Skip It: How To Keep Rolling After A Fall by Karole Cozzo

November 28, 2016 |

I believe in taking any genre of fiction seriously. This extends, too, to romance. I don’t mean that to say that genre fiction can’t be funny or sweet, but rather, genre fiction matters in the same way that literary fiction does and thus, can and should be held to high standards for quality. And in the case of How To Keep Rolling After A Fall by Karole Cozzo, a high standard for representation of disability.

It starts out with a scene that is a bit jarring: Nikki is approaching the end of the summer, and she immediately is in an argument with a boy at the Rehabilitation and Nursing center. She’s been “volunteering” there over the last few months, and as the book begins, that boy realizes who Nikki is. She’s Nicole Baylor, the girl who got kicked out of her old school because of a horrible cyber bullying incident.

He was angry she hadn’t been forthcoming with who she was or why she was volunteering. Fair enough, right? The girl had a reputation preceding her, and that boy , Jeremiah, is and will be the only level-headed character in the entire book.

He gets half a chapter of story.

As soon as the fight breaks out, Nikki takes a walk away from the orthopedic wing, wherein she is immediately face-to-face with the boy in a wheelchair named Max. I use that description not to belittle Pax but rather to give a sense of who Pax is to Nikki and who Pax is throughout the entirety of the story. Pax is the boy in the wheelchair. The sweet, inspirational boy in the wheelchair. The boy who is never more than the sweet boy in a wheelchair who, because of his status as the sweet and inspirational boy in the wheelchair, becomes the person who has to give Nikki her strength back after her terrible cyberbullying fallout and the person who, throughout the story, is offered no privacy or personal freedom as a character.

He exists entirely to prop up Nikki, a character who never sees a single consequence or arc in her character.

But let’s back up a second before getting into the problem of Pax. Or rather, the problem of how Pax is written in the story. First, let’s address the fact that this story begins with the knowledge that Nikki got kicked out of her high school at the end of junior year because of a bullying incident. The incident? A party Nikki threw at her own home, without her parents knowing, involved girls hooking up with boys and one girl being photographed during the incident. Those photos were then uploaded to social media via Nikki’s account, even though Nikki “had nothing to do with it.” Nikki’s four besties, of course, got off scot free because they claimed they had nothing to do with the incident, and, since the images went up under Nikki’s name, she was the one to get the consequences.

And that’s what we’re told of this incident. It is, of course, the Big Plot Point the entire story. It’s an emotional connector for Nikki and her new friend at her new (private) high school, and it’s the emotional connector between her and Pax, who forgives her without any question. Of course, he met her post-incident, so he knows only that aspect of her and he, like every person picking up this book, is expected to just accept Nikki’s side of the story to be the truth. Even though we’re also informed that the girl who had her images uploaded on social media attempted suicide. Of course, there’s no sympathy from Nikki when she lays this out to Pax. It’s just a thing that happened that ruined her life, no big deal.

Bullying, y’all, isn’t something to just accept that easily. Rather, Cozzo only offers this backstory to afford her character a way into her current situation and to offer a false sense of sympathy from the reader. But, when your main character has no growth and has no growth because we know nothing about the major preceding incident besides what she’s told us, there’s no way to sympathize. Further, the fact that Nikki’s parents are depicted merely as strict and upset after the incident and, throughout the book, they continue to cave on their strictness, we see no other side of the story. By showing us nothing, we see no growth.

If anything, we see regression because of the role Pax plays.

Pax is a good guy. A real good guy. Even though he’s in a wheelchair, he’s a good guy and bonus, he’s cute. He’d even be cute if he wasn’t in a wheelchair.

But Pax doesn’t want you to feel sorry for him at all. He wants you to understand he’s great and happy and he’ll play a mean game of wheelchair rugby. Pax is okay with having lost the possibility of getting a full ride to a college on a water polo scholarship because, well, as much as being disabled sucks, he’s okay with it! And he wants to be an inspiration for others to (wait for it, y’all) keep on rolling after a fall.

If Nikki knows anything, it’s a fall! And oh, Pax, he’s the perfect guy to show her how to pick herself up and keep going. A wealthy, privileged white girl has to have something (don’t worry — she will tell you she’s those things!).

There’s no character in Pax beyond his role as inspiration porn. He has no depth, and even when there is a moment for him not feeling well and fear falls into the heart of Nikki, he bounces back quickly and shakes it off as no big deal. Because he’s a guy in a wheelchair and he’s damn happy to be alive. Even his mother plays into the role of her son as inspiration porn, and it’s disheartening through and through as a reader to see the cardboard nature of each and every one of the characters in this book, but especially that each of them is there only to serve as a prop for Nikki. Perhaps had Nikki been developed or offered any sort of depth to her character or any sort of history or, like, anything, we’d feel differently as readers. And perhaps that would have allowed for Pax to be more than the cute guy in the wheelchair.

