Asian American Literature Megapost for May 1 2013

In this MYSTERY THEMED post reviews of: Steph Cha’s Follow Her Home (Minotaur Books, 2013); Tess Gerritsen’s Last to Die (Ballantine Books, 2012); .S. Lee’s, The Agency 1: A Spy in the House (Candlewick Press, 2010); The Agency 2: The Body at the Tower (Candlewick Press, 2010); The Agency 3: The Traitor in the Tunnel (Candlewick Press, 2012).

A Review of Steph Cha’s Follow Her Home (Minotaur Books, 2013).



Steph Cha’s debut novel Follow Her Home reveals a writer keenly aware and inspired by the subgenre of American noir fiction. With repeated references to Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep, we know we are moving into a seedy underworld that is best set in a city like Los Angeles. Cha’s narrator is the indefatigable Juniper Song, a twenty-something who in her spare time can apparently moonlight as an unofficial investigator. A request from a close friend named Luke—who hails from a very upper crust background—requires Song to follow a young Korean American woman named Lori Lim, who may or may not be involved in an affair with Luke’s father, the business magnate known as William Cook. We are not surprised when we begin to discover that the mystery surrounding Lori is bigger and messier than Song could ever realize. Indeed, Song will soon be intimidated into keeping silent regarding everything she might have seen regarding Lori; a dead body found in the trunk of her car also alerts her to the fact that the shadowy figures involved in Lori’s life are not to be trifled with. Of course, Song is not about to back down; she enlists the friend of a former flame turned legal expert, Diego, and begins to find out what she can about Lori, in the hopes that she can protect herself and her family. Cha uses a very effective doubled narrative here that moves Song back into the past; we begin to see that Song’s interest in Lori is not merely related to this mystery. Indeed, Lori in some ways reminds Song of her connection to her younger sister, Iris. In that particular subplot, Song realizes that she does not know as much about her sister as she had thought and her efforts to find out more about Iris’s romantic history leads to a very climactic reveal late in the narrative that provides the main story arc more texture. As with any noir, motivations and first impressions are never directly transparent and many of the characters introduced know much more than they are willing at first to admit. As the body count begins to pile up, Song realizes that the stakes of this investigation have moved into a register where she knows she must see this mystery to its end, else she herself may be the next one to be found dead. Cha’s debut novel would fit very well into any American detective fiction course and would especially pair well with Walter Mosley, in her exploration of race, ethnicity, and the urban metropolis known as Los Angeles. The novel would also serve as a kind of effective contrast with another novel I love, Suk Kim’s Interpreter, in the exploration of the Korean American woman turned unofficial detective.

For another glowing review of this title please do see this link:
http://www.latimes.com/features/books/jacketcopy/la-ca-jc-steph-cha-20130407,0,3256154.story

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Follow-Her-Home-Steph-Cha/dp/1250009626/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1365353857&sr=8-1&keywords=Steph+Cha

A Review of Tess Gerritsen’s Last to Die (Ballantine Books, 2012).



I was saving this book to read for a point where I needed something a little bit more plot-driven to consume my time and on a trip to visit some family, it provided some much needed frivolity. Last to Die is the latest installment in Tess Gerritsen’s long running and very popular Rizzoli & Isles series, which has been adapted into a television serial. The premise is spooky enough. It seems as though there are children being targeted repeatedly, so much so that any family they are connected with—first biological, then later adoptive—are killed off. Thus, the three main children in this novel have all suffered family massacres not once, but twice. Gerritsen adds yet another interesting element into the equation by uniting these three characters at a special school, The Evensong Boarding School, for children who have been subjected to major traumas. The school, located in Maine, and away from the Boston locale that grounds the series itself, is the perfect venue for this mystery plot to begin taking on other interesting textures. For those who are knowledgeable about the series, the fact that the Evensong Boarding School is run by the Mephisto Society is already potential cause for concern. Further still, once the school psychologist is found dead, having jumped from a high building and under suspicious circumstances, it becomes clear that that all is not well at the school. Gerritsen also uses enigmatic intercuts that ramp up the tension in the plotting—a narrative device I recall from Silent Girl, the last novel in the series. Readers are pushed to make sense of that narrative against the main plotting and the connections don’t become clear until late into the mystery. Gerritsen also manages to balance the detective plot against the personal trials of its two female protagonists, who are struggling still to rebuild their friendship due to past events. Rizzoli’s parents in particular are the subject of considerable romantic complications, so that subplot gives readers much needed space to breathe, especially because the body count begins to pile up. Even animals are sacrificed in ritualistic killings. Fans of the series and of the mystery genre should be more than happy with this offering.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Last-Die-Rizzoli-Isles-Novel/dp/0345515633/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367339453&sr=8-1&keywords=Tess+Gerritsen


A Review of Y.S. Lee’s, The Agency 1: A Spy in the House (Candlewick Press, 2010); The Agency 2: The Body at the Tower (Candlewick Press, 2010); The Agency 3: The Traitor in the Tunnel (Candlewick Press, 2012).



In Y.S. Lee’s deliciously fun The Agency series, our heroine is Mary Quinn, a young girl of a questionable background who is saved at the beginning of the novel by the mysterious Agency, who is sort of devoted to the recovery and reformulation of a women’s lives. The Agency is set in the Victorian era and the writer, Y.S. Lee, is no stranger to this period. As our faithful amazon webpage tells us: “Y. S. Lee has a PhD in Victorian literature and culture and says her research inspired her to write A SPY IN THE HOUSE, ‘a totally unrealistic, completely fictitious antidote to the fate that would otherwise swallow a girl like Mary Quinn.’ Y. S. Lee lives in Ontario, Canada.” In this respect, the “agency” enables girls like Mary Quinn a second chance because she lives on the margins of society as a petty thief. The Agency allows Mary to develop other skills, but there’s still limited options: should be become a wife, a governess, or servant; the other unsavory options being bandied about include becoming a prostitute or mistress. So, Lee creates an alternative job trajectory for Mary in this counterfactual, “totally unrealistic,” but nevertheless super fun speculative fiction wherein Mary can become a spy and report upon a particular household as a companion to the daughter of the prime suspect: a one Mr. Thorold, who may or may not be involved with the theft of priceless Indian subcontinent artifacts. At this point, it’s important to pause to say that one of the Lee’s great strengths in the strongly transnational and postcolonial tinge to her collection. Goods and services are being shipped all over the world in the novel, linking the Victorian era London to different nodal points for colonial capitalistic investments. Lee, of course, wants to make sure that even if there isn’t a tried and true marriage plot or courtship plot afloat, that there could be an alternative romance plot as Mary must deal with James Easton, a man who is researching the Thorold’s business dealings to find out whether or not they are as upstanding as they purport to be. James is a worthy counterpart to Mary insofar as he immediately notices how different she is. Her difference is, of course, another aspect that Lee plays with in one of the big surprises mid-way through the novel, which I will refuse to spoil for you. Suffice it to say that Lee’s first book in the Agency is that rare young adult work with a historical texture, a fantasy register, a detective fiction, and a courtship/romance all rolled into one.



In the second book in the series, we found our heroine Mary Quinn, going under very deep cover, but this time as a young boy (renamed as Mark Quinn), working at a building site. She’s been dispatched to discover more details concerning the suspicious circumstances of a worker who was found dead, having fallen from the titular tower. Though Mary is game for this job, her overseers at the Agency are wary that such a duty might have psychological ramifications. You see: before Mary was saved and reformed by the Agency, she lived on the streets as a petty thief and hoodlum; she was able to survive in part, often relying upon disguises and passing as a man. Her elders wonder if such a job might trigger unsavory past experiences that could compromise her surveillance activities. Despite this warning, Mary decides that she can do the job, even requesting that she take residence at a working class type facility wherein she would not have the comforts or even the advantages of decent food. Mary’s work is at first not too difficult; she is able to get a job through Harkness, the site engineer, and begins working for the various people below him, which include the imposing and rather spiteful, Keenan, as well as his colleague, Reid. Of course, this series would not be complete with its central romance and fortunately, Lee sees fit to have James Easton, from book 1, return from his travels in India. He’s hired by Harkness to begin an independent assessment of the building site that would be conducted in order to clear him or any of his employees from wrongdoing in the death of Wick. When Mary—as Mark—accidentally bumps into him, James is one of the few to see so easily through the disguise, but he chooses not to break her cover. Indeed, this sequel sees James Easton willing to engage yet another partnership with Mary, presumably of course because of his strong feelings for her. There are of course the occasional issues related to Mary’s complicated identity background, which adds yet another wrinkle to the many dilemmas that arise in the course of the plotting. Lee’s narrative here occasionally flags as it attempts to retain tension throughout, but overall, the book is a spirited, if counterfactual look at an undercover women’s agency during the Victorian era.



In the latest installment, The Traitor in the Tunnel, Mary Quinn is actually undercover in Buckingham Palace! She is dispatched by the Agency in order to find out about a thief that may be pilfering precious items from the royal household. Of course, Lee is never intent to keep the first mystery the only one and soon other issues arise. Most importantly, the Prince of Wales is caught up in a murder scandal in which a close friend might have been killed in an opium den. Interestingly enough, the accused murdered actually may have ties to Mary herself, which ends up complicating and stretching out Mary’s own investments in her sleuthing. I am deliberately being cagey about the potential connection between Mary and the murderer precisely because I’ve attempted to keep a major plot point unspoiled that is revealed from the first book. Finally, Mary’s romance-nemesis, James Easton, returns yet again, as he is contracted to help with the building of a sewer system below London. As Mary soon discovers, the sewer and its connection to Buckingham Palace is a matter of national security. Fans of mystery and of YA historical will again be delighted by this title. Lee clearly has fun with her characters in this spirited third in the series. Fortunately, there are apparently plans for a fourth to appear sometime soon!

Buy the Books Here

http://www.amazon.com/The-Agency-House-Y-S-Lee/dp/076365289X/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1359052764&sr=8-2&keywords=Y.S.+Lee

http://www.amazon.com/The-Agency-Body-Tower/dp/0763656437/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1361139912&sr=8-3&keywords=Y.S.+Lee

http://www.amazon.com/The-Agency-Traitor-Tunnel/dp/0763663441/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367416563&sr=8-1&keywords=Y.S.+Lee
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for April 21, 2013

In this post, reviews of Kashmira Sheth’s My Dadima Wears a Sari (illustrated by Yoshiko Jaeggi) (Peachtree Publishers, 2007) and Kashmira Sheth’s Monsoon Afternoon (illustrated by Yoshiko Jaeggi (Peachtree Publishers, 2008); Paul Yee’s What Happened This Summer (Tradewind Books, 2006); Elsie Chapman’s Dualed (Random House Books for Young Readers, 2013); and Justina Chen Headley’s Return to Me (Little Brown Books for Young Readers, 2013).


A Review of Kashmira Sheth’s My Dadima Wears a Sari (illustrated by Yoshiko Jaeggi) (Peachtree Publishers, 2007) and Monsoon Afternoon (illustrated by Yoshiko Jaeggi (Peachtree Publishers, 2008).



