiphany as to why she holds her daughter, Izzy, at such arm’s length also rings with brilliant truth. Sometimes when we are threatened with the loss of something, we try not to love it too much for fear of pain. Ng also is a capable juggler - using Bebe Chow and Linda McCullough’s custody battle for a Chinese baby to further increase antagonistic tensions between the primary families.

You can read Little Fires Everywhere and easily relate to something in it - either the Asian-American immigrant experience, teenage angst, or secrets in one’s past, Perhaps the most relatable element of all is Elena’s articulation of what so many of us feel and practice in daily life: “…passion, like fire, was a dangerous thing. It so easily went out of control…Sparks leapt like fleas and spread as rapidly…Better to control that spark and pass it carefully from one generation to the next…Carefully controlled. Domesticated. Happy in captivity.” As Elena nurses her single flame, her daughter Izzy defies all rules and sets the world ablaze. Perhaps the novel is an ode to how our lives of normalcy are just waiting to be set ablaze by something, or someone.

I enjoyed much of the novel, but felt that the adolescent storylines lapsed into well-tread territory, with little left to discover. I would’ve also liked Elena to have been a more redeeming character earlier on. Her foray into villainy flattens the great character development we have from learning about her past. Although the novel reads as a thriller at times, it lacked the surprise and originality of Ng’s debut novel, which I had so loved. In particular, Mia’s revelation, which the entire story builds up to, seemed to me a let-down once unveiled. I don’t doubt that this novel will have many admirers, but for me, it fell short of a spectacular read.

Bringing Up Bebe | practical, charming, humble

Review: 4 stars

I will be the first to admit that parenting is damn hard. It takes abnormal doses of energy, patience and hand/arm/back/neck strength to successfully raise an infant. My child, Aiden, is an adorable, strong-willed, fun-loving little man. Half of the days I feel like I’m firing on all cylinders with him and the other half I’m just barely keeping it together.

Hence the vast market for parenting books. ‘Bringing Up Bebe’ was recommended to me by one of my colleagues in my office’s mom group. It is advertised as one American’s behind-the-scenes investigation into how the French make motherhood look so easy.

Druckerman takes a journalistic angle to answering her burning questions, polling French friends, citing child psychology findings, and speaking to childcare experts. She also takes a step back and examines the culture and system within which the French style of parenting succeeds - of which maternity benefits, childcare subsidies and a strong public school system form the key pillars. Her writing is humorous and self-deprecating - she admits her own faults and blunders with ease. For new mothers like me, her voice is that of a supportive friend, reassuringly saying ‘You’re doing great! But here are some tips to make your life easier if you’d like’.

What I found most refreshing and practical were the French attitudes on setting a ‘cadre’ - a non-negotiable set of boundaries - within which children should pursue utmost liberty. Gentle, but firm reprimands are a form of ‘education’, steps in the continuous development of a child’s personality and moral compass. It appears to me that the ‘French way’ celebrates independence and assumes ability much more than other cultures. Babies are regarded as highly intelligent beings who can be spoken to rationally, and who learn most successfully when given ample time and space to respond to stimuli. Druckerman’s findings also give parents much more leeway to focus on themselves (e.g., evenings are for adults) and to nurture their romance instead of acquiescing to the whims of children.

There are a few shortcomings. One criticism is that Druckerman is making broad generalizations of a heterogenous society of parents - my husband suggested a real possibility that differences in parenting within a nation may be more disparate than those between nations. Some observations would’ve also been more convincing if backed up with studies or a greater number of ethnographies. But as I’ve come to learn, sensitivities are higher when the topic is how to parent successfully, and raising a child is not a science, but an art. With these caveats in mind, I was not overly distracted by the aforementioned criticisms, especially since Druckerman acknowledges these limitations time to time herself.

I really enjoyed the book, but more importantly found it to be a good conversation starter with my husband on how we might recalibrate how we raise Aiden, or our next child. There are a number of countering perspectives to what Druckerman puts forward as a better way of child-rearing (for example, advocates of no-cry and feed-on-demand parenting). However, I found this book to be a useful, reasonable addition to the ongoing parenting discourse, with practical tips that I hope to apply soon (once I pluck up my courage).

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.