But alas, it only gets worse.

The thing that bothered me the most about this book and its representation of disability is that Pax is offered none of the privacy that other characters who are abled are provided. And while it can be “easily explained away” by the fact Pax is open and honest and loves sharing his story in order to help others, that is in itself the problem. To be specific, there is an entire scene involving Nikki and Pax at the Rehab center at night, wherein they’ve decided to go and have a private swim in the pool. Pax had previously mentioned that he wasn’t ashamed of much because he’s had a catheter and in this utterly painful to read scene, we’re given an entire opportunity to force Pax to talk about using a catheter. This scene becomes further uncomfortable when Pax says — no joke — he hasn’t been in a real relationship since the accident and has no idea whether or not his body is capable of getting it up.

Yes. Pax is upfront about a catheter and about being unsure whether or not he can have an erection.

This scene is an excellent example of what not to do with disability representation in a book, especially when written by a (presumably via internet searching!) able-bodied white author. As readers, this isn’t our business, just as it’s not our business in the world around us, unless we ourselves are the person who is disabled or close enough to earn that sort of trust from a person who is disabled. In this instance, it serves to answer invasive questions that Nikki nor readers are at all privileged to hear.

But worry not; when Nikki and Pax become a little more romantic later on in the book, she informs Pax that he can, indeed, get it up. Because we couldn’t let that go unexplored. Pax is here for one purpose and one purpose only. Never does he get the chance to be part of the story; never do we understand what it is that makes “a guy like him” (a terrible phrase that pops up far too often) attracted to Nikki. This is a book only about Nikki and the way Nikki wants to be seen.

A few cringe-worthy lines worth pulling to further why this is a book that’s a terrible example of disability representation and thus, a terrible example of a good romance for teen (or adult) readers. I flagged instances as I read, and nearly half the book is flagged:

“You will never be able to go anywhere without drawing some level of attention, without people wondering why you’re there with me”

— a line Pax throws at Nikki during a tiff they had. It’s almost as if the whole cyberbullying-and-getting-kicked-out-of-school thing we learned about in the first chapter no longer means anything in this town, but being around “a guy like Pax” would.

“‘There’s still so much good in her,’ he tells them. Then Pax looks back at my parents one final time before leaving my house. ‘And you know, it’s a damn shame that some boy she’s known for a few weeks gets to see it and appreciate it while the people who created her don’t.'”

— a nice little inspirational speech given by Pax the first time he meets Nikki’s parents. A chapter or so later, mom is moved and inspired by that nice boy and has a change of heart. So nice some boy she just met who has a heart of gold could inspire that kind of change. I have a few guesses as to why (what parent couldn’t be guilted by a boy with a wheelchair, right?).

“‘Number two, you didn’t mention crumbling sidewalks and a four-block walk.’ Then I stumble over my own feet and I realize my slip. ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘That was wrong.’

‘What?’

‘You know. Complaining. About having to . . . walk.’

Pax just laughs. ‘Aren’t we past that? In those shoes? You’re more handicapped than I am.'”

“I stare down at his limp legs. When I first met Pax, it kind of seemed like his self-assurance and big personality didn’t match up with the reality of his situation. Now it just seems like the uselessness of his lower body doesn’t match up with the reality of him. From the waist up, he is strong and capable in every sense of the word.”

All of the quotes are pulled from the final edition of the book.

Something I haven’t mentioned in this review but is worth sharing: I was sent this as a title for ALAN Picks. I’ve reviewed for them before, and even though romance isn’t my wheelhouse, I knew reading a romance and being able to write up a review for teachers, librarians, and other youth advocates wouldn’t be too hard (it’s what I do here, after all). ALAN Picks, for those who aren’t familiar, are only positive reviews. They highlight books that are good and worth knowing about.

I chose not to submit a review because I cannot recommend this book and even with some of the things that made the book feel “real” — things like name dropping brands and pop cultural references — don’t at all make up for the poor representation and lack of character development. Romance should be taken as seriously as other genres, and for a book meant to be light hearted, it fumbles before it gets anywhere. The kisses which should be swoon worthy are marred by the fact they’re only there because Pax is a tool of growth for Nikki. He is little more than inspiration porn for her, as well as for the reader.