It’s been awhile since I reviewed any children’s picture books and I recently had a chance to read the gorgeously illustrated and spirited narratives found in the collaborative publications produced by Yoshiko Jaeggi and Kashmira Sheth out of Peachtree Publishers. Sheth has already been reviewed on Asian American literature fans; please see, for instance, pylduck’s post on Sheth’s (and Pearce’s) most recent offering:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/141128.html

The picture book form is reliant upon a delicate balance between text and illustration. Jaeggi’s work in both books is absolutely exquisite; it seems as though the pictures have been produced in watercolor, giving both books a kind of dream-like quality that is perhaps perfect for the youthful reader. My Dadima Wears a Sari gives Sheth an opportunity to explore the cross-cultural and transnational dynamics of the titular piece of clothing. Here, the more Americanized young children, presumably of South Asian descent, receive a lesson from their “dadima” (a Gujarati term for grandmother) about the nature and personal history of her saris. As with other books that explore race and ethnicity, these children’s narratives are instructional in their approach, giving young readers the chance to understand what might be to them a foreign culture, but at the same time, Sheth and Jaeggi’s work will appeal to ethnically specific populations as well, who might be dealing with youth undergoing acculturation. This particular book also has a fun addition at the end, showing young readers how a sari can be worn. Whereas My Dadima Wears a Sari takes place the United States, Monsoon Afternoon is set in India. In that story, a young boy asks various members of his family to go outside and play, but everyone seems to be busy except for his grandfather, otherwise known as “dadaji.” The narrative thus reveals their bonding time on the arrival of the monsoon season. Here, the pedagogical conceit appears in the guise of the difference in weather patterns and Sheth does take time to explain the importance of the monsoon to her personal life in an author’s note the surfaces at the conclusion of this picture book.

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Monsoon-Afternoon-Kashmira-Sheth/dp/1561454559/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1364148646&sr=8-4&keywords=kashmira+sheth

http://www.amazon.com/Dadima-Wears-Sari-Kashmira-Sheth/dp/1561453927/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1364148646&sr=8-7&keywords=kashmira+sheth

A Review of Paul Yee’s What Happened This Summer (Tradewind Books, 2006).



We reviewed a number of Paul Yee titles on Asian American literature fans, including some of his children’s books and a handful of his young adult titles. Plyduck’s latest review of a Paul Yee title was Ghost Train, posted here:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/152518.html

What Happened This Summer is part of Yee’s work in the young adult genre; this publication is a curious one insofar as it is not listed as a collection of short stories or a novel per se, though it seems to be marketed as a general fictional work (set primarily in and around Vancouver, Canada). Since characters do recur across the stories, it seems best described as a story cycle or sequence. Because all of the stories are told in the first person perspective and most from the viewpoint of a Chinese Canadian youth, there is a kind of repetitive quality to the work that can detract from the important political contexts that Yee aims to convey. Indeed, the strength of What Happened This Summer is the thematic focus on generational ruptures between parents and their children, the lack of community building among immigrant youth, and the general malaise facing individuals as they struggle to acculturate to a new land and place. Yee is deft at weaving in particular historical and social contexts, including histories of Chinese migration, the continuing tensions among Hong Kong, Taiwan and China, the rise of China as a global economic power, and the ever-present lens of suspicion cast upon Asian immigrants due to emerging viruses from that region (like SARS). The strongest stories show Yee’s attentive consideration of form: one story employs the journal format and enhances the distinctiveness of its teenage narrator. In another, the narrator is studying for the TOEFL exam and finds himself struggling with the proper use of articles and Yee draws attention to the terrain of language as a kind of minefield, especially as certain words become bolded. For those looking for a grittier depiction of Chinese Canadian teenagers, Yee’s What Happened This Summer is certainly a good choice.

Buy the Book Here:
http://www.amazon.com/What-Happened-this-Summer-Paul/dp/1896580882/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363157361&sr=8-1&keywords=what+happened+this+summer

A Review of Elsie Chapman’s Dualed (Random House Books for Young Readers, 2013).



Elsie Chapman’s debut novel Dualed leads us back into the young adult fiction world in the subgenre known as the paranormal urban fantasy romance. Our narrator is West Grayer, a teenage girl, who lives in a speculative fictional world, Kersh, in which each individual is born with a double living in another city. Yes, there are TWO of each individual living in the same fictional world. Once these individuals reach a certain age, the Alts must battle to the death. The one that survives is called a Complete. Of course, everything isn’t so simple with the process. There are Strikers, assassins hired to help kill off one’s Alt. Those with more money and living in better areas inevitably have higher rates of completion. West Grayer, as we might expect, is an underdog. Her parents are dead; her siblings have in one way or another either been killed by their alts or have been accidentally killed. Her closest friend, Chord, completes, but West loses her brother Luc when he gets inadvertently drawn into the combat. Chapman’s premise is first-rate for the simple fact that it is so philosophical. How does one go about killing the person that looks exactly like oneself? Will that other person hold the same values, the same motivations? The amazon page takes the issue a little bit further by asking the question about the world itself in which children and teens are pitted against each other along with the tagline that assumes that the one that survives is “more worthy.” This moniker is interesting insofar as it suggests that the individual who is more efficient and skilled at killing the other is better. What kind of society would this be? This question is never actually fully explored in the novel. We get a sense of a shadowy governing system known as the Board, but we do not know why they devised this system or if indeed they are the ones in actual power. Fortunately, Chapman has at least one more novel in this series coming out, tentatively entitled Divided. Given the rather definitive ending of this novel, it will be interesting to see what road Chapman takes. In terms of the broader subgenre that we’ve reviewed here, Dualed would pair incredibly well with Zhang’s What’s Left of Me. The cultural critic in me can’t help but think a little bit imaginatively about these two writers and their fictional worlds, both which involve characters who ultimately have to deal with a kind of split in the self. Are we not in some kind of metaphorical consideration of Asian American identity? Haha! Yea, a bit of a stretch, but Chapman leaves enough room in her physical descriptions of West to wonder if there is a racial background to be discerned. Indeed, in these speculative fictional worlds, it is the question of social difference which remains a question mark and the intellectual work we must do to yoke such worlds to our own.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Dualed-Elsie-Chapman/dp/0307931544/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1364621649&sr=1-1&keywords=elsie+chapman

A Review of Justina Chen Headley’s Return to Me (Little Brown Books for Young Readers, 2013).



Though I have a great love for the young adult/ paranormal/ urban/ romance/ fantasy genre, as demonstrated by my incessant reading of authors like Melissa de la Cruz, Yvonne Woon, Malinda Lo, and others, there is something absolutely refreshing about reading a YA fiction that is not so steeped in the supernatural. To be sure, Headley, perhaps in a nod to the shift in the speculative, does give her some of these characters a kind of sixth-sense, an ability at times to see visions that will mark the future (an intuitional skill arguably). Yet, Headley’s focus has always been—in this fourth novel as in her three previous ones—to contour the quite complicated nature of adolescent maturity. In Return to Me, our protagonist and first person narrator is Rebecca Muir, an aspiring teenage architect living in Seattle, who has just been accepted to Columbia University. When her father receives a promotion in the New York City area, all seems perfectly aligned for her entire family to stay together, which also includes a devoted mother and a rambunctious younger brother (named Reid). Not all is so perfect of course. Rebecca (also nicknamed Reb, or Rebel) is in a serious relationship (with Jackson) and must consider whether or not to continue it. With counsel from her father, she decides to give it a shot, but the novel immediately shifts gears once they have arrived in New York. Reb’s Dad is away on a business trip and does not answer his phone; they soon discover that he is having an affair and that he is separating from their mother. Headley thus uses this novel to explore how one family recovers and heals from this kind of rift and the process is not entirely graceful. For instance, Reb’s mother must find a new identity to carve out in light of the fact that she may be forced to find another source of income in order to finance Reb’s schooling. Reb herself reconsiders the importance of Jackson in her life and whether or not she really wants to attend Columbia. Finally, Reb’s grandfather suggests they all retreat to Hawaii, with an opportunity to restore and rejuvenate. When the family does relocate for a period, Headley’s characters begin to see their rebirths. I always appreciate Headley’s novels because she manages that rare balance: to provide her characters with closure, while not succumbing to an excessively sentimental ending. Another engaging YA fiction.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Return-Me-Justina-Chen/dp/0316102555/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364401738&sr=8-1&keywords=justina+chen
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans Megapost for April 13, 2013.

In this post, reviews of Abhishek Singh’s Krishna (Image Comics, 2012), Amit Majmudar’s The Abundance (Metropolitan Books, 2013), Indira Ganesan’s As Sweet As Honey (Knopf, 2013), and Sonali Deraniyagala’s Wave (Knopf, 2013).

A Review of Abhishek Singh’s Krishna (Image Comics, 2012).



Abhishek Singh’s lushly illustrated graphic re-telling Krishna engages the story of the Hindu avatar. Singh follows the general storyline offered by important source materials. Much of the early half of the novel follows Krishna’s upbringing, which in part involves the taming of dangerous animals; later he seeks vengeance against the evil figure who tried to have him killed as an infant (due to a prophecy). Singh’s work is especially minimalist and relies upon the power of the visuals to carry the story. This aesthetic also encourages more interpretive work on the part of the reader, connecting panel sequences against each other. A definite must-read for those interested in the graphic narrative form, especially in its unique reconsideration and recreation of spiritual texts. I’ve included extra pictures in this review so you can get a sense of the epic tapestry that Singh creates in this work.





Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/KRISHNA-Journey-Within-Abhishek-Singh/dp/160706653X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1365708568&sr=8-1&keywords=abhishek+singh


A Review of Amit Majmudar’s The Abundance (Metropolitan Books, 2013).



I was pleasantly surprised to see the listing for Amit Majmudar’s The Abundance appear so soon after his luminous debut novel, Partitions. Majmudar is also the author of two poetry collections. The Abundance shows Majmudar’s range as a fiction writer, as he moves from the historical foundations of his first novel to the immigrant setting of his second. Set in the Midwest, the unnamed narrator is an aged grandmother of Indian descent who is dying of cancer. The novel is far more about family dynamics than anything else and Majmudar takes some time carving out some of the intricacies that emerge here. The narrator’s husband, Abhi, is a successful medical doctor, while her two children, Mala and Ronak, take divergent routes to their Americanization. Ronak ends up marrying out of class and caste, a Caucasian American named Amber and working first in finance, while Mala dutifully follows Indian customs, getting an arranged marriage, while also following in her parents’ footsteps by becoming a medical doctor (an ENT specialist). With the focus so often on sons in Asian cultures, you can expect that Ronak, despite his more rebellious ways, is still perceived as the favored child. Mala, looking to get closer to her mother in the little time that is left, makes concrete efforts to connect, especially by learning the cooking recipes that have been a part of the family life (from whence the hardcover’s bright book jacket filled with spices takes its inspiration). One important backstory becomes the realization that the narrator did ultimately place her own career as a medical doctor on the backburner to raise Mala and Ronak, so Majmudar takes on the question of balancing a professional career and the work of motherhood. As the novel moves toward the conclusion, Majmudar includes two intriguing developments, a kind of metafictional nod to the book’s construct. First, Ronak finds out that Mala is documenting their mother’s recipes and thinks it would be a good idea to get it published as a book. Of course, the problem becomes the commercialization and sentimentalization of the whole experience of the narrator’s dying, and this event places a serious wedge among family members. Second, we discover that Mala has a keen interest in English, a topic that she perhaps eschewed in order to follow her parents’ professional trajectories. At some point, Mala and her mother discuss a kind of autobiographical conceit where the writer might take on the first person perspective of their biographical subject. These two events allow Majmudar’s book to rise above its more traditional immigrant family saga in that it gestures to the narrative not only as a deeply moving story concerning disease and disintegration and the aging process, but also one that delves into the craft and aesthetic implications behind that narrative.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Abundance-Novel-Amit-Majmudar/dp/0805096582/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363879361&sr=8-1&keywords=amit+majmudar

