Three Novels by Rumaan Alam

“Leave the World Behind” (Ecco, 2020), by Rumaan Alam, was one of the “hot” novels (literary division) of 2020. Interest in its strange yet compelling story was enhanced by its exploration of race and class issues, combined with its apocalyptic tone that resonated with our inchoate (and not so inchoate) fears during the plague we are living through. A White couple and their teenaged children rent a vacation home on Long Island, and strange things begin to happen. Then an older Black couple appears at their door, stating that they are the owners of the house, and that something strange has been driving people out of New York City. There is no phone, television, or Internet reception, so no one knows what is happening. The story continues to get stranger, and there are human connections made in the face of the unknown, but always with the undertone of uncertainty about each other. Race and class are present in the interactions, although under the surface. In general I don’t like fiction that in any way approaches science fiction, but this one kept my attention, more for the interpersonal parts than for the mysterious events. I had read reviews of the novel, but before those appeared this year, I didn’t know of this author. So I found and read his two earlier novels. “Rich and Pretty” (2016) tells the story of two close women friends whose lives gradually diverge. I always like the theme of female friendship, and I liked this novel, but it was not memorable. Alam’s second novel, “That Kind of Mother” (2018), is a more complex story, exploring motherhood, race (again), female friendships (again!), adoptions, and more. The story is absorbing and well written. All three of the novels are insightful psychologically. I liked “That Kind of Mother” best of the three, but each of the three made me think and offered an engrossing reading experience. I will definitely watch out for Alam’s next novel.

"Girl, Woman, Other," by Bernardine Evaristo

I read good reviews of the novel “Girl, Woman, Other” (paperback Black Cat, 2019), bought it, hesitated a bit in the face of the slightly unorthodox paragraphing and punctuation, set it aside for a few days, and then was nudged to read it by the strong recommendation of my friend SB. (Thank you, SB!) I was soon overwhelmed by how good this book is, and felt a bit embarrassed and annoyed at myself that I had allowed myself to be, at least temporarily, deterred by a little bit of experimentation in the writing. I soon found that the many short paragraphs, and the dearth of both capital letters and periods, were actually very effective. The novel portrays the lives of several Black British women of different ages, classes, sexualities, and situations. Each section focuses on one or more main characters, but the characters often reappear in future sections as well, thus knitting together a widespread community or network of very different women. I became completely absorbed in this book and its characters, and marveled at the poetic yet down-to-earth writing. The author, Bernardine Evaristo, listed as an “Anglo-Nigerian” writer, was deservedly awarded the prestigious 2019 Booker Prize for this book.

A Box Full of New Memoirs

Yesterday I got a shipment of books that I had ordered from one of my favorite local independent bookstores, the small chain Books, Inc. As I unpacked them, it hit me that seven of the eight books were memoirs; only one was a novel. I hadn’t consciously decided to read more memoirs, although it is true that over the past few years, I have been reading more and more of them. I just never thought I would read more of them than I read novels and short stories; fiction has always been my reading life’s blood. I don’t want to read too much into this one shipment of books, but I do think it is significant. Yes, I have gradually been reading more, but I wonder if the current pandemic and stay-at-home mode has somehow made me turn to “true” stories more than ever. Or perhaps it is simply that more wonderful, compelling memoirs are being published now than ever. In any case, I look forward to reading the books on this lovely pile of brand-new memoirs, and I am sure I will be posting about at least some of them in the weeks to come.

"Seize," by Brian Komei Dempster

My colleague, the poet Brian Komei Dempster, previously wrote the wonderful collection of poems, “Topaz,” which I posted about on 11/26/13. Now I have read his brand-new poetry collection, “Seize” (Four Way Books, 2020), and it is both gripping and moving. The main focus of these poems is the poet’s son Brendan’s severe physical and cognitive disabilities related to epilepsy and other health conditions, and the complicated, serious, sad, challenging, painful but loving experiences that Dempster, his wife Grace, and Brendan have gone through and are still going through in consequence. The details he gives about their daily struggles, so utterly frustrating, are a transcendent sharing of pain and suffering, as well as of deep parental love. Nothing is sugarcoated, and there are no overt “silver linings” presented, but there are small, meaningful victories along the way. Readers are privileged to see the insights and deep connections this family experiences. The poems are candid and wrenching. Dempster also makes connections between his family’s situation with Brendan, on the one hand, and his family of origin’s experiences with discrimination, denigration, and painful suffering because of their Japanese American identities. (The earlier collection, “Topaz,” is named for one of the internment camps during World War II.) Besides writing here about the content and focus of the poems, I want to testify to the beauty and the power of the poems, and the language that simultaneously captures the unique and the universal.

"The Secret Lives of Church Ladies," by Deesha Philyaw

Deesha Philyaw’s small (179 pages) collection of short stories, “The Secret Lives of Church Ladies” (West Virginia University Press) packs a strong punch. First, what a great title! Second, each story individually, and even more the collection as a whole (some of the stories are interconnected), creates a small universe that pulls the reader right in. The focus is on Black girls and women at various ages, in various situations, often to do with love, sex, family, connections, faith, hypocrisy, loss, and grief. And yes, there are many secrets, including forbidden attractions and affairs. There is some (rather grim) humor too, as in the story “Instructions for Married Christian Husbands” who want to have affairs with the narrator; these include practical, non-negotiable guidelines regarding parking, phones, Facebook, religion, health, the man’s wife, and more. In “Peach Cobbler,” a girl writes about her mother’s affair with their church’s pastor. There is “Snowfall,” about women from the South who have trouble with the snow up North; the first line of the story is “Black women aren’t meant to shovel snow.” And poignantly, in the story “When Eddie Levert Comes,” a woman with dementia waits every day for a man she met once years ago, a minor celebrity, to come visit her. Each of these stories shows a writer in complete control, and on every page evokes emotions and insights. This is Philyaw’s debut book of fiction; I look forward to reading more by her in the future.

"We Need to Talk: A Memoir about Wealth," by Jennifer Risher

Some readers of this blog may recall that I am academically and personally interested in matters of social class, and have studied and published about some aspects of class. So I was intrigued by Jennifer Risher’s “We Need to Talk: A Memoir about Wealth” (Xeno, 2020). Risher and her husband both worked for tech companies, and her husband’s success in particular made the couple very wealthy. They were not born to wealth, so although they were happy to be so financially secure, it took them a while to feel comfortable spending a lot of money. Just for one example, they -- especially the author -- initially didn’t feel right about spending the money to travel first class, so they chose Economy Plus as a compromise. By the end of the book, they have graduated to expensive private planes. The same hesitations occurred regarding designer clothes and other luxuries. But they gradually adjusted to spending freely. They also appreciated the freedom to leave their jobs when they wanted to do other things. The most interesting part of the book is the portrayal of the psychological aspects, the doubts, the worries of newly (very) affluent people. It may be, very understandably, hard for readers and others to sympathize with their situations, but from a sociological point of view, it is useful and interesting to understand more about the process of changing social and economic classes in this way, especially since there is an increasing category of such people made wealthy by the tech world (something very visible to those of us living in the San Francisco Bay Area). The writing of this memoir is only workmanlike. But the work the author has done to understand this identity of becoming wealthy is revealing, and I admire her (seeming, at least) candor. I also admit that although this author doesn’t make her life sound fabulously exciting, it is fun -- in a slightly voyeuristic way -- to read some of her stories about the lives of the wealthy.