To quote Kody Keplinger, who is one of the founders behind the incredible Disability in Kid Lit resource, a major problem with disability inspiration porn is this:

[E]ven if the intentions are good, it implies that the average disabled person is weak or lacks independence. So when people tell me I’m “amazing” for being out in the world, it implies the average blind person is a shut in. In reality, disabled people are people and want to be treated like normal people. This means not being seen as “brave” or “inspirational” for average, every day actions. Unfortunately, the news, modern lit, modern film, etc, seem to think this is the only way to tell the story of a disabled person. The plot is always “Character X has Disability Y, but she STILL MIRACULOUSLY MANAGES TO OVER COME IT.” Disabled people in the media are always treated as extraordinary and not ordinary. And, to put it eloquently, it sucks.

You can dig a bit more into the problems of disability/inspiration porn here.

I, like the author of this book, am white and able bodied. I, like the author of this book, am a writer and know the power of words. But what leaves me feeling unsettled is that this book lacks a sense of having done the work necessary to capture the reality of life for a disabled person. It lacks the sense of having considered that Pax should be more than a tool of Nikki’s growth. And it fails to even offer him a story he can call his own.

So much could have been done to save this book with just a little help from a sensitivity reader, a strong editorial eye, or even a few hours spent reading through the incredible resource that the kid lit community has about disability.

I choose to talk about this book with depth and criticism because this is a problem that emerges again and again in the YA world and beyond. The work isn’t being done, and critics aren’t speaking up — or they are and they aren’t being listened to by those who really need to hear it. How To Keep Rolling After A Fall doesn’t appear yet to have any trade reviews as of this writing, and I hope when those do begin to trickle in, that the reviewers are willing to do the work calling this what it is: a book to be skipped.

And there is no shame in not purchasing this book for a collection or recommending it to a teen romance lover because we are fortunate to have authors like Nicola Yoon, Jenny Han, Siobhan Vivian, Lauren Morrill, Sarah Dessen, and many more who are writing romances that also tackle meaty topics like bullying or eating disorders or struggling family lives and do them some damn justice.

We Need To Talk About Reviews & Criticism

August 15, 2016 |

Confession — and this is a really hard one to make — but when I read reviews in trade journals like SLJ, Kirkus, and others, my tendency is to believe the reviewer is white.

This comes from a few factors. First, librarianship and reviewing tends to be heavily white. Second, I’ve seen so many calls specifically seeking out reviewers of color that I tend to not think about the pool of existing reviewers who are people of color. And third, perhaps most important and vital to express, is that I’m white and as much as I try to be conscious of the world around me, I live in a world where white dominates and thus, it’s my default. It’s difficult to say that because I know so many passionate folks of color who write excellent, thought-provoking criticism and who are passionate about children’s and YA lit.

And yet, I still fall into that trap.

A few weeks ago, I picked up Fiona Wood’s upcoming YA novel Cloudwish. I’ve spoken highly of Wood’s previous novels, and this one made me excited. The story is about a young Vietnamese Australian named Vân Uoc who grew up in a poor part of Melbourne with immigrant parents. Their dreams for her included not just getting a solid education and going into a well-paying field, but they also want her to live in a well-to-do suburb. Since they didn’t have this and since they were immigrants, it’s what they want most for their daughter.

This is not an uncommon theme.

Vân Uoc, on the other hand, has begun school at a prestigious secondary institution, where she’s enrolled in the fancy and highly-competitive and challenging IB program. She’s on scholarship and the pressure on her to do well is even higher than it already was. But Vân Uoc has found herself falling in love with art and creation; rectifying her love for art and making it and thinking about it with the hopes and dreams of her parents is one of the biggest challenges in her life. She doesn’t want to disappoint — her name, by the way, means “Cloudwish” — and yet she doesn’t want to forgo what she’s passionate about, either.

The story also includes a hefty dose of romance. Vân Uoc has fallen for a white boy in her school. She’s been mad for him for a while, but she believes he’s entirely out of her league. But when the story begins, some kind of strange spell falls over Vân Uoc, and suddenly, that boy is interested in her.

At this point, the story feels like it could fall into a number of problematic tropes. The poor immigrants’ daughter is loved by a white boy who has simply fallen under a spell. The implications of that whole thing are terrible.

Yet, as we discover through the course of the story, it’s not a spell or any magical thinking that draws Vân Uoc’s crush toward her. It’s real, genuine interest. Vân Uoc, it turns out, is the one who has begun overthinking and overcomplicating relationships, and it’s not only with this boy. It’s with her parents, it’s with her friends, and it’s with other people who she interacts with regularly. This mirrors something we discover at a crucial turning point in the story: Vân Uoc’s mother and her sister have been estranged for many, many years, and it’s Vân Uoc’s mother who has overthought the reasons their relationship became what it was.

