The Power

The Power by Naomi Alderman

What if traditional gender roles were reversed? That's the question that is at the heart of Alderman's novel. It imagines a world in which women, suddenly, obtain a new power, a "skein" between the collar bones that hums with electricity, which they can use as a weapon. And they do. All of a sudden, men are at women's mercy; it's as if every woman in the world were walking around with a concealed, loaded gun. Naturally -- or, so the author seems to suggest -- women begin to use the power to upend gender norms and, essentially, seek revenge for hundreds of years of injustice and compelled subservience. At first, the reader, at least this reader, was rooting for them. Don't women deserve to be finally liberated in this most physical of ways? But the power doesn't necessarily serve humanity well. Interestingly, the book is framed by an e-mail exchange between the author and a fellow writer many years -- 5,000, I think -- in the future. The conceit is that the story is one anthropologists attempt to bring otherwise boring history to life, to explain how their matriarchal society came to be. So the story, which takes place in our future, actually takes place in the past for its fictional author. This, I think, is key to elevating the story. It helps contextualize the tale and give it resonance beyond its characters.

But what, exactly, is its meaning? And here I warn any reader who happens upon this blog that I am about to reveal too much about the plot. So here's what happens: Women who are desperate to liberate their fellow women from male domination essentially help bring about the total destruction of civilization so that it can be rebuilt with women in charge, a history which is only revealed in the epilogue e-mail exchange between the fictional author and their fictional writer-adviser. In this exchange, the fictional author, a man named Neil, defends his depiction of the origin of their society to another writer, Naomi. She finds several aspects of the book just plain silly: Could it be that there were battalions of male soldiers? The point is that the society in which the two are writing has gender norms that are the exact opposite of our own. Women are seen as more aggressive and strong while men are weak and passive. So what is the real author saying? At first I thought it was merely: Absolute power corrupts absolutely. (Obviously not a phrase I coined.) But maybe it's an attempt to show that men and women aren't that different, that we all act according to the gender roles we are assigned, that women could just as easily be the warriors of the world if that's how the world saw them. Or maybe that the very real differences between men and women will inevitably lead to such gender norms? Or maybe that our societal norms are as much based in mythic as the ones the society developed in the novel are?

Regardless, this was a book that was at once hard to put down because the plot drew me in so intensely, and had me thinking more deeply about our society. A good read!

The Final Solution

  

The Final Solution by Michael Chabon

This slender mystery is set in World War II-era England. It features a mute Jewish boy who escaped Nazi persecution in Germany and his loquacious parrot. It is what the parrot says that is the heart of the caper: Over and over again, it rattles off a series of numbers in German. There are various theories about what these numbers might mean: A Nazi intelligence code? The numbers of a fabulously full bank account? Nonsense? This intrigue leads to a murder that brings an aging Holmes-like detective who was once renowned for his attention to forensic details. In the end, the reader has a good idea about what those numbers might mean, but nothing clearly definitive.

I can't say I was particularly taken with this novella. I think it's greatest achievement was the tone Chabon managed to hold throughout. It is very different from his other novels, a clear homage to Doyle's classic detective novels: it is stiff, Victorian language. That part was fun. But, perhaps owing to its length, I never found myself lost in the story. The characters felt like caricatures, and the plot unfolded so suddenly that you never had time to be shocked or surprised. Suspense is, after all, the bread and butter of mysteries, but it was almost entirely lacking here. Not recommended.

Educated

Educated by Kara Westover

Another book about the meaning of family, this time in memoir form. In the book, the author tells the story of her journey from an off-the-grid home in Idaho, where she was raised -- bullied? abused? -- by fundamentalist Mormon parents who avoided the "government" at all costs, to the highest ranks of academia. Despite no real schooling -- she reports that her parents had essentially given up on "home schooling" by the time she, the youngest of seven, rolled around -- she now has a PhD from Cambridge. There is much to that journey, of course, including a delusional father and physically abusive brother. And in the end, her family rejected her attempts to right the most egregious wrongs of her upbringing.