A Review of Indira Ganesan’s As Sweet As Honey (Knopf, 2013)



With the imprint of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse all over these pages, it was clear to see the inspiration for Indira Ganesan’s third novel, As Sweet as Honey. As Sweet as Honey takes place on a fictional island called Pi (apparently the settings for Ganesan’s other novels which I admit I have not yet had a chance to read! EEEK!). Fortunately, Woolf’s novel is not replicated too directly and Ganesan takes her own approach to the theme of loss as it moves into the transnational and immigrant context. Woolf’s novel is so much about the connections among individual characters and how they all cannot or do not necessarily articulate their direct thoughts and feelings to each other. The modernist aesthetic works insofar as readers are still provided tremendous access to the patchwork of thoughts and feelings of each character through Woolf’s use of the stream-of-consciousness style. Thus, characters, as much as they are alienated from one another, nevertheless find cohesion through the stylistic. In this sense, Woolf has always been the quintessential modernist writer. But I digress. Ganesan looks to focus more broadly on the theme of the lighthouse as perhaps a kind of allegory for transnational movement. The Mrs. Ramsay analogue is Meterling, a very tall woman who embarks on a very non-tradition marriage with Archer, an Outlander from the UK. Meterling is soon pregnant. Love marriages are a big no-no, as we have seen in various books, so Meterling and Archer’s union creates a little bit of a scandal, but tragedy strikes when Archer dies due to a heart condition. In the wake of the romance’s abrupt conclusion, Meterling begins to eventually develop relations with Archer’s side of the family; one individual in particular, Simon, Archer’s younger brother, takes great pains to get to know Meterling and wouldn’t you know it: Simon and Meterling fall in love. There are of course many complications: Meterling’s extended family find the mourning period too brief and worry that yet another marriage to someone outside caste and class would result in residual fallout for other women of marriageable age within their kinship system. Further still, once Simon and Meterling decide to bring up the child in the UK, they begin to realize that there is a spectral presence following them. And of course I haven’t even spoken about Ganesan’s interesting narrative perspective, which primarily invokes a vague “we” standpoint of three young children brought up on Pi (mostly it’s from Mina’s perspective, but we also get shades of her siblings Rasi and Sanjay), who are our primary focalizers. The second portion is the most fascinating from the storytelling perspective, because it’s unclear how this information comes to be known and who is directing our vision of the fictional world. The final arc brings us back to Pi, where a reunion of sorts occurs. Ganesan brings us back to the lighthouse motif, but we don’t even need it: we already have that sense that return never means reclamation, that time passes and all we can do is live with our choices.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/As-Sweet-Honey-Indira-Ganesan/dp/0307960447/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363107183&sr=8-1&keywords=indira+ganesan

A Review of Sonali Deraniyagala’s Wave (Knopf, 2013).



Sonali Deraniyagala’s Wave is a brutal and astonishing memoir, written as a chronicle of one woman’s life following her experiences during and subsequent to the Indian tsunami of 2004. She, along with her family, (her two children Vik and Malli, her husband Steve, and her parents) are in a seaside Sri Lankan community known as Yala when the wave hits. She has little time before realizing what is happening and in a split second decision: she takes her children, her husband, gets into the car of a jeep, but they are still eventually overtaken by the rushing water. Indeed, she does not pause to warn her parents who had been staying in the next room. Moments like this are ones that haunt her in the difficult years that will follow. Deraniyagala is separated from her family at that point and their fates at first are unclear and the memoir from this point takes the perspective of a woman coming to terms with various forms and manifestations of loss. The struggle of mourning is depicted with devastating clarity and this memoir is not for the light of heart. Deraniyagala does not shy away from some of the deepest and conflicted feelings and events that arise during this period: suicidal ideation, obsessional tendencies, and the desire to self-destruct. Of course, there is an arc and trajectory to this work and the conclusion sees Deraniyagala find new ways to cope and to find the will to survive.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Wave-Sonali-Deraniyagala/dp/0307962695/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363458173&sr=8-1&keywords=sonali+deraniyagala
 
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for March 29 2013

A Review of Tania James’s Aerogrammes (Vintage, 2013); Mohsin Hamid’s How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia (Riverhead Hardcover, 2013); Lakshmi Persaud’s Daughters of Empire (Peepal Tree Press, 2013); Annapurna Potluri’s The Grammarian (Counterpoint Press, 2013).

A Review of Tania James’s Aerogrammes (Vintage, 2013)



What a pleasure it is to return to reading short story collections. It’s been a while since I’ve read one and I sometimes forget how poetic short story collections can be, for the simple fact that as a reader, we begin to try to connect all the stories together despite how disparate they may be in storytelling approach, subject matter, and characterization. Tania James’s debut short story collection (she is also author of the novel, Atlas of Unknowns, which I also reviewed here on Asian American Literature Fans), Aerogrammes, is exquisitely rendered and quietly heartbreaking. While many involve South Asian contexts, some do not. My favorite short story was probably the second, “What to do with Henry,” in which the titular Henry is a chimpanzee that is “adopted” alongside an out-of-wedlock young girl (named Neneh) from Sierra Leone by a woman named Pearl, whose husband had engaged in an extramarital affair. By the story’s conclusion, Pearl has passed away, Henry has been donated to a local zoo, and Neneh finds herself wondering about Henry, if Henry still remembered their cherished time together. But, the short story resonates and grows in its poignancy because we begin to see that, for Neneh, Henry really is all the family she has left. Other standout stories include “The Gulf,” told through the eyes of a young girl who elliptically narrates the marital troubles of her parents; “Aerogrammes,” the title story which focuses on the friendship developed between an aged man, Mr. Panicker, and an elderly woman in the space of a nursing home; “Ethnic Ken,” which relates the subtle ways that an Indian grandfather finds himself struggling to acculturate to America; and “Escape Key,” the story of a budding writer named Neel as his attempt to remain connected to his family in the wake of his brother’s tragic accident, which leaves him paralyzed. As I stated earlier, an absolutely exquisite collection, one to be savored over the course of repeated readings and one I will surely add to future course offerings.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Aerogrammes-Other-Stories-Tania-James/dp/0307268918/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341932849&sr=8-1&keywords=Tania+James

http://www.amazon.com/Aerogrammes-Vintage-Contemporaries-Tania-James/dp/0307389022/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1364572884&sr=1-2&keywords=Tania+James+Aerogrammes

A Review of Mohsin Hamid’s How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia (Riverhead Hardcover, 2013).



I’m a huge, huge “Asian American literature fan” of Mohsin Hamid, who we really can’t quite call an Asian American writer in the strictest sense. He currently lives in Pakistan and his novels can’t always or readily be adhered to U.S. contexts. Nevertheless, Hamid is certainly a transnational author in which Asia and Pakistan are usually nodal points in a larger global trajectory. This issue plays out especially in relation to economics and national modernization in Hamid’s biting satire and third novel: How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia. Certainly, there is something Swiftian—if I might be so jargonish—at work in this novel as it is billed as a “how to” novel, but instead gives us a portrait on one boy’s rise from country urchin to a kind of business magnate. If this work is actually a “how to” book on how to “get filthy rich in rising Asia,” Hamid’s narrative would be pretty depressing. The main character’s trajectory is one in which he pines away for the woman he truly loves, while marrying a woman who he merely tolerates. Then, there’s the whole issue of upward mobility, which is predicated on corruption, nepotism, and alternative economies. Perhaps the most fascinating element about this novel is Hamid’s choice of narrative perspective which is primarily conducted in the second person. At some point, late in the narrative, there is a kind of authorial intrusion that makes this novel a kind of philosophically driven metafiction that speaks to the author’s desire to give something back to his characters—supposedly in this case precisely because the main character’s life has been such a complicated one. Hamid is an agent provocateur and this novel is precisely the kind to provoke strong discussions and strong classroom discussions and I will no doubt add this book to my “teachable text” list. In the meantime, I encourage you to have a “filthy rich” reading experience by taking on Hamid’s latest novel.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/How-Filthy-Rich-Rising-Asia/dp/1594487294/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363969466&sr=8-1&keywords=Mohsin+Hamid

A Review of Lakshmi Persaud’s Daughters of Empire (Peepal Tree Press, 2013).



So, I am reviewing Lakshmi Persaud’s Daughters of Empire, but also wanted to alert you to a press, which I have been following for a bit and been absolutely fascinated by: Their offerings can be found here:

http://www.peepaltreepress.com/home.asp

Peepal Tree Press’s catalog focuses on Caribbean writers. For the purposes of this community, given the “coolie labor” and the trade routes that linked the Caribbean to Asia, there is a rather fascinating history of multiracial Asian communities. Reflecting this history, there are a number of what we might more broadly call diasporic Asian writers; I focus on Lakshmi Persaud in this review, but Peepal Tree opened up a whole archive that I was not aware of and reminded me of my much beloved master’s exam during graduate school. Despite the stress of preparing for that exam, I made the brave choice of studying Anglophone literatures and it widened my understanding of World Literatures in English. I picked three areas, including the Caribbean, Africa, and India and got to read a diverse range of writers, including Bessie head, Garth St. Omer, Caryl Phillips, Derek Walcott and Anita Desai. As I focused my dissertation on Asian American literature with all of its more traditional definitions in mind, a hemispheric approach was largely lost. A press like Peepal Tree reminds of us the hemispheric history of Asian America more broadly defined. With writers on its catalog like Weiling Jin, Jan Lo Shinebourne and David Dabydeen, I expect there will be quite more work to do for Asian Americanists as we deal not only with east-west transnationalisms, but north and south migrations and postcolonial reverberations.
In Persaud’s Daughters of Empire (Persaud also author of a number of other works, including but not limited to: Butterfly in the Wind, For the Love of My Name, Sastra, and Raise the Lanterns High), a Indo-Trinidadian immigrant woman named Amira Vidhur has moved to London along with her husband, Santosh, due to his job promotion. But all is not perfect: the culture is so different and her daughters, Anjali, Satisha, and Vidya struggle to find the best schools to be enrolled in. Over time, Amira does make some close friendships with many in her local community and Persaud is clearly invested in the exploration of neighborly networks and feminist intersubjectivity. At the same time, Amira wants to retain her cultural and familial ties to Trinidad, which includes a very close relationship to her sister Ishani (who is herself married to a man named Ravi). In order to balance acculturation with a respect for the homeland, Amira and Santosh agree to traveling often to Trinidad, most of often for the summers, where Anjali, Satisha, and Vidya can come to appreciate their geographical heritage. As the novel moves forward, we see Amira struggle with leaving behind a career in teaching to become a full-time mother. She finds some respite in her gardening, but as her children grow, so do their own personal conflicts and the later stages of the novel see Persaud focusing on more on the daughters, who have various career aspirations. Anjali for instance is looking to pursue a graduate degree, but the novel takes a tremendously dark turn at that point and the family and its extended contacts must come together to protect Anjali. Persaud is a patient writer and she takes great care with these characters, especially marking out the contours of all the main figures, so the novel accrues a kind of dynamic equilibrium that is the foundation of the immigrant family saga.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Daughters-Empire-Lakshmi-Persaud/dp/1845231872/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364400510&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=lakshmi+pesaud

A Review of Annapurna Potluri’s The Grammarian (Counterpoint Press, 2013).