The book is not perfect. It relies on some secondary character development too much from the other books set in this world, and there are times when the way Vân Uoc talks about romance and feelings felt a little over-the-top (that, I suspect, is my personal issue — I believe it to be true to the character’s voice). It’s not a bad book, but it’s not the knockout that Wood’s other reads have been for me.

I finished the story, and then I did what I tend to do for new and forthcoming YA books: I sought out the professional reviews. This is how Kirkus reviewed the book:

My first reaction to the review, and the comment I made, was that it was harsh. There isn’t holding back on this, and the more I read the review, the more I disagreed with a number of aspects to it. Not that they were wrong; rather, I disagreed.

Nearly immediately, a number of women of color noted that the review was not “harsh.” And I’m glad they took the time to not just say this, but to explain why it was not harsh. As one woman said to me, the book messed up someone’s culture, and that hurt is hardly shown as harsh in the review.

Hearing this made me pause. They’re right. It’s not a harsh review.

It’s simply a review I find problems and disagreement with.

Kirkus Reviews, for anyone who isn’t aware, offers its critiques anonymously. This presents an opportunity to talk about books in a way that a signed review may not. Kirkus has a reputation for being sharp and being honest, two reasons why I find Kirkus to be such a great resource.

The problem, though, is not knowing who the reviewer is or what their expertise is without it being laid out in some capacity.

And, if I’m being fair, that’s not a problem at all.

The problem lies in the eyes of the readers, like me, who default to white. Who not only default to white, but who then expect explanation for the reviews as they stand.

As I’ve learned through social media, the reviewer of Cloudwish is Vietnamese American. She has an expertise by her own cultural heritage. She was given this book for review in part because of that, which is a wildly smart move on Kirkus’s part. That information about the reviewer, however, is privileged. I don’t know it and you don’t know it unless you know the reviewer or you’ve been told.

Which turns back to the problem above: readers like me who default to white not only will default to white, but then we want explanation and a defense of why a reviewer chooses to point out what they do and criticize it. That’s unfair on every level, and it’s a huge problem with trade reviews, period.

I feel privileged to know the reviewer is Vietnamese American and I feel privileged to have been told that my take on the review being harsh was explained to me. No one owes me that, and indeed, I feel lucky to have the capacity to ask women (and men!) of color for input and feedback on books, as well as feel lucky to read the smart critiques by these same people. The world is better for having so many places to seek out information and opinions and perspectives. That is exactly how we learn, how we grow, and how we better represent the world as whole.

Back to the Kirkus Review.

It feels unfair to see a review that equates Asian Americans — a huge, wide array of people and cultures and experiences and backgrounds — with Vietnamese Australians. The reviewer does something smart here in not centering the review on white readers, yet, it doesn’t touch upon the differences in racial relationships that exist in countries outside of America. Where these stories could be tropes in the US setting, they aren’t necessarily the same in an Australian setting.

There are, as of this writing, only two readily findable stories in YA that are about the immigrant Australian experience. Those are Cloudwish and the forthcoming Lucy & Lihn by Alice Pung (published in Australia as Laurinda). Pung is the daughter of immigrants herself and writes an #OwnVoices story, whereas Wood is not in the same position, but she writes having done significant research (as seen in interviews she’s done during the book’s Australian publication, as well as in her acknowledgements). It’s hard to wrestle with the ideas of what does or does not make a trope in storytelling when the stories that exist about a group of people are not abundant. It’s entirely possible that a story like Cloudwish resonates with Vietnamese Australians and provides a window into an immigrant experience unlike that of a Vietnamese American…or Asian Americans as a whole.

I’m also bothered by the idea the book was written with “a hidden diversity checklist.” Yes, there is diversity in this book, and yes, Vân Uoc’s friend is a lesbian. But these are teen girls who live in Melbourne, Australia. There’s not a stretch to the reality of what their lives look like here. And the conflict itself, while arguably tired in American-set stories, is arguably not so in a story set in Australia. Especially when these stories are not in abundance.

That all said, I appreciate this review notes the inconsistencies that exist in the story and think that that criticism is enormously helpful. Being unaware of cultural norms, knowing that honorifics were missing and that italics and language were inconsistent is worthwhile (both of those things, especially the second, are potentially fixable). These are things that any reviewer who knows anything about Vietnamese culture would know and things that an outsider like myself — and like the author — would and could miss.

So what of these conflicting thoughts and perspectives? What of the intersections that are wide and powerful and the ones which are tricky to navigate in nuanced ways?

The answer is: I don’t know.

But what I do know is this: there needs to be a bigger discussion about how we talk about diversity and inclusivity when it comes to criticism of books and representation. That first takes acknowledging one’s own biases and blinders and blunders. It requires creating a space where critics of color feel safe and comfortable laying out their problems with a given story and not only feeling safe, but feeling heard. The third is listening with respect on every side.