After reading reviews and interviews with the author, it seems as though most people are fascinated with the idea that, even in the 21st century, it is possible to grow up as isolated as Westover did. But I've lived in and visited many places where it was clear this is possible. My brain and eye was focused on the "educated" part, particularly when Westover first encountered "formal" education at BYU and then Cambridge. These portions of the book do not speak well of "higher" education. In both instances, Westover describes having to take tests in which she was asked to regurgitate information from lectures in which professors pontificated on various subjects. In fact, it isn't until after six years of schooling that, at Cambridge, Westover says that instead of being asked to read history, she is asked to write it. In other words, she wasn't asked to think for herself for six years of college. This is likely an exaggeration, but regardless of my hyperbole, it is clear from the memoir that what Westover describes as her "teachers" were really "tellers". That is, they sought to help students learn by telling them what they knew. But this isn't teaching at all. It is the simplest thing in the world to tell someone what you know. It is much more difficult, but ultimately more meaningful, to devise learning experiences in which students arrive at what you know on their own and then use this knowledge to form opinions about the topic at hand. So while many might see this book as a a tale of the triumph of "education", I think it tells a far less optimistic tale about the role that our educational institutions play in people's lives.

What is remarkable about this book is that it is, at least in the words of the author, true. It is incredible that someone's life could unfold in such a suspenseful way. No one should have to live a life like that. No one should have to wonder whether they will be hurt one moment or rejected from their family for expressing fear the next. While Westover's success is certainly inspiring, that she had to go through so much to achieve is is rather heartbreaking.

Far From the Tree

Far From the Tree by Robin Renway

This is my kind of book. It tells the story of three adopted teenagers (Grace, Jaoquin, and Maya) who find each other when they need it the most -- which sounds kind of sappy, and is not what I mean when i say that this is my kind of book. What I loved about this story was the way it let me inside the minds and personalities of the characters. I think more than anything else what I look for in a book is some kind of insight into my fellow human beings. I have a hard time with that in real life; I don't know what makes people who are different me -- and most everyone is different than me -- tick. This book immerses you in the characters. You feel like you know them. This is particularly true when the author uses dramatic irony, which, my wife informs me, is when the author gives the reader more information than the characters. In those moments, you understand what the other character is going through, know how hard it is to be themselves at that particular time.

I will say that the book is more disappointing in fulfilling the other duty I hope a good work of fiction will fulfill, which is to illuminate something of the human condition. The subtitle of the novel -- What does it mean to be a family? -- largely goes unanswered. Or it is answered in a far too simplistic sense. Somehow, the characters are all experiencing some kind of crisis in their lives when they meet. And somehow, despite never knowing each other, the genetic draw between them is enough for them to become a rock-solid support group at this critical juncture. Of course, it never happens -- or, I guess, I can't imagine that it happens, since I myself was not adopted -- this neatly. Even worse, the characters all seem to reach some sort of resolution by the end of the book, which purports to take place in a short period of time. Perhaps resolution occurs in some lives, but it is not something I've experienced. When one problem is solved, others present themselves, either externally or, in most cases, from within. This is the nature of life; it doesn't stop. Nor should it. If you aren't challenging yourself, pushing yourself outside of your comfort zone, if you aren't discontented in some way -- what's the point? I guess?

Anyway, this is a great read. Perfect, no. But highly entertaining and worthwhile.

The Hate U Give

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this book. On the one hand, it tells a story that needs desperately to be told. It is the tale of the shooting -- murder? -- of a young black man at the hands of a white police officer. The circumstances of the shooting are familiar to those who read the news frequently: The victim was unnecessarily pulled over. He was unarmed. He was not an apparent threat to anyone's safety. And his killer, the officer, was absolved of any wrong doing. But fiction has a way of reaching people in a different, perhaps more personal way.

At least good fiction. And I'm not sure what this is. Though the story is a compelling one, the way the story is conveyed is less so. For example, the author tries very hard to create characters that upend expectations we might have for them. But the way she does it is cliched; as a result, the characters seem like mere tropes. The main character, Starr, is born of parents who worship Black Power heroes -- but, gasp!, she is dating a white guy. Chris, that white guy, is uber rich and privileged, but, really?!, his feelings for Starr seem genuine and sincere. He's even willing to go to her neighborhood to protest! Her father, Maverick, is an ex-con gang member who, no way!, is committed to improving his community. The result is that these characters feel more like cardboard cutouts than real people. Second, the author relies much to heavily upon dialogue to advance the story. There is little description or inner thinking. It's almost all dialogue that, to me, felt contrived. Third, the author comes right out and says everything. There is no showing --- it's all telling. An example: At one point, Starr's friends and family from her neighborhood meet her friends from the fancy school she attends. She writes, "My two worlds just collided. Surprisingly, everything is all right," and, later, "These cultural differences are crazy sometimes." This is the type of thing that a more gifted writing would leave for the reader to infer on their own. I'm thinking of the way Sherman Alexie does this so deftly in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Thomas doesn't really make the reader do any thinking -- it's all spelled out clearly in black and white. Finally, and I don't want to give away too much here, Starr's trajectory is just to neatly packaged to seem realistic.