I’ve been having some writers’ blocks lately, so what have I been doing to do pass the time is to read more books (rawr). As a quick side note, here are some other offerings of Counterpoint Press (publisher of a number of other authors who might be of interest here, including Judy Fong Bates and Denise Chong):

http://counterpointpress.com/

Annapurna Potluri’s promising debut novel, The Grammarian, follows the transnational experiences of a French linguist (of Swiss ancestry) named Alexandre Lautens. He travels to Southern India in the early 20th century to document and to help construct a language book based upon Telugu. He stays with the Adivis, a high-powered local family with large land-holdings. The patriarch, Shiva, is married to Lalita, and is father to two daughters; the elder is Anjali, described as beautiful, but apparently “disfigured” from polio and then the younger, Mohini, who is slated to be married. Potluri’s novel takes a nod from Forster in its execution of the Westerner who comes to India and ends up embroiled in a kind of local scandal. I do not want to ruin the plot so much, but the novel is quite adept at showing how cultural illiteracy can ultimately impact so many different lives. The irony is that Lautens is so skilled at linguistic study, but even with certain forms of cultural acquisition, his understanding of gender and sexual dynamics as it relates to Indian culture is unfortunately and tragically limited. Perhaps, the most poignant aspect of Potluri’s narrative is the way in which one seemingly minor moment can become the focal point for Anjali’s life, a kind of turning point that leads to a completely different life trajectory. As Lautens and Anjali’s lives eventually move into separate directions, Potluri has the difficult task of keeping those characters somehow united in thought and in narrative-space. It is here that the novel finds the most fragility and the later arcs require Potluri to canvas over wider sweeps of time in order to come to the novel’s more hurried conclusion. Because Potluri is so adept at focalizing the narrative through Lautens in those early chapters, which seems him taking in the Indian landscapes around him, the final sequence occasionally seems too rushed. Nevertheless, the emotional impact of the story will remain.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Grammarian-Novel-Annapurna-Potluri/dp/1619021021/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364140267&sr=8-1&keywords=annapurna+potluri
 
 
If you are like me and are a fan of Ruth Ozeki, then I'm sure you've been wondering when her latest book was coming out.  Well wonder no longer--her latest (and third) novel, A Tale for the Time Being has just been released, and let me tell you, it is worth the wait (specifically a ten year wait since her second novel, All Over Creation was published a decade ago).

I'm not sure if it was by coincidence or by design, but her book, officially released today, comes right after the two year anniversary of the March 2011 earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan.  This tragedy plays a large role in the various plots and themes in A Tale for the Time Being, a novel that, like Ozeki's first novel, My Year of Meats, is a twinned narrative.  We are first introduced to Nao Yasutani, a fifteen-year old Japanese schoolgirl who is writing in a journal that's been hacked from Marcel Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time or the title as it's also known as, Remembrance of Things Past).  We learn in the subsequent chapter that the first-person narrative of Nao is actually being read by a novelist named Ruth (whose chapters are told by an unnamed omniscient narrator who seems content, for the most part, to only tell us about Ruth's thoughts and actions) who discovers the red-covered diary enclosed in a Hello Kitty lunch box (along with a bundle of letters written in Japanese, a composition notebook written in French, and a Seiko watch with kanji inscriptions on the back) that is wrapped in layers of Ziplock freezer bags, barnacle encrusted, hidden among layers of seaweed.   Ruth finds the freezer bag/Hello Kitty lunchbox/Diary et al while walking on the beach near her home (which she shares with her artist/environmentalist husband, Oliver) off the coast of British Columbia.  And although she has been struggling for nearly a decade to finish a memoir about the last years caring for her Japanese American mother who died from Alzheimer's, she finds herself immersed in reading Nao's story (at the pace in which Nao writes it), which is also the story about Nao's parents (a housewife who is forced to take a job at a publishing house once her husband is first fired from his job in Sunnyvale California, then moves his family back to Tokyo, where he fails to secure another job and tries, unsuccessfully, to kill himself by jumping in front of a train) and Nao's 104-year old great grandmother, a Zen Buddhist monk who is also a radical anarchist feminist writer.

Is this the time to also tell you that Ruth Ozeki splits her time between British Columbia and New York City, is married to an artist/environmentalist named Oliver, and in an interview right after her second novel came out talked about an autobiographical project writing about her Japanese mother who had Alzheimer's?

A Tale for the Time Being is the story of Nao and the story of Ruth.  It is also the story of Nao's kamikaze pilot uncle, Haruki #1, the namesake of her father, Haruki #2.  It is the story of Oliver, Ruth's husband and of their cat, Pesto (who is actually named Schrodinger after the thought experiment, Schrodinger's cat, which is also a major theme in the novel).  And as you can guess from the paragraph above, this postmodern novel has readers wondering are they reading something based in fact or based in fiction or perhaps a blurring of the two (as Ozeki did with My Year of Meats, she plays with readers' notions of fiction and non-fiction, particularly by including footnotes peppered throughout Nao's narration).  In reading the story of Nao, Ruth (and readers) learn about the ruthless bullying by her classmates that she endures (a theme all too timely in our day and age), her deep affection for her great grandmother, Jiko Yasutani, and the choices that her family members make (both living and dead) that have shaped the course of their (and others') lives.  As Ruth tries to find out what happened to Nao (who she fears may be suicidal like her father), readers learn about Ruth's writer's block, the austere beauty and insularity of her Pacific Northwest remote island home, and about quantum physics.  We also learn about the ways that major catastrophic events, 9/11 and the earthquake/tsunami reverberate across space and time.

At heart, the novel emphasizes a theme of interconnectedness, timelessness, and pacificism, all in keeping with the Zen Buddhism that clearly informs both the narrative and Ozeki's person (the biographical notes tell us that she, herself, is a Zen Buddhist priest.  There's so much more that I could tell you, about the contents of the Japanese letters, the French composition notebook, about whether Nao survives her bullying, whether her father's suicidal thoughts continue, whether Ruth ever restarts her memoir, and whether Oliver is successful in finding Pesto, who gets lost in one of many storms that batter their island home.  But I won't say much more because this is a novel you will want to dive right into, enjoying the ways in which the chapters talk back and forth to one another, from Nao to Ruth and back again.  It is a novel that had me slowing down as I noticed that there weren't many more pages for me to flip through, wishing that like Ruth, perhaps I could find more pages and more words to prevent the inevitable end from happening.
 
 
Current Mood: bouncybouncy
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for March 8, 2013

In this post, reviews of Veera Hiranandani’s The Whole Story of Half a Girl (Delacorte Press, 2012); Joël Barraquiel Tan’s type O negative (Red Hen Press, 2009) and Ching-in Chen’s The Heart’s Traffic (Arktoi Books, 2009); Ellen Oh’s Prophecy (HarperCollins Children’s Division, 2013); Shaun Tan’s The Bird King: An Artist’s Notebook (Arthur A. Levine Books, 2013); Tosca Lee’s Iscariot (Howard Books, 2013); Neel Mukherjee’s A Life Apart (Constable & Robinson, 2010); Embodying Asian/ American Sexualities edited by Gina Masequesmay and Sean Metzger (Lexington Books, 2010).


A Review of Veera Hiranandani’s The Whole Story of Half a Girl (Delacorte Press, 2012).



In Veera Hiranandani’s debut novel, The Whole Story of Half a Girl, our storyteller and protagonist is Sonia Nadhamuni, who is of mixed-race background, part Indian and Jewish (also of other ethnic backgrounds, including Russian and Polish). The start of the novel sees her having to change schools due in part to the financial instability faced by her parents; her father loses his job and begins to succumb to a bout of depression. Sonia’s transition is in its own way also difficult. She must forge new friendships and somehow maintain old ones. She is faced with multiple platonic opportunities. There’s Kate, who hails from what might be considered the queen B crowd; Kate is upper-middle class, popular, beautiful, white, and encourages Sonia to try out for the cheerleading team. There’s Alisha: working class, African American, bookish and introverted, who appeals to Sonia’s artistic tendencies. Then there’s Sam, her red-headed Jewish buddy from her former school. How will Sonia balance all such friendships? I recently also reviewed Kavita Daswani’s Lovetorn, which paired a coming-of-age story against the mental instability of an immigrant mother. Hiranandani takes a similar approach in this novel. Sonia must not only navigate that shark-infested ocean that is the public middle school, but somehow also come to understand that her own conflicts and challenges must be placed in the context of others, like her father. Indeed, Hiranandani’s plotting takes a darker and more serious turn by the conclusion. Given the genre of the middle school fiction, we can likely expect a more uplifting ending, but Hiranandani’s point is to show that children grow up and collide against an adult world into which they will soon ultimately find themselves. Hiranandani also takes on the challenging subject of the mixed-race childhood and places it in the context of interracial tension at the middle school level. Indeed, Alisha and Kate seem to be more largely a metaphorical way of figuring Sonia’s middleman position: does she identify as a minority at all? The fact that so many students keep asking her “what she is,” figures largely into her sense of bewilderment and Hiranandani takes a rather direct look at the complications of mixed-race even in this seemingly most multicultural moment. The last thing I would want to say is that it’s amazing to see that such work exists and can be picked up at a library alongside many of the youth oriented fictions that Hirandani herself points to in the early chapter of the novel, ones such as A Wrinkle In Time and The Giver. I can only recall Betti Bao Lord’s In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson as the sole example of a youth oriented fictional work that I could pick up in paperback form at my local public library when I was a youth (admittedly now a very long time ago). A much needed addition to the area of middle school fictions, mixed-race representations, and the coming-of-age story.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Whole-Story-Half-Girl/dp/0385741286/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1361221216&sr=8-1&keywords=veera+hiranandani

A Review of Joël Barraquiel Tan’s type O negative (Red Hen Press, 2009) and Ching-in Chen’s The Heart’s Traffic (Arktoi Books, 2009).



In this review, I cover two of Red Hen Press’s most recent poetry collections: Joël Barraquiel Tan’s Type O negative (Red Hen Press, 2009) and Ching-in Chen’s The Heart’s Traffic (Arktoi Books, 2009). Arktoi is an imprint of Red Hen Press that publishes work by lesbian writers. Both these works show an attentive commitment to questions of racial, immigrant, and queer identity. These intersections also appear in tandem with explorations of form. Ching-in Chen’s The Heart’s Traffic, for instance, is billed as a “novel in poems” and thus engages the scope of a developmental lyric bildungrsoman—if we can even call it that—in its representation of Xiaomei, who must not only acculturate to the United States, but also deal with questions of her sexuality. Chen uses an incredible array of poetic forms, including but not limited to the haibun, villanelle, the sestina (and a variation of the form called the double sestina), the pantoum, among others, alongside free verse to explore these various thematics. As readers come to find out in “The Geisha Author Interviews,” Xiaomei must contend with how her racialized body can be fetishized. She further endures the taunts of other schoolchildren, as showcased in “Ching Chong,” “fob 1,” “Ku Li,” and “Coolie: A History Report.” As Xiaomei begins to explore her queer sexuality, the poems turn toward the complication of sexual identity in the face of transgender issues. Xiaomei’s relationship with Jani, for instance, is troubled when Jani “intend[s] to begin living full-time as a man” (79) named Jaden. As The Heart’s traffic begins its final arc, the sparrow, a motif introduced at the beginning, returns, suggesting the ways in which Xiaomei may not find that perfect love she is looking for. Nevertheless, the “novel in poems” seems to end on an optimistic note, suggesting that Xiaomei has come to better understand herself and her place in the world. Tan’s Type O Negative unfolds in two distinct parts. The first half of the book roughly focuses on the lyric speaker’s experiences growing up in the Philippines. These poems are playful and intimate at the same time and exhibit some similarity to the poetic work of R. Zamora Linmark, both in tone and thematics. We see the hijinks related to a protoqueer child coming to understand his sexuality and how his own feelings relate to the people who surround him. One recurrent theme is the problematic relationship that the lyric speaker forges with his uncle, a connection that will end abruptly when the uncle is murdered. The lyric speaker will also detail what seems to be an unacknowledged extended family, one that comes into being due to the extramarital dalliances of the lyric speaker’s father. The remnants of the speaker’s strong feelings for his family carry over as the collection transitions to the United States. The second half of the book changes in its approach and is much more daring in its representation. In this portion, Tan makes effective use of primarily alternating between two forms: the pantoum and the sestina. Both forms clearly function with repetition in mind, so there is something of a chant-like effect going on here. Because many of the poems focus on the death of loved ones, the collection turns far more elegiac in its quality. In “gift giver,” a pantoum, the lyric speaker conveys, “the bloom of lesions & the feast of sores/ pink veined marble carved in sweet memory, the burning pyres/ he delivers each boy, moaning & spent, to his god/ softly he whispers in their ears, no death, just pleasure” (77, emphasis original). We are not exactly sure what “he” is dying from, but one of the common thematics of this final arc is the question of survival in the age of the AIDS epidemic. With titles such as “bug chaser” and “AIDS service foundation ghost,” the collection provides Tan the chance to address many issues related to queer men romancing each other in a time of plague. These are both thrilling works to read and certainly perfect for course adoption, especially for any classes focused on themes of gender and sexuality or Asian American identity politics.



Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Type-Negative-Joel-Tan/dp/1597090182/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1311990201&sr=8-1

http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Traffic-Ching--Chen/dp/0980040728/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1311990268&sr=1-1

A Review of Ellen Oh’s Prophecy (HarperCollins Children’s Division, 2013).



Ellen Oh’s Prophecy is part of what will be a planned trilogy in the Dragon King Chronicles series. Oh’s debut novel involves a young female protagonist named Kira who also happens to be a talented demon killer. The prophecy of the title relates to the foretelling that an individual of immense power will unite the fragmented kingdom against dangerous outside forces. Over the course of the novel, Kira is tasked with protecting her young cousin, Taejon, who will eventually assume the mantle of the kingdom and who seems to be the individual foretold about in the prophecy itself. Of course, you can imagine given that the cover states “one girl will save them all,” that Kira will somehow be related to and make problematic the gendered claims on saving the kingdom. Kira’s central positioning within the story makes concrete Oh’s biggest sociocultural intervention: a feminist revisioning of the so-often male-dominated fantasy genre. Kira is a strong-willed character, handy with a sword and especially distrusting of anybody who takes a romantic interest in her. What is interesting is that Oh employs a historical and social tapestry that hearkens to a historically distant time in Korea, but this analog might remain more opaque for readers unfamiliar with specific ethnic themes. The publishers chose to include a useful glossary of the more difficult terminology, but I was surprised that an author’s note was not included to consider some of Oh’s intentions about the obviously Asiatic terrain that the narrative traverses. The novel is very fast-paced and will appeal to a readership. Admittedly, I would be considered a geriatric reader for this book in relation to the target audience (middle schoolers and teens). The most productive element of this book is the contouring of YA fictional worlds, which increasingly have included strong female characters and ethnic and minority themes.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Prophecy-The-Dragon-King-Chronicles/dp/0062091093/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362246092&sr=8-1&keywords=Ellen+Oh

A Review of Shaun Tan’s The Bird King: An Artist’s Notebook (Arthur A. Levine Books, 2013).



Ah, Shaun Tan tides us over until his next completed work with his impressionistic The Bird King: An Artist’s Notebook. The subtitle cues us into the rather unofficial nature of this sequence of pictures and sketches, which do not tell tales per se, but rather reveal Tan’s creative mind at work at various stages. The most compelling pieces are the ones that readers will be familiar with based upon previous publications. For instance, Tan does include some of the original sketches and storyboards that would be the basis for The Arrival. This publication is a definite must-have for any fan of Tan for the simple fact of the volume’s gorgeous production; many of the sketches are published in full color. For those looking for a more polished work should look to his previous undertakings, such as the aforementioned The Arrival, The Lost Thing or Tales from Outer Suburbia.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Bird-King-Artists-Notebook/dp/0545465133/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362275164&sr=8-1&keywords=the+bird+king

A Review of Tosca Lee’s Iscariot (Howard Books, 2013).


(hilariously enough the dimensions of this photo were 466 X 666; that's all I'm sayin!)

So Tosca Lee was one of those writers that I came upon by accident, surfing amazon.com one night in one of my fits of insomnia. I saw immediately that she had a number of novels, some penned alongside Ted Dekker, but others that were decidedly in a form that I have not had much experience reading within: that of biblical, historical fiction (Lee has also authored Havah and Demon: A Memoir). Her newest offering, Iscariot, provides Lee with the opportunity to reconsider and to reimagine the life of one of the Bible’s most reviled figures: Judas. Boldly employing the first person voice, Lee creates a narrative that grants us entry into Judas’s life, one that plagued by his traumatic upbringing. The early portions of the novel set the stage for the enmity between the Jews and the Romans. Judas is caught up in this strife on a tragic personal level: he must endure the crucifixion of his father, the disappearance of his beloved older brother (presumed to have been enslaved by the Romans), the defiling of his mother as she prostitutes herself in order to ensure their survival following their harrowing escape from a town under siege. Judas recovers from this childhood and eventually marries, hoping to raise a family, but his wife dies during childbirth and their child, though very close to term, does not survive. In the wake of the loss of his immediate family, Judas seeks new life fulfillments. When he hears of a messiah figure that is miraculously healing those who are disabled and plagued with illnesses, he curiously finds out who he is and then later on becomes one of his disciplines. But all is not so simple with his newfound belief in Jesus, especially as this revolutionary figure draws the ire of multiple communities and sources of power, so much so that the disciples (and Judas) often fear for their lives. Though I would consider myself a secular-type reader, this narrative did appeal to me for a number of reasons. First, Lee is not interested in denigrating Judas, but rather seeks to contextualize why he might have acted in the way he did. Second, I did grow up in a churchgoing household and biblical stories still hold a kind of fascination for me that can be traced to that period of my life. While the subject matter may not appeal to all readers, Lee’s ideological project should, especially in the way that the novel cautions us from making snap judgments about figures who can be so quickly and superficially villain-ized. An idiosyncratic and imaginative fictional work.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Iscariot-Novel-Judas-Tosca-Lee/dp/1451683766/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362687521&sr=8-1&keywords=Tosca+Lee

A Review of Neel Mukherjee’s A Life Apart (Constable & Robinson, 2010).



For those of you looking to expand course offerings and to explore research interests in the Asian diaspora in relation to representations of gender and sexuality, you can look to Neel Mukherjee’s A Life Apart (published previously in India under the title Past Continuous and currently only available in new editions in the UK) to find a dynamic narrative intertwining queer desire and postcolonial themes. For more on the press that published Mukherjee’s work in the “west,” please see:

http://www.constablerobinson.com/

Mukherjee chooses a bifurcated third person narrative perspective, one which follows Ritwik, a gay Indian man who migrates to London for a university education. The second takes place in the British colonial period of India around the turn of the century and involves a kind of governess figure, Miss Gilby, who comes to work for the Chowdhury family. This work situation is tenuous insofar as the Chowdhury’s struggle to retain a measure of normalcy to their lives as Bengal begins to disintegrate in the midst of religious factionalism. The two temporally and geographically narratives seem hardly linked at first, but as the novel moves forward we begin to see the elliptical ways that migration and homeland, otherness and physical violence, can unfortunately and tragically brew together. The other risk that Mukherjee takes on is in having the reader having to be equally invested in both stories; the contemporary tale is, in some sense, much more accessible and the narrative movements to colonial-era India occasionally strike with discordant tones, especially for the reader who may be impatient to see the link between the two sections more strongly delineated. The biggest draw from my perspective is Mukherjee’s unflinching look at Ritwik’s coming-of-age and his acceptance of his queer sexuality, which take him into the perilous world of prostitution and cottaging and ultimately encourages him to take on a status as an undocumented immigrant. The naturalistic narrative trajectory is in some sense exactly right, especially as the concluding arc sees Ritwik increasingly rely upon diffuse connections and his various sexual escapades to float him through the next day, the next week, and perhaps, in some cases, with that most generous john, into the next month. Ritwik does strike up an intriguing friendship with an aged woman, Anne Cameron, who provides him with some measure of financial solvency, as he cares for her. The scenes involving Ritwik taking bodily care of Anne (in relation to her bathing) are penned with an especially astonishing and unsentimental style. A very promising debut novel and the beginning of what we would hope to be an illustrious literary career.

Buy the Book Review:

http://www.amazon.com/A-Life-Apart-Neel-MUKHERJEE/dp/184901101X/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1361733160&sr=8-4

A Review of Embodying Asian/ American Sexualities edited by Gina Masequesmay and Sean Metzger (Lexington Books, 2010).



In this brief review, I just wanted to point out one of the intriguing additions to the field of gender and sexuality studies in relation to Asian American contexts and cultures. After edited anthologies by Russell Leong (Dimensions of Desire) and David Eng and Alice Y. Hom (Q&A), I haven’t seen many collections like this one that really take on issues related to Asian American gender and sexuality. What is particularly noteworthy about Masequesmay and Metzger’s collection is their embrace of the multigenre and multidisciplinary format: cultural criticism, creative writing, fictional interviews, activist-scholarship, among other such individual pieces populate this eclectic work. Readers will definitely find a dynamic experience moving through this edited anthology. My favorite individual selections appeared actually latest in the collection, on topics that have gotten little scholarly attention thus far: homosexuality in the Korean American evangelical context and critical considerations of the Cambodian cultural production. For those looking to add course material to courses on gender and sexuality in Asian American literature, this edited collection would obviously be ideal.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Embodying-Asian-American-Sexualities-Masequesmay/dp/073912904X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362246819&sr=8-1&keywords=Sean+Metzger
 
 
Just watched the trailer for a movie version of Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist, directed by Mira Nair and starring Riz Ahmed as Changez. Should be interesting! (See also my thoughts of the book.)
 
 
Current Mood: nervousnervous
 
 
16 February 2013 @ 08:35 pm
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for February 15 2013

In this post, reviews of Kevin Chong’s My Year of the Racehorse: Falling in Love with the Sport of Kings (Greystone Books, 2012); Aamer Hussein’s Insomnia (Telegram Books, 2007); Nury Vittachi’s The Shanghai Union of Industrial Mystics: Feng Shui Detective #3 (Felony & Mayhem, 2012); E.C. Myers’s Quantum Coin (Pyr, 2012); Darien Gee’s The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (Ballantine Books, 2013); Irfan Master’s A Beautiful Lie (Albert Whitman, 2012); Kendare Blake’s Sleepwalk Society (2010, PRA Publishing); Manil Suri’s City of Devi (W.W. Norton, 2012)

A Review of Kevin Chong’s My Year of the Racehorse: Falling in Love with the Sport of Kings (Greystone Books, 2012)



Kevin Chong has already gotten some reviewing attention on this blog; please see, for instance, pylduck’s review this-a-way for Beauty Plus Pity:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/124780.html

Chong tackles the memoir form with the very idiosyncratic My Year of the Racehorse, which follows the author’s misadventures as he takes up the mantle of being part-owner of a potentially prize-winning racehorse known as Blackie. It might be important to mention that at the conclusion of the memoir, there is a sort of disclaimer concerning the part-fictive nature of the narrative, that certain events and characters have been altered to protect their identities and in some cases to streamline the “plot.” These moments always break me out of the memoir as a kind of nonfictional form, reminding me that we must approach such works with a keen eye for a sense of construct and for artifice. If anything, Chong leans on a laidback humor that was evident already in a novel like Beauty Like Pity; it tracks throughout My Year of the Racehorse to give the memoir an emotionally resonant, but comic scaffolding. His characterizations of figures like the horse-trainer, Randi, and later an animal psychic are alternately poignant and offbeat. For me, the aspect that was perhaps the most illuminating was the semi-ethnographic sections that gives readers a perspective into racehorses and their history, the whole vocabulary behind the track culture, and the high stakes that can be involved in the process. Early on, too, Chong is entirely willing to admit to the readers that his adventures into the land of racehorses was, in part, motivated by the desire to write another book and to push him creatively. To be sure, it is this gamble that pays off the most, as readers are treated to an original and winning literary formula. We’ll bet on Chong to be back and to be bringing us another memoir on a topic we will not be able to predict: perhaps his adventures to be the first Canadian to land on Mars? wink

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/My-Year-Racehorse-Falling-Sport/dp/1553655206/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358925248&sr=8-1&keywords=Kevin+Chong

A Review of Aamer Hussein’s Insomnia (Telegram Books, 2007).