Reviewing and critically assessing literature is a skill and a talent, but it’s not something you necessarily get a degree or experience in in any way other than reading a lot and thinking about reading. Experts at reviewing children’s literature have a variety of backgrounds while holding on to the same goals: talking about what does and does not work in a book that’s being marketed for young readers. What separates those who review for trade journals from those who use a blogging platform to do the same thing is essentially word count and the end goal of the reviewer. What do they want to get from reviewing? Are they doing it for themselves? For a broad audience? For a specific audience?

In any case, there’s a problem with professional reviews. And it’s something that isn’t working on a number of levels: for the professionals reading the reviews (many of whom, like me, read those reviews being from white reviewers which is only one of many issues here), for the books being reviewed (and assumptions made about them or nuance missed within them or, in some cases, plain old factual stuff in the books being interpreted incorrectly or overlooked all together), for the reviewers (who are confined to a limited space to convey a lot of information), and, ultimately, the readers who do — or do not — have that book waiting for them on a shelf in a library or in a classroom.

Cloudwish was beta-read by a Vietnamese Canadian prior to being put into production on this side of the world. I’ve also read reviews and heard from other Vietnamese Canadians and Americans who have read the book who have given it a thumbs up. To them, it’s authentic and true. It’s a story they wanted to read. It’s a story they enjoyed reading and found to be solid in terms of representation. Solid being a way of saying just that: it’s solid. That doesn’t mean it’s perfect nor universal. But to these readers, it’s not harmful or painful.

Knowing that the same book was read by a Vietnamese American for a Kirkus review doesn’t change those reader’s opinions. But it does render the need to talk about the challenge of having the pressure of talking about representation put onto one person, writing a single review, attempting to speak for a wide swath of readers and through their own experiences. Will this book be purchased by libraries? Will it be overlooked because of a review like this, despite the readers who’ve picked it up and enjoyed it and identified with it and despite the fact that some of the criticism overlooks some nuances?

In a situation like this, everyone loses.

To turn the page a little bit, a number of online critics have been thoughtfully discussing When We Was Fierce and the problems of language and representation. Zetta Elliot has a great round-up of the discussion of the book, with links to reviews from readers and writers of color concerned about numerous things in the text. These have been some of the most thoughtful, extensive reviews I’ve read in a long time, offering great nuance to a discussion about a book that received at least one starred review from a trade journal.

And word came earlier this month that Candlewick, the book’s publisher, decided to postpone the book’s impending publication so the author (and presumably her editor) could work through the problems being discussed online.

The voices which spoke up were heard. Without their collective discussion and without their willingness to put their opinions on the line, openly and frankly, it’s possible this book would have never been seen through that light. Gatekeepers reading just the trade reviews would see a positive review and purchase the title, which would then be on the shelf for readers to access; the flaws, the very things many readers and critics of color found hurtful, would have been overlooked or ignored.

It wasn’t harsh for those critics to share their opinion. It was vital that they did so. The ultimately outcome is unknown at this point, but the fact something happened is a step in the right direction.

Would the same have happened in a trade review, even if written by a reviewer of color, with 200 words?

I can’t say.

But what I can say is that I’ve seen online critics talk in depth about representation that has hurt them personally and seen them be torn to shreds, even years after posting their criticism. The books they’ve been hurt by are the same books that received glowing reviews in trade journals, earned numerous awards, and continue to be reprinted, repackaged, and referenced over and over again as essential literature for young readers.

Change needs to happen, and it needs to be throughout the entire system. We need more spaces for critics of color to feel safe sharing their experiences with a book, as much as we need to understand how the system of reviews as a whole works — or doesn’t. We need self-awareness of the problem from every angle, and those of us who are white need to take the time to assess where and how we’re approaching criticism. What is it that bothers us in a review we read? Is it something the reviewer said, something about the way they said it, or is it something that we brought to the review ourselves?

What I do know is this: explicitly stating the race of characters in a review isn’t the way to change what a review does or says. It’s a first step, or maybe even half a step, in acknowledging the problematic nature of our culture’s tendency to default to white. Much more needs to be done, and much of that work falls upon those of us who are in positions of power via our careers, our voices, and our skin tones, to be better. More, we need to work together to do this. It’s not enough to call for diversity; it’s about acting in accordance to the world around us and considering the implications of each and every one of our words, our stories, and our perceptions.