All of which is a shame -- I really wanted to like this book.

The Benefits of Begin an Octopus

The Benefits of Being an Octopus
By Ann Braden

This is no nature story. Instead, the octopus in the title is an extended metaphor for our main character, Zoey, who uses the animal as inspiration for what it will take for her to survive and escape the poverty that is holding her family captive. The story is set in Vermont, and offers an oft-overlooked view of our generally well-to-do state. When the story opens, things appear as though they are looking up for Zoey: After years of chaos, her family -- a mom and three younger siblings -- have found stability in the home of a new boyfriend, father to the youngest member, Hector. But things aren't as good as they seem, and the tension at home spills over into Zoey's life at school.

As a teacher, this book obviously had me reflecting on my students, some of whom have stories very similar to Zoey. How can we help make school a sanctuary for these students, a place of stability and source of confidence they need in their lives? How can we help them to see education as a possible way out? How can we help ensure that socioeconomic gaps outside the classroom don't cause inequity inside the classroom?

In the book, Zoey has one teacher who serves as a kind of messianic figure for Zoey. She unflaggingly believes in Zoey and pushes her to take the risks needed for her to reach her potential in school (and out). I'm always conflicted about this kind of portrayal of teachers. It's inspiring to think we can have this kind of impact on students. At the same time, it's pretty unrealistic and ignores all sorts of challenges and obstacles that get in the way of "saving" students like Zoey. Am I doing enough for the Zoeys in my classroom? What else could I be doing?

In the end, this was a pretty great read. I couldn't put it down. The author does a great job of continually raising the stakes in the story. Whatever its flaws, the book provides an important perspective about the struggles many young people face every day -- and shouldn't.

Angela's Ashes

Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt

In this memoir, the author tells the story of his childhood growing up in Limerick, Ireland. Though he was born in New York City, McCourt and his family immigrated back to Ireland, where his parents were from, during the height of the Great Depression -- though their troubles were more likely linked to Malachy McCourt's drinking and inability to keep a job than to the downturn in the global economy. Malachy doesn't change much upon their return to Ireland and, in fact, abandons the family altogether when he finds work in England during World War II.

The poverty McCourt writes about is hard to fathom. We think about Ireland as quaint above all else. But there is nothing quaint about hunger, about inadequate shelter, about a father who continually drinks away the family's meager allowance from the Irish state. Yet McCourt tells his story with a sense of humor that can only be made possible by a triumph, later in life, over these difficulties. And the story is so evocative of Ireland that it'll have you dreaming of a steaming cup of tea during a dreary rainy day. 

Night

Night 
By Elie Wiesel

I originally read this book in high school. I picked it up again on a whim when I was without something to read one night. I was unprepared for its weight. As a younger reader, I remember not being that taken with the book. I found it oddly distant. I felt like I never really found my way into the characters' heads. But on this second read, I'm thinking that the author did this on purpose. It strikes me that the book is something of a facsimile of a nightmare, a kind of waking dream in which inconceivable, surreal moments seem to drift in and out of one's consciousness without the small details that suggest reality. Perhaps this was obvious to everyone else on their first read. Regardless, this is not easy reading. But it is important reading. It is important to know what we humans can do to each other - so that we may more bravely make the choice to do the opposite.

Desert Solitaire Part 1

Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey

There is something about Edward Abbey's voice. It is so self-assured, so...irascible? In this book, it comes out of the desert, a recollection from the past of a season spent working for the Park Service at Arches National Monument. I've read Abbey's other famous book The Monkey Wrench Gang, and liked it. But I picked this one up for research, hoping it will help me build out a Wilderness Studies course I'm working to build.