Aamer Hussein’s Insomnia (Telegram Books, 2007) is a short story collection that explores the complications of transnational identifications, romance, and the connection between politics and aesthetics. There is a palimpsestic quality in this collection, precisely because it is filled with artists, writers, poets, students, lovers, political dissidents, and activists, who together combine to form a potent alchemy from which Hussein can explore a number of repeating themes and plotlines. The short story form is a particularly useful one for Hussein insofar as it showcases the tremendous lyricism of his writing. The stories are often broken up into smaller chapters that take on a kind of density that is more evocative of poetry or poetic prose. The standouts are the ones that still manage to achieve more narrative coherence. For instance, “The Crane Girl” follows a kind of love triangle that emerges among Murad, a Pakistani living in London and two Japanese transnationals: Tsuru, of the title, and then Shigeo. Though Murad is not aware at first, his friendship with Shigeo is in part brokered over their shared attraction to Tsuru and Hussein’s story reveals the multificated terrain of heartbreak and friendship that can find footing in the shadow of a triangle. “Hibiscus Days: A Story Found in a Drawer” was probably my favorite as it follows four characters, as they eventually grow apart from each other. Hussein employs this story as a way to explore how upper-middle class youth negotiate the perils and pitfalls of revolutionary sentiments and their own class privilege. The other major theme is of course Hussein’s orbiting around the experience of the immigrant and the sojourner of Pakistani descent living in London.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Insomnia-Aamer-Hussein/dp/1846590248/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1359833912&sr=8-4&keywords=Aamer+Hussein

A Review of Nury Vittachi’s The Shanghai Union of Industrial Mystics: Feng Shui Detective #3 (Felony & Mayhem, 2012).



What would our lives be without Mr. CF Wong, our enterprising feng shui expert and detective? Fortunately, we don’t have to ponder the question too long this year because Felony & Mayhem offers U.S. distribution to the third title in the series, otherwise known by its felicitous title: The Shanghai Union of Industrial Mystics (I believe it was originally published by Allen & Unwin in 2006). As earlier installments have revealed, Mr. CF Wong as the feng shui expert, is one of a larger cadre of professionals in the mystical arts; you have diviners and psychics, witch doctors and herbalists, all comprising a very motley and supernatural crew. Fortunately, along with Mr. CF Wong, his hilariously enterprising assistant, Joyce McQuinnie, is again along for the investigatory ride. In this novel, there are a couple of strange occurrences that immediately ramp up the plotting. First, a veterinary doctor (Lu Linyao) discovers that her daughter has been kidnapped, which immediately brings in Wong and McQuinnie into the equation to help out. As Wong and McQuinnie delve further into the motivations behind the kidnapping, they become enmeshed in a larger plot involving vegan terrorists. That’s right folks: vegan terrorists. It’s here that Vittachi has a great deal of comic fun at the expense of the politically leftist, but as the novel moves inexorably toward unmasking the true villains, we begin to see that there is a much more complicated ethnic issue at hand. Indeed, one of the vegan terrorists (spoilers forthcoming) is from the Uyghur ethnic minority and is operating to engage in subversive activities. At one point, there is a bomb that is implanted inside the body of an elephant. Vittachi drags out this plot development a little bit too long, but does wring a lot of laughs from various minor characters wondering if they have heard the phrase correctly: “there is a bomb in an elephant.” As with the previous two installments, you can tell Vittachi can juggle the complicated terrain of the political, the humorous, and the detective plot all at the same time. In this fantastic alchemy, this third installment is another must read in the Feng Shui detective series.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Shanghai-Union-Industrial-Mystics/dp/1937384071/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1359571775&sr=8-8&keywords=nury+vittachi

A Review of E.C. Myers’s Quantum Coin (Pyr, 2012)



Fortunately fans of the Coin series didn’t have to wait very long for the sequel to Fair Coin, which was later published in the same year. More fortunately still, E.C. Myers captures the synergy he found between a dynamic plot and unique characters in his sequel, Quantum Coin, which sees our spunky hero, Ephraim Scott, return to battle a particularly catastrophic issue: the merging of the multiverse. Yes, readers, Ephraim’s own reality is merging with the many others that exist and he, alongside his girlfriend, Jena Kim, and his girlfriend’s analog, Zoe Kim, must work together with yet more analogs in yet another version of the multiverse (Nathan and Dr. Kim) to help stop this destructive process (by analog, I mean an individual’s “double” in another reality and if this description is confusing, it’s certainly meant to encourage you to go to read the first installment). For those that are uninitiated, the coin of the title speaks to the power that Ephraim has over a particular circular metallic item that can allow him to switch places in the multiverse with another version of himself. The first book explored what happened as Ephraim engaged in this process and had to fight an evil version of his friend in order for general order to be restored. The operation of the titular coin also involves other gadgets such as a controller, making the movement between one reality and another a more complicated, if not, potentially perilous process. Dr. Kim encourages them to use the coin and the controller to move back into the past of another reality in order to find Hugh Everett, a man of incredible genius and a world-renowned quantum physicist, who might have the intellectual capacity to come up with a plan to help stop the merging process. Members of this community will appreciate Myers’s intertwinement of the science fiction genre with racial formation. When Ephraim and Jena must travel to a version of 1950s America, Jena’s appearance provokes concern and racial epithets. Further still, when Ephraim encounters Jena’s grandfather, Grumps, during this period, Myers ingeniously inserts some McCarthy-ish moments that give this historical period some extra texture. Myers’s second installment is also more complicated because he explores the romantic instabilities that might arise as one character must tangle with love interests not only in one reality, but in many others as well. That’s right: what is Ephraim to do with the fact that his relationship with Jena Kim seems to be wobbling in the face of his suppressed emotions for Zoe? And what of Jena’s own flirtatious dalliance with one of the Hugh Everett analogs? With romance blooming amid the virtual destruction of all possible realities, you don’t need to flip a coin to wager whether or not you should read this book.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Quantum-Coin-E-C-Myers/dp/1616146826/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1359918747&sr=8-1&keywords=quantum+coin

A Review of Darien Gee’s The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (Ballantine Books, 2013).



In The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society, Darien Gee’s follow-up to Friendship Bread, the self-explanatory title refers to the community building that occurs amongst a group of women all invested in this DIY hobby. I completed this novel during a rather long stay at an airport and then on the ensuing flight down to southern California. I picked it because I knew that it would not necessarily be the kind of plot that would generate much anxiety or horror in me and fortunately, it did not disappoint. Some figures that appeared in the core cast of characters from the first book return in different capacities and energize Gee’s idyllic representation of what seems to be a semi-suburban community. This novel more specifically hones in on: Yvonne, a beautiful young woman who also happens to be trying to make a living as a plumber; Frances, a married woman who along with her husband Reed, are deciding upon whether to adopt a special needs child from China (named Mei Ling); Bettie, the aged but spirited president of the titular scrapbooking society; Connie, a just-out-of-the foster system figure, who comes upon a lost goat and develops a touching bond with her furry four-legged friend; Ava, a young single mother who is looking to support her son; and Isabel, who is selling her home in the aftermath of her husband’s infidelity and then his tragic death he had been having an affair with Ava). As with Gee’s previous effort, each character is involved their own conflict, but are united together in their scrapbooking interests. The plot thread that weights most heavily for the novel occurs when Bettie, the scrapbooking president, is discovered to be suffering from vascular dementia. In this respect, the novel does present us with the quietly devastating effects of a medical condition that is often overlooked, as Bettie needs more care and attention and fails to remember even those closest to her. The kaleidoscopic approach to the construction of this Avalon community does have its risks: Gee must take her time to draw out each character and to round them in their intricacies; the plotting takes awhile to generate steam. As with Friendship Bread, Gee’s work is not about postapocalyptic landscapes filled with zombies or cannibals, nuclear fallout or disease-infested corpses; instead, she focuses on the subtle tensions that undergird one local community. The novel’s general topic matter—that of scrapbooking—should appeal to one of the target reading bases and the hardcover print edition does include some interesting recipes and scrapbooking tips in its conclusion. This novel is undoubtedly to be embraced by book clubs and DIY groups at large.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Friendship-Bread-Novel-Darien-Gee/dp/0345525353/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360966208&sr=8-1&keywords=friendship+bread

A Review of Irfan Master’s A Beautiful Lie (Albert Whitman, 2012).



A Beautiful Lie is a middle-school directed fiction concerning the Indian Partition of 1947. Irfan Master’s debut novel takes on a very difficult historical context, one that I could imagine would be its own challenge to move into a representational terrain directed at younger audiences. The protagonist and first person narrator of the novel is Bilal and the “beautiful lie” of the title comes from his decision to keep his father in the dark concerning the political and religious turmoil surrounding them. You see, Bilal’s father is already dying, and Bilal’s deception is motivated from his desire to protect his father in his compromised physical state. Given the historical restrictions within which Master must work, we all ultimately know where the narrative will lead and the events prior to the Partition sequence are of course filled with the growing factionalism appearing between Muslims and Hindus. At one point, Bilal travels with his mentor Doctorji to help a remote village with healthcare when they are detained for potentially being spies. Bilal’s background as a Muslim puts him at odds with a number of Hindu communities in the lead-up to the country’s violent schism and even the most basic of pastimes, such as cricket, become the terrain upon which religious differences are posed. Master’s fictional project is a delicate one, insofar as he must work to render the experience authentically through the eyes of a boy. The author’s note accompanying the text, while delving into some of the circumstances surrounding the Partition is useful, perhaps would be aided by an instructional component Indeed, many of these historically grounded youth-oriented fictions seem best engaged with in a classroom setting where they can be contextualized in depth.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/A-Beautiful-Lie-Irfan-Master/dp/0807505978/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360355936&sr=8-1&keywords=Irfan+Master

A Review of Kendare Blake’s Sleepwalk Society (2010, PRA Publishing)



Kendare Blake’s debut novel Sleepwalk Society is billed as a young adult novel written in the post-9/11 context. It is, to a certain extent, reminiscent of the haze filled, postmodern ennui that characterized Pamela Lu’s debut novel, Pamela. Whereas Lu revels in the empty center at the core of that meandering narrative, Blake’s central characters still seek to hold on to something real—however that might be defined—in a moment of transition. That is, the three main characters, Violet, Terran, and Joey are all in their beginning stages of college and trying to figure out what it is they want to do with their lives. They live upper middle class existences with all the trappings of privilege that ultimately make such life choices seem on some level filled with false uncertainty. Blake’s poetic writing style lifts this narrative above something maudlin and Violet is fortunately quite a perceptive and lyrical focalizer. There will be moments in the reading where something will lift off the page and ring out in its clarity. The scenes with Violet and her father are often the best and most brutal in the novel. At the same time, Sleepwalk Society can suffer from a kind of listlessness that perhaps is evoked in the title itself. The main characters sometimes come off as bored of their own lives. In this state, the plotting will not always get off the ground and Blake must work diligently to continue the narrative moving forward around college parties and the perils of the hook-up culture. I was quite surprised at the novel’s conclusion and will be interested to see what other readers might expect from Violet by the ending. Blake also happens to be the author of two novels that were recently published from Tor, which are part of the young adult urban romance fantasy fiction genre (Anna Dressed in Blood and Girl of Nightmares; she has a forthcoming novel called Antigoddess). As a quick note, I wanted to encourage you to browse the offerings at the PRA Publishing website to see what else they have brewing:

http://prapublishing.com/

It’s always a treat to find out about new independent publishers =).