Round-up Reviews: YA Edition

May 16, 2016 |

I’ve purposefully not been writing reviews since the beginning of the year and I’ve noticed a couple of things. First, I’m really enjoying reading a lot more, perhaps in part because I feel no pressure to talk about what I’m reading unless I really want to (either because it was a great read or because it wasn’t a great read). But second, I’m reading far less than I have in previous years. At least some of that can be attributed to tackling edits and copyedits for Here We Are and working on a couple of additional side projects, but not all of it. I do think by not writing reviews, I don’t feel the pressure to always be reading something so I have something to write about. It’s sort of liberating, even though it’s also sort of weird to “only” have read about 50 books so far this year. I recognize that most people don’t read 50 books in a year, let along 50 books in five months, but that is still a slow reading year for me.

Since I know a lot of readers still love book reviews, both for their own reading purposes and for talking about books with young readers, I thought I’d offer up a periodic round-up of reads with short reviews covering the salient points of the story and what the verdict of it might be. Book Riot does a weekly series, “Buy, Borrow, Bypass,” which has really made me think about the way I recommend books and I think it’s a worthwhile way to give a quick talk about a book’s merits and whether it’s worth your money, worth your trip to the library, or worth skipping all together.

Here’s a look at some YA reads I’ve picked up recently and have thought about for a while. Most are available now, and if not now, in the very near future.

Frannie and Tru by Karen Hattrup (May 31)

This is a quiet book about a quiet girl named Frannie whose cousin Tru is sent to live with her family for the summer. Frannie believes his coming has to do with his conservative, Catholic parents being bothered by his being gay. There’s something else at stake, though, which Frannie learns far later in the book, and unfortunately, it’s a bit of a let-down in terms of plot and lead-up what that “big secret” really is.

What works in this book is that it explores racism from the point of view of a privileged white girl realizing these very things. Her parents are going through a hard time financially, so she’s going from a private Catholic school to a public magnet, where she’ll be one of the only white people there. Tru introduces her to some of his friends, many of whom are black, which opens Frannie’s eyes to challenges she’s never seen.

These elements are really solid, but it was impossible not to think about the greater context of the story and setting: this is set in modern-day Baltimore, and not once are racial tensions throughout the city explored. Periodically, one of the black side characters will say something, but it’s not in a bigger capacity. It felt like a really huge missed opportunity in a book about racism and race, and one where the fact that this family is up on the news (that’s a thing mentioned more than once, since the family cut off internet and cable for the summer). The book is good, but it could have been great were those aspects explored further and pushed harder. It was all right there. For a debut though, a pretty good read, and the quiet girl story will likely resonate with “quiet” readers. Borrow this one, unless you’re seeking more books on race and prejudice from a white point of view (that’s in sincerity, not in snideness!) and quiet, literary YA, then go for the buy.

Keep Me in Mind by Jaime Reed

Told through alternating points of view, Reed’s romantic YA novel explores an interracial relationship that’s been made tense because of an accident that occurred while the couple was together. Ellia, a black girl, is struggling with amnesia, following a fall after a run. She doesn’t recognize the boy who has been coming around, who keeps talking with her, who keeps wanting to relate to her.

Liam, a white boy, doesn’t necessarily feel responsible for the accident that turned Ellia’s life, as well as his, completely upside down. In part because it wasn’t his fault — as readers, we know he struggles with guilt, but it’s far less about what happened and far more about losing Ellia’s love and the challenge that exists now that he’s The White Boy who hurt her in the eyes of Ellia’s parents. Likewise, Ellia begins to fall for another boy, one she’s meeting at therapy.

What makes this book really strong, though, is Liam’s dedication to Ellia. The book begins and weaves throughout the story of their romance, as written by him. It’s a way to sort of “relive” that romance for Liam, as well as a way for him to tell her what happened and to help her remember what they’d once had.

This is an easier read, despite the heavy topics of amnesia and interracial romance explored. Reed balances this nicely and all of the characters are wonderfully fleshed: they’re real, they’re flawed, and the romance that you want as a reader is kept just far enough away to make you want to keep reading. The ending of this book is a great one, too. If you like love stories or are seeking books that feature interracial couples, this is a buy.

On a superficial note, that cover is so great. Not only does it feature the interracial couple, but they look like teenagers, and the black girl in the image has wonderfully natural hair. I see black girls picking up this book on that cover alone.

Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera

In technicalities, this isn’t a YA book; the story is set post-high school, and it came from a small press that doesn’t publish YA-specific titles. That said, this book has tremendous teen appeal and I think could be easily included in a YA collection. And it should be.

Juliet is an asthmatic Puerto Rican college student from the Bronx who chooses to spend the summer in Portland, Oregon, living with and working as an assistant to her favorite writer, Harlow Brisbane. Juliet came out to her family recently, and she’s decided to leave home for a while, not sure how her family is going to handle the big news.