Anyway, back to Abbey's voice: It somehow demands a response. He is clearly provoking the reader in his rants about "progress": "...why is the Park Service generally so anxious to accommodate that other crowd, the indolent millions born on wheels and suckled on gasoline, who expect and demand paved highways to lead them in comfort, ease, and safety into every nook and corner of the national parks?" His answer is pretty black-and-white: money. But, of course, the real answer is much more complicated than that. There is a way in which accommodating these so-called "Wheel-Chair Tourists" is a boon to the natural landscape Abbey so clearly thinks they destroy. Because there is no such thing as "pristine" -- or, in the words of the Park Service mission, "undiminished" -- wilderness. Nothing in our world can now be said to have escaped the hand of man, and it hadn't in Abbey's day either. And much of what we perceive to be untouched is actually quite heavily managed so that it seem that way. As a result, wilderness often requires money to preserve and maintain, and that money must come from somewhere. Better "Wheelchair Tourists" than oil companies paying for leases.

At least that's what I'm thinking on this night. What I'm loving about Desert Solitaire is the way in which the author draws you into his world, one in which nothing can be more important than wild country. He is, at least in his portrayal, doing what I have often said I'd long to do: Go away, far from people, and be alone in a landscape. I've never really done it, and I'm not sure if I really want to. Earth is the right place for love -- of people as well as of land. And so it's always felt more enjoyable with company. In a sense, he, too, isn't alone: He has his future readers. Did he think of me? Someone like me? Am I his intended audience? I don't know, but I'm enjoying his "Romantic dreams, romantic dreams."

There There

There There by Tommy Orange

This compelling story offers a new, often untold perspective on the Native American experience. It's title comes from a famous Gertrude Stein quote in which she proclaimed, of her hometown of Oakland, "There is no there there." Though often interpreted as a derision of San Francisco's less fortunate neighbor, in fact, this author points out, Stein was really lamenting the passage of time, pointing out that the Oakland she once knew no longer existed. Either way, it seems as though the quote plays a central role in the story Orange is trying to tell, that of Native Americans who live, often unseen and unconsidered, in America's cities. Sherman Alexie and Louise Erdrich have written extensively about life on rural reservations; the same is true of American news publications. As a result, perhaps, popular consciousness places Native American culture in these locales. Orange seems to be trying to expand the idea of where Native Americans live and who they are by drawing attention to what it is like to navigate this identity in the urban environment. He seems to be trying to say that there is a there there. Then again, if this is the case, I'm not quite sure what to make of the ending.

The Book Thief

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Well here's a book I couldn't put down. This is a story of the Holocaust told from a perspective I hadn't quite considered: Death. I hope that doesn't give too much away. It's an interesting point of view that underscores the way death permeated Nazi Germany in the 1930s and 1940s. It was a time of death for lives, of course, but also of livelihoods, literature, friendships, art, freedom, and, for many, hope. This book tells the story of how one young adolescent refused to allow her hope to die during this time through a hard-fought relationship with books. It affirms the power of literature as well as the resilience and persistence of young people in the face of the worst of times.

I appreciated this book on a number of levels. I loved the short chapters, each one a tale in and of itself, that propelled the story forward. I also liked that the book wasn't just driven by plot; it's full of reflection about life, death, and everything that happens in between. It's a heavy topic, to be sure, but definitely worth a read.

West with the Night

West with the Night by Beryl Markham

The author of this memoir is best known for her daring journey by plane from England to North

America in 1936. She was the first person to cross the Atlantic in a plane going from east to west. But that feat is almost an afterthought in this book. It is the story of her finding a place and passion in the world, as well as of the setting -- colonial Africa -- in which she did it. She began as a horse trainer, a skill she picked up on her father's farm, and then graduated to bush pilot, almost on a whim. After a successful career spotting elephant for hunting guides, she traveled back to her birthplace of England, from which she launched her most famous flight.

This book has many strengths. The first is its prose. Ernest Hemingway famously wrote that Markhams' writing made it "completely ashamed of myself as a writer." She certainly does have a way with words, using them to both help the reader enter into a story and to muse about the larger significance the story might have for her -- and for the reader. Here's one passage that struck me, in which Markham describes a plane, abandoned in a grassland, that once held a pilot she had been searching: "There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with the morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of sleeping in a city There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak...With the water bottle swinging from my hand on its long leather strap, like an erratic pendulum, I walked around Woody's plane...The silence that belonged to the slender little craft was, I thought, filled with malice -- a silence holding the spirit of wanton mischief, like the quiet smile of a vain woman exultant over a petty and vicious triumph" (49). There is also plenty of adventure and suspense in this story, and of inspiration, too.