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Sleep-Society-Modern-Contemporary-Fiction/dp/0982140711/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1359313298&sr=8-6

A Review of Manil Suri’s City of Devi (W.W. Norton, 2012)



So, Manil Suri is another one of those writers whose novels I say I will eventually get to, but then somehow manage to squander away the hours, but no more: I have read his semi-post-apocalyptic speculative realist novel City of Devi (after Age of Shiva and The Death of Vishnu). The third novel was originally intended to refer to Brahma, but Suri shifted his focus to Devi and hence this third novel. Suri clearly takes the post-9/11 milieu as the inspiration for this work and the religious factionalism that continues to plague Indian-Pakistani politics; more specifically he gestures to the 2008 and 2011 Mumbai bombings. The titular city is that of Mumbai, which in the wake of the mega-blockbuster movie, Superdevi, has become full of religious fervor. When Mumbai becomes subject to a set of coordinated nuclear bombings, the novel imagines two main characters as they both attempt to navigate the ruins in order to find someone very dear to them. The first character is Sarita, an educated woman, who opens the novel looking to buy a pomegranate. The symbolic importance of this fruit is not revealed until later on, but her obsession with this fruit is involved with her search for her husband, a man by the name of Karun, a talented mathematician. Karun disappeared just prior to the attacks, so Sarita’s quest to be reunited with her husband is one already filled with mystery and uncertainty. The second character is Jaz, a queer man of Muslim background, who, as we come to discover, had been in a rather long-term relationship with Karun. When that relationship goes south in the midst of Jaz’s infidelity, Karun ends up marrying Sarita. In the period following the attacks, disguised as a man of Hindu background, Jaz joins forces with Sarita in order to find Karun. Of course, Sarita has little idea of Jaz’s true intentions, though she is suspicious, and as the novel moves forward, both characters must constantly perform different identities in order to survive and to bring less attention to their specific religious backgrounds. The larger question that Suri seems to be pushing at us is how to reconcile the triangulated love story amid the larger post-apocalyptic storyline. Fredric Jameson might, of course, suggest we read that relationship allegorically, but what is to be made of these two characters, searching so fervently for a man they each love in their own ways? To answer this question, you’ll of course have to read the book. Suri’s narrative is tremendously engaging. The one issue that does arise is that the swapping of first person narrators inevitably places one storytelling voice in comparison to the other and in many ways, Jaz is the far more dynamic and mischievous character, leading us sometimes to wish for more of his perspective. On the social context level, Suri provides us with a brilliant depiction of a contemporary city brimming with religious convictions that ultimately possess far more shaky foundations. What does faith offer in the midst of violence and global conflict, the novel finally poses, especially with such catastrophic manifestations.

Buy the book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-City-Devi-A-Novel/dp/0393088758/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360006758&sr=8-1&keywords=city+of+devi
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for January 21 2013.

In this post, reviews for: Sudha Koul’s Tiger Ladies (Beacon Press, 2003), Thien Pham’s Sumo (First Second, 2012), Pauline A. Chen’s The Red Chamber (Knopf, 2012), Mary Ting’s Crossroads (World Castle Publishing, 2012), Yvonne Woon’s Dead Beautiful (Hyperion Books for Children, 2010), Yvonne Woon’s Life Eternal (Hyperion Books for Children, 2012), and Andrew Fukuda’s The Hunt (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012).

A Review of Sudha Koul’s Tiger Ladies (Beacon Press, 2003)



I was originally alerted to this title when reading through the critical work of Rocio Davis (author of a number of monographs on the topic of Asian American cultural production), a scholar whose command of Asian American cultural production is incredibly vast. Anytime I read something written by Davis, I have to pick up a number of new titles I have not seen or heard of before. Sudha Koul’s Tiger Ladies was one of the titles that interested me and is one of a handful to come out of Beacon Press that are germane to this literary community (some other titles include a pair of earlier novels by Indira Ganesan). Koul’s memoir, lushly written and warmly conceived, is a mostly nostalgic accounting of what we might call a form of gendered intergenerational cultural transmission, in which one of the northernmost regions of India—Kashmir—looms large. Structured in parts and related through the maternal line, Tiger Ladies focuses on the importance of heritage and culture as connected to Kashmir. Koul thus focuses sections on her grandmother, her mother, and then later her own position as the bearer of a particular regional culture. What’s abundantly clear for Koul is that Kashmir has had to shoulder the brunt of international conflict. This process has forced its peoples to evolve as border disputes and religious animosities between Pakistan and India remain turbulent. Realizing that her readers might not necessarily schooled in regional history and culture, Tiger Ladies also possesses a scholarly and ethnographic tone that makes this work quite appealing to a variety of readerships. Perhaps, the most compelling aspect of Koul’s work is her commitment to a conception of a local homeland and the external forces that can slowly tear a place apart.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Tiger-Ladies-Bluestreak-Sudha-Koul/dp/0807059196/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1356107527&sr=8-1

A Review of Thien Pham’s Sumo (First Second, 2012)



Thien Pham’s Sumo is his second graphic novel publication (after Level Up, which he illustrated and was written by Gene Luen Yang). Sumo is a kind of transnational sports narrative. Our protagonist, Scott, travels to Japan in the wake of his failed romantic relationship with Gwen. His professional football career in ruins, he seeks to restart a new life as a sumo wrestler. Thus, the graphic novel also tracks Scott’s challenges as he attempts to excel in this particular athletic tradition, one so firmly rooted in Japan’s national history and culture. Pham’s drawing style is fairly minimalist and there is a sparseness of the panels that evokes the work of Tomine and, on the more extreme level, of Shaun Tan in The Arrival. Pham also employs the use of different colored shading to denote shifts in time and the graphic novel is, in this sense, fairly non-linear. By the conclusion, it is clear that the graphic novel is a kind of identity quest, one rooted in the hope of second chances. One issue that remains quite interesting in relation to this work is Pham’s choice to leave the racial discourse unremarked. From our perspective, Scott cannot be denoted as Japanese, but at the same time, we’re unsure of his status and his specificity as a kind of foreigner figure. As discussions in my own class on the graphic narrativemade clear, racial designations in graphic novels can only ever certifiably be presented alongside textual markers (captioning, direct dialogue, thought bubbles etc). Overall, a promising debut!

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Sumo-Thien-Pham/dp/159643581X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358322449&sr=8-1&keywords=Thien+Pham

A Review of Pauline A. Chen’s The Red Chamber (Knopf, 2012).



I’ve been meaning to read and to review Pauline A. Chen’s The Red Chamber for quite a long time, but this quarter has really pushed me, especially as I created a new prep on the Asian American graphic narrative. Chen’s The Red Chamber is of course based upon the Chinese classic, Dream of the Red Chamber, and takes many of the same characters and plot trajectories in that work as the inspiration for her own fictional narrative. In some cases, Chen has taken liberties with the existing text by excising certain figures, condensing others, and making other such alterations in order to streamline the plot and focus more aggressively on the female figures who populated the original. I have not read the original work, so I can’t speak with any expertise on Chen’s reconstruction of that novel, but this work stands on its own in terms due to its careful rendering of female subjectivity during the 18th century. Chen places the emotional center of the novel in Daiyu, a young women who opens the novel having to deal with the death of her beloved mother, Min. Her father, hoping that Daiyu can re-establish relations with Min’s birth family, sends her to live with her maternal grandmother, the dowager of the powerful Jia family. Daiyu struggles to make a new home there, but eventually comes to the romantic attention of Jia Baoyu. She also makes a tentative friendship with a young woman named Baochai, who eventually becomes a sort of female rival for the affections of Jia Baoyu. Baochai and her mother share their own complications precisely because her brother Pan has married a woman who wants nothing to do with them and they are stuck on their own. There are many other important female characters, especially Xifeng, married to a man named Lian, who must deal with the fact that she cannot bear any children for Lian. Eventually, Xifeng is forced to deal with the addition of a concubine—once her personal and loved servant named Ping’er—to their family, one who bears a daughter for Lian. The novel eventually takes a very dark turn once Daiyu’s father dies and she is forced to make a permanent home with the Jia family, but her rootlessness is a source of ire and her extended family merely tolerates her. Daiyu’s sole hope for a new life is in her relationship with Jia Baoyu, which seems to become impossibe once Baoyu is betrothed to Baochai. Chen’s novel must consistently work to weave these many characters and subplots together and she shows a deft handling of so many different narratives. Because I’ve been reading so many books regarding the Victorian novel and the marriage plot, what I find interesting is that Chen’s novel depicts a period in which the challenges and the perils of courtship also bear importance for the young woman who exists on the fringes of what we might call the Chinese landed gentry. Though Daiyu makes a rather tragic exit from the narrative, we see her largely as an emblem of the fragility of a woman’s place in 18th century Beijing.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Red-Chamber-Pauline-Chen/dp/0307701573/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1354148806&sr=8-1&keywords=The+REd+Chamber


A Review of Mary Ting’s Crossroads (World Castle Publishing, 2012).



Just when I think I’m closing in on the gap of young adult teen fictions composed by American writers of Asian descent, I find yet another entry into this paranormal urban fantasy genre. At the center of Ting’s Crossroads series is Claudia Emerson. The novel opens with a spooky coincidence in that her friend, also named Claudia Emerson, happens to have died. Some think she was the person who has died, but this overlapping name is another way of granting Ting the opportunity to root the “living” Claudia in the “crossroads,” a kind of halfway point between heaven and earth. Claudia keeps accidentally dreaming herself to the crossroads and soon her wayward adventures lead her to a number of angelic beings, some who become guardian-figures (such as Michael) and others who seem far more sinister (like Aden). That Claudia has been able to access the crossroads is itself a sort of mystery and suggests that she has a kind of power that others might want to exploit. In this way, we come to realize her life may be marked for something special and that she may otherwise be also in peril. Ting has to spend much of her time in the process of world building and the strength of the first book of the Crossroads series is that she places so much effort in giving the divine realm its own history of enchantment. Claudia seems rather generic, though, as a character and her adventures in high school sometimes drag the plot down a bit. The other element that is becoming abundantly clear is that the male leads of these young adult romances are always going to somehow be incredibly handsome and/or mysterious and Ting does not disappoint in this regard. Indeed, the angelic beings overall possess a preternatural beauty that makes it seem as if the crossroads might be populated with the high elves of middle earth. At the end of the day, I’m still waiting for a book that really breaks with some of the more traditional modes of romance, courtship, teen angst, and incredibly beautiful characters. While you won’t get that recalcitrant narrative here, Ting’s first book demonstrates a knowledge of a dedicated fan base and this target audience will find much to celebrate in this first installment.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Crossroads-Mary-Ting/dp/1937085759/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1358498533&sr=8-7&keywords=Mary+Ting


A Review of Yvonne Woon’s Dead Beautiful (Hyperion Books for Children, 2010) and Life Eternal (Hyperion Books for Children, 2012).