Brisbane is Juliet’s idol, in part because she’s so open and honest about feminism, the female body, and other things that appeal to Juliet’s budding acknowledgement of her sexuality. But as the story unfolds and Juliet begins learning more about her idol, as well as she begins learning more about her own identities, things aren’t going to be as smooth this summer as Juliet anticipates.

Even though it at times the book becomes a little too on-the-nose with feminism, intersectionality, race and queer theory, these are things so many readers, especially young feminists, are so hungry for. They will love Juliet’s coming to learn things, question things, find herself hurt intentionally and not. That final anthem to herself is the kind of thing you read and want to punch your fist in the air. The writing can be a little stilted when the passages exploring these big topics appear, but it’s okay. This isn’t a textbook and Juliet’s voice and desire to be a sponge, picking these things up, makes these small stumbles in the writing easy enough to overlook.

This isn’t a perfect read alike to Isabel Quintero’s Gabi, a Girl in Pieces but readers who loved that book will absolutely eat this one up. It’s got tremendous appeal in that it’s told through the eyes of a college student, but the eagerness she feels for learning and discovering herself really captures the YA perspective. Juliet Takes a Breath deserves your shelf space, hands down.

Recent Reads That Didn’t Work for Me

March 2, 2016 |

I’ve gotten a lot better at giving up on books that just aren’t working for me, but occasionally I persevere, pushing through to the end. In the case of these two titles, I recognized that the writing was technically good and the plots were interesting to me on paper (pun intended), but I just never got sucked in the way I normally do with a great book.

The Death and Life of Zebulon Finch, Vol. 1: At the Edge of Empire by Daniel Kraus

This is a book in search of the right reader. It’s about seventeen year old Zebulon, and it begins with his life in the latter part of the 19th century. Raised in privilege, he rails against his absent father and his coddling mother who wants nothing for his life that he himself wants. He runs away and becomes…a gangster, in a bit of a roundabout way. It starts small, with petty theft and impersonation of members of the Black Hand, but then grows much larger, until he’s committing regular acts of violence for a living. This way of life gets him killed. Only he doesn’t die, not quite. He continues to exist, in a sort of zombie-like way, but without the need to eat brains. He doesn’t need to eat anything, actually. Or drink. Or breathe. He can’t have sex, either, which is a bit of a downer. And he can’t heal, allowing Kraus to imbue the story with a bit of a horror touch. But he continues to exist.

This makes him a curiosity, and it brings him to the attention of all sorts of unsavory people. He becomes part of a freak show, participates in experiments with a mad doctor, fights in World War I, spends time as a bootlegger, and on. He himself is an unsavory character, which makes him interesting; it’s not yet clear whether his story arc will be redemptive, but I don’t think it needs to be. Kraus gives Zebulon a distinctive voice and a vibrant personality, and his adventures should have been more interesting to me than they were. Instead, I grew tired of the episodic nature of the novel. It’s a catalog of Zebulon’s life, and that life is certainly a unique one, but I prefer my stories to go places, and to get there a little more quickly. This is a book for patient readers who like the weird and have contemplated what it would be like to live for a hundred years and never grow old.

These Shallow Graves by Jennifer Donnelly

It’s possible that Jennifer Donnelly’s books just aren’t for me. I read A Northern Light, her book that garnered a Printz Honor, and was underwhelmed, contrary to the opinion of pretty much everyone else. But she writes historical fiction about girls trying live independent lives in times when it was much more difficult, and that’s always been one of my genre kryptonites. Jo Montfort is from a wealthy family and anticipates that she’ll soon be engaged to a young man from another wealthy family, a friend whom she actually does like – but doesn’t love. What she really wants, much more than getting married, is to be a journalist like Nellie Bly. When her father dies, supposedly in an accident, her life is thrown upside down. She soon discovers that it wasn’t an accident at all – he was murdered. She teams up with another journalist, Eddie, and the two grow closer as they unravel what really happened.

My main issue with this book was its length. Some books deserve to be 500 pages, but I don’t feel like this one warranted it. There was a lot of repetition as Jo fretted over the danger of what she was doing, over her new feelings for Eddie, over her desire to be a journalist versus her family’s pressure to make a good marriage, over the thought that her father could have been betrayed by someone close to her. These are all valid things to fret about, but so much time is spent on it that it slows the pace of the novel. It felt tedious instead of exciting. Additionally, I knew who the culprit was pretty soon in the novel, but it’s likely teen readers who have less experience with historical mysteries won’t. This is another novel for patient readers (perhaps I’m less patient than most?) who would love getting sucked into 19th century New York. It’s got a little bit of everything for them: murder, mystery, romance, friendship, and lots of period detail.