Missing from the book is any real awareness of the harm inflicted upon Africa by the very colonialism that afforded Markham the opportunity to achieve what she did. Perhaps this is to be expected, and forgiven, given that it was written in the 1940s. Or maybe it is enough that Markham took on the patriarchal system that accompanied paternalistic colonialism. Either way, the book is as good as Hemingway said is is.

Sing, Unburied, Sing

Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward

The central character of this book has no voice and no form. It sits in the background and underground,

like a fetid root system that touches, and rots, everything else in the novel. It is Mississippi's Parchman Prison, the legendary penitentiary that, in effect, kept slavery alive in the Deep South for more than a century after the 13th Amendment. Parchman is a symbol for this racist system, and the book explores the legacy of Jim Crow on both black and white Mississippians.

This novel kept me rapt. I particularly enjoyed reading from the perspective of Jojo, a boy largely raised by his grandparents who has had to grow wise before his time to compensate for his mother's neglect. Jojo is the voice of both his little sister and his grandfather, whose tale of the time he spent at Parchman becomes the central story of the novel. My only complaint was that the voice of his mother, Leonie, who trades off the narration, seemed unrealistic. Her actions -- spiteful, negligent, irresponsible, uncaring -- did not seem consistent with the inner world Ward creates for her. How could someone so thoughtful on the inside be so thoughtless on the outside?

This is a book that was well worth the read.

Golden Hill

Golden Hill by Francis Spufford

This book starts with a classic story-telling trope: a stranger comes to town. The town in question is 1740s New York City, then a small village of just 7,000 or so. The stranger's name is Richard Smith, we think, and his purpose is largely unknown except that he has presented a counting house with a bill of credit worth the unseemly sum of 1,000 pounds. Havoc ensues as Smith manages to upend the traditional hierarchies of New York society. The author does a good job of continually raising the stakes -- Smith faces death no fewer than four times -- and keeping the enigma of the stranger alive. It was also interesting to read about the milieu of 18th century New York, which had far more Dutch influence than I think we generally realize. Though I had a bit of a hard time getting into this book, in the end it was a satisfying read.

The Hearts of Men

The Hearts of Men by Nickolas Butler

This book follows two young boy scouts and their progeny from the early 1960s until today. The first, known as bugler because his job is to sound reveille for the camp every morning, is, in the opening scenes, ruthlessly bullied for his insistence on following the rules. The other seems to walk the line between sincerity and obfuscation, kindness and cruelty, friendship and exploitation. There is little plot to speak of, save the passing of time and events that reveal who these two men really are. But that was enough to draw me in. The author really brought these characters to life for me; even in the first few pages, I felt like I knew them and the internal struggles they were facing. Like a lot of books I've read lately, though, the ending felt a bit...blah. It seems like wrapping up a story is the hardest part of telling it.

Bread and Roses, Too

Bread and Roses, Too by Katherine Paterson

I must say that I was disappointed by this book. It's about the "Bread and Roses" strike at the Lawrence, Mass., textile mills in the early 20th century. It should be an inspirational story, but this book make it so bland and cliched. We never really learn what it was like to work in the mills. The characters are all caricatures. And the ending is so darn neat and tidy. Lame.

You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

You Don't Have to Say You Love Me by Sherman Alexie

Is there any author better than Sherman Alexie? I'm totally enamored with his prose and poetry. I'll read

anything by him -- and love it. This book was no exception. It focuses on his troubled relationship with his mother, a reformed alcoholic and unrepentant liar who showed Alexie little love and yet gave him the tools to leave his hardscrabble existence on the reservation to strive for something better. Alexie approached his subject from multiple angles: Mother as a mother (not so good); mother as victim (going back centuries; and mother as survivor (a damn good one). It is hard to fathom the damage our government has done to America's indigenous peoples. I don't know why I so enjoy being reminded of that fact. But I think it is important that I am.

The Someday Birds

The Someday Birds by Sally J. Pla

In this book, four children -- an older sister, an eccentric brother, and two younger twins -- travel cross-

country to visit their father, who is undergoing brain surgery after an injury suffered as a journalist in Afghanistan. The "eccentric" brother bonded with his father over birds. His father once created a list of "someday" birds -- those birds that he wanted to see someday -- even if some of them went extinct. He keeps track of his sightings of these creatures as they travel.

I'm a sucker for any book that features birds and birding, so, naturally, I liked this one. In addition, the main character was believable and likable. You were rooting for him and his siblings the whole way. Definitely an entertaining read.