Dare to Disappoint by Ozge Samanci

November 26, 2015 |

We are taking part in the blog tour for Ozge Samanci’s Dare to Disappoint today. You can and should check out the entire schedule for the tour here and visit those sites for even more peeks into the book and process behind it (it’s neat!).

I know very, very little about Turkey. The only history I know is what I learned in my Western Civilization course freshman year of high school and a little bit from European History my senior year. Even in those cases, the bulk of what’s taught is very historical — centuries past — with little or no exploration of more contemporary events.

Ozge Samanci’s Dare to Disappoint was a really worthwhile read for me, since it was and is a reference point for this particular area of history now. This personal memoir looks at what life was like growing up in a country that itself was learning to grow up and find an identity.

Samanci is a second child in a family where her older sister excelled. This was the case in school and in other venues, and her parents were pleased with her. Ozge, on the other hand, was far less interested in her studies. Sure, she completed them — this is a key element of the story, as the Turkish education system is very different than the US system — but she didn’t excel nor quite have the passion for it in the same way her sister did.

The bulk of this story centers around Ozge coming to terms with what it is she wants to be doing with her life. Does she want to become an explorer? An actress? Go on to a good college to make her parents happy at the expense of her own happiness? Can she work to make both her dreams in theater and her parents dreams for her education happen simultaneously? These questions frame the entirety of the story in a way that any reader, no matter where they live, wrestles with. But what makes this stand out beyond that is the historical context. We learn along the way the values and systems that exist in Turkey and how they shift over the course of Ozge’s childhood and adolescence. Where once few choices existed, the growth in consumerism and imports meant that choices one had in every arena from eating to clothing to one’s future shifts and adjusts. It’s in those cultural changes that Ozge further marinates on the questions of what to make of her own life.

This should easily explain the book’s title Dare to Disappoint.

What’s most standout in this particular graphic novel, though, is the art. Samanci utilizes mixed materials to create her story. While the bulk of art is what you’d expect in terms of drawings, there are a lot of unexpected surprises that go in to creating an image:

On the bottom right-hand page, you can see how Samanci weaves polished rocks into the art. There are other examples of this throughout, including found art collages, buttons, and even some unexpected surprises (which you’ll see further down this post!). This design is really friendly and appealing, which makes it a nice contrast to some of the heavy political elements in the text itself. Which isn’t to say those parts are hard to read or unnecessary; instead, what Samanci is able to do is balance those topics with her own personal, singular, teen experience. It’s relatable, rather than above her head — except when it is!

My biggest criticism, though, is that a lot of Ozge’s own experiences post-realization of what it was she wanted to do with her life is given short shrift in the end. It wraps up almost too quickly. I found myself wanting much more than I got, in particular because I saw so much of her growing up process along the way. There were pages and chapters dedicated to her education and her experimentation, but her wake up call that she wanted to be an artist and draw comes very late in the story and the journey through that realization — rather than the journey to that realization — isn’t here. I suspect this might be so there’s room for a second memoir that goes through that journey, but I wouldn’t have minded another chapter here, just to give me more of a taste for how this happened.

Readers who love graphic memoirs will want to pick Dare to Disappoint up. It’s not necessarily a straight read alike to Persepolis, as the angle on this particular book is much more about the journey to finding one’s passion in life, but readers who want to be better global citizens or read stories about real people in other parts of the world will find those elements interesting to think about in comparison. Readers who are fascinated by the art here will want to spend time at the artist’s Tumblr, too, which showcases her unique style of mixed media. This book is perfectly fine for younger teen readers and has great crossover appeal to adults, too. The toughest elements for younger readers may be some of the political elements, but they’ll skip over them to follow Ozge’s personal story and lose nothing for it.

***

One of the unique elements of Samanci’s style is she’s not only working in illustrations, but she also creates collages out of various items throughout the book. This adds a whole new layer to the story. Here, she’s sharing a little bit about an unusual — but brilliant — item that found its way into the finished edition of the book.

Miniature Muffin Cup

There was an amazing store where I lived: Tom Thumb Hobby and Crafts. Unfortunately, they moved somewhere far. This store was full of paper, beads, miniature houses, model making materials, sewing and baking supplies, and many more. Tom Thumb was so mind opening for a comics artist like me who combines comics with collage. While wondering in the store I saw the miniature muffin cups. I thought, I can make skirts with these in my collages. As if my editor Margaret Ferguson read my mind, a couple days after I bought the muffin cups she suggested me to put a skirt on the main character in one of the frames. My miniature muffin cups took its place in Dare to Disappoint.