So, Yvonne Woon’s Dead Beautiful series, of which there are two currently published (and with a potential third coming in 2013) came at the exact right time for me. I got some great news in a period of that has been rather, well, depressing, so I rewarded myself with reading these two rather inventive novels concerning the supernatural, the afterlife, and a spirited protagonist by the name of Renee Winters. It is difficult to write too much of the plotting because each novel is really built around central mysteries and I don’t want to spoil them, precisely because a great part of the success of these books is that you are moving alongside the expectation that you will have one or more big reveals. These reveals place Woon’s work alongside many of the dynamic and idiosyncratic fictions to be emerging from the young adult genres in which the paranormal and the romance plot somehow successfully collide. Dead Beautiful begins with a tragic event: Renee accidentally stumbles upon the dead bodies of her parents. The circumstances of their deaths are suspicious but deemed accidental. Her grandfather is granted guardianship and Renee is shipped off to a morbid academy in Maine called Gottfried. There, she makes quick friends with her roommate Eleanor and begins to discover that there are more mysteries to be uncovered. What happened to one of the students (Benjamin Gallow) who was found dead in circumstances very similar to her own parents? Why is another student (Cassandra Millet) missing? How is one very handsome, very mysterious student (Dante Berlin and our obvious romance lead) connected to all of these enigmatic happenings? Finally, what’s up with the positively moribund Gottfried, a place which would or should deter any parent from sending their children to given its rather problematic history? Woon is game to answer all such questions and her plotting is absolutely perfect. I finished this book in one sitting and had to make myself stop halfway through the second novel in order to get some much needed rest. The second novel leaves right where the first left off, but adds in a huge wrinkle when one of the faculty members from the Gottfried Academy is found dead. And when Gottfried Academy is officially closed (due in part to the events of the first novel), Renee must be sent off to a new boarding school, but what of friends, of romance? Never fear, we are always in Woon’s capable hands and those who have been a fan of the many reviewed here in the genre, including Kat Zhang, Michelle Sagara, Andrew Fukuda, Marie Lu, Rebeca Lim, etc, these novels will definitely draw you in. We eagerly await the possibility of that third installment!



http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Beautiful-Yvonne-Woon/dp/1423119614/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1356192912&sr=8-2&keywords=Yvonne+Woon

http://www.amazon.com/Life-Eternal-Dead-Beautiful-Novel/dp/1423119576/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1356192912&sr=8-1&keywords=Yvonne+Woon


A Review of Andrew Fukuda’s The Hunt (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012)



I just wanted to alert our faithful readers that pylduck first reviewed the hunt over this a way:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/143551.html

If Twilight and Hungers Games had a novel as a love child, it would probably be Andrew Fukuda’s The Hunt, which takes plot and content elements of both books and melds it into a unique passing narrative. Our narrator and protagonist, Gene, is a heper, a slang term for a human, but the twist is that he’s living among a group of beings that are just like vampires. They burn in the sun, they sleep during the night, they have incredible bloodlust, they have ageless features and do not emit body odor, they do not sweat, they do not show fear, they do not laugh. There is one significant difference in that these beings do seem to age, so it’s not clear if they actually are vampires at all. There is no term for these beings and Fukuda likely relies upon the wealth of popular knowledge about such mythological creatures to help ground the laws of this fictional universe. Gene, along with his classmate, Ashley June, are selected in a lottery to participate in The Hunt, an exciting and thrilling event which grants a very select few vampire-like beings the opportunity to hunt what are considered to be the last vestiges of the hepers. These hepers have been raised from infancy and protected inside a special dome until the very day when they are used as prey for The Hunt. For Gene, who is actually a heper, this event is particularly problematic because he must continue to pretend to be a non-heper and at the same time, must consider his relationship to the prey involved in this hunt. Is he any different than the hepers who literally have been farmed to participate in this game of bloodlust and violence? Fukuda is especially talented at moving the plot forward. I finished the book in one sitting and I was reminded that one of the book blurb authors stated that it was “unputdownable.” I agree: the novel is “unputdownable,” but I will hope that this novel, which is the first of the trilogy, will take time to articulate the nature of the vampire-like beings, what they actually are and how it is that they can age. Ultimately, I tend to read such novels as racial and social metaphors: that is, these types of novels are always invested in forms of systemic social inequalities. In this case, the vampire-like beings who have almost total and utter control over the lives and experiences of other group of living beings, seem to reveal to us the ways in which power can so oppressively be wielded.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Hunt-Andrew-Fukuda/dp/1250005140/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341600189&sr=8-1&keywords=Andrew+Fukuda
 
 
20 January 2013 @ 04:03 pm
Paul Yee and Harvey Chan's Ghost Train (Douglas and McIntyre/Groundwood Press, 1996) tells the story of a young girl whose loving father leaves China to build the railroad in Canada in the late nineteenth century.



Choon-yi is born with only one arm, but her father loves her fiercely despite other people's wariness of her missing arm. As she goes older, she discovers her amazing artistic ability with her arm and helps her family eke out a living by drawing people's portraits at the market for a small fee. The family still struggles, though, and the father eventually heads to Canada to build the railroad along with other Chinese men. He sends money back periodically and then one day writes to Choon-yi telling her to go to Canada immediately, bringing with her some painting supplies. I won't reveal the rest of the short story, but I will note that she finds herself using her artistic talents to help deal with the deaths of many Chinese men along the railroad.

The story is beautifully illustrated with Chan's paintings, and the story offers an inroad into exploring the difficult history of Chinese North American men and the building of the transcontinental railroads in the United States and Canada. Since this story is an illustrated children's book, though, it does not provide historical facts so much as a personal or family-level frame for history. Focusing on Choon-yi's story, her disability, and her yearning to be reunited with her father is all part of bringing this larger historical narrative down to a level that young children can grasp.
 
 
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
 
 
A Review of Manu Joseph’s The Illicit Happiness of Other People (W.W. Norton, 2013).

IllicitHappinessofOtherPeoplePbkresized

Manu Joseph’s second novel The Illicit Happiness of Other People (after the darkly comic Serious Men) follows Ousep Chacko’s investigation into his son’s suicide (Unni, a talented teenage cartoonist). Ousep is what we might call a failed artist. Once bestowed with a major award as a young writer, he never lives up to this early promise. His marriage to Mariamma is problematic at best, especially after Ousep discovers that she may not be entirely right in the head. Indeed, she occasionally spends part of her day talking to imaginary people. Ousep and Mariamma have one living son, Thoma, who is the less bright and less favored than Unni. Thoma spends his time trying to carve out a new life for himself in the wake of his brother’s suicide, much of which revolves around developing a romance with his neighbor, a young teenager who was once infatuated with Unni (this character will later become a very important part of the plotting). As with Serious Men, Joseph has some fun composing these very idiosyncratic characters. Ousep, in particular, is inexorable in his quest to interview the many people who knew Unni and who may have the key to unlocking the motive behind his suicide. Though the plot takes some time to get off the ground, we’re always in Joseph’s very capable hands and the novel begins to take a very unpredictable shape by its conclusion, especially because it becomes evident that Unni is a very philosophically engaged character. Unni’s relationship with his mother, for instance, is one that pushes him to explore questions of morality and agency: how does one act in a socially conscientious way and can an individual exert complete control over his or her desires? I expected to read this novel over several days, but found myself staying up to finish the novel in one sitting, precisely because the central mystery plot around Unni’s suicide accrues a kind of mystical energy that cannot be denied. This book would be especially interesting to pair up against something like Fae Myenne Ng’s Bone, since both novels deal with the ramifications of a character’s suicide, but go about exploring this topic in very different ways. Joseph categorically makes clear the epistemological questions that arise when a suicide occurs: what do we know to be true about an individual close to us, especially when that individual takes his or her own life? In such deeply troubling questions, Joseph manages to weave together humor and a philosophical inquiry into a compelling narrative.

Joseph, Manu © Ritesh Uttamchandani

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Illicit-Happiness-Other-People/dp/0393338622/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1356843372&sr=8-2&keywords=Manu+Joseph
 
 
13 January 2013 @ 02:56 pm
According to our librarything catalog, we've just reached 800 books reviewed on this community! Hurrah!
 
 
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
 
 
In her second collection of short stories, From the Lanai and Other Hawaii Stories (New Rivers Press, 1991), Jessica K. Saiki offers wry observations of a small town in Hawaii in the mid-twentieth century. In general, she focuses on the Japanese American residents of the town, but some of the stories center on white characters, revealing their orientalizing perspectives of their neighbors. This collection of stories is a winner of the Minnesota Voices Project (now Many Voices Project), a literary award/book series run by New Rivers Press for emerging writers in the upper Midwest. Sharon Suzuki-Martinez's The Way of All Flux as well as Ed Bok Lee's Real Karaoke People are also part of this series. I believe New Press published Saiki's first collection, too, Once, a Lotus Garden, and I will have to look that one up.

BOOK
(Must vacuum that rug what with sheddy dog insistent that he doesn't need a warm coat in this frigid weather.)


Saiki's stories sketch a close-knit, gossipy community in Lunalilo, with families dealing with generational rifts and shifting engagements with tradition. The stories usually feature characters who are at the edges of polite society, people with pasts or sorrows they cannot escape or futures they can never achieve. Saiki uses a restrained narrative voice that often just hints at the improprieties gossiped about, as in the opening story "Oribu" that in a roundabout way is the story of a Japanese American woman with a red-headed son.

I think the strongest stories are ones in which Saiki delves into the mindset of white characters with their various desires and misunderstandings for living in the islands away from the mainland childhood homes. Saiki depicts haole characters who range from innocent (as with Kenneth Small in "Portraits," a young man who wants to be an artists, takes a job with a photography company, and develops a relationship with a young Japanese American woman) to eccentrically disturbing (as with Malcolm Stillwaite in "Specter," a man who has created an oriental fantasy for himself in his home along with a young girl he hires as a live-in servant whom he has dress and act like a geisha).

Saiki is perhaps most trenchant in her observations of Japanese Americans, though, and the way gossip serves to cast out anyone who does not follow a traditional path of life and marriage as expected by parents and others in the community. The stories are full of people who married against their parents' wishes or strayed from their marriages in romantic liaisons, but these characters find themselves ultimately cast adrift for their deviations from societal expectations.

Saiki also sketches a few other Asian Hawaiian characters in her stories, but they tend to remain fairly flat. There is not too much exploration of interethnic relations except when Chinese and Korean characters serve as forbidden husbands for Japanese daughters.

In a few of the stories, the characters speak in pidgin, but for the most part, the stories don't highlight the uniqueness of the language. The more prominent feature of Saiki's dialogue is in showing the contrast between haole speakers of standard American English versus the stilted English of Japanese Hawaiians, whether because of fluency only in Japanese or in pidgin English.

There are also some drawings by the author dispersed throughout the book before some of the stories.

 
 
Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
 
 
08 January 2013 @ 11:35 pm
I came across Sharon Suzuki-Martinez's debut poetry book The Way of All Flux (New Rivers Press, 2012) on the library shelf last week. I hadn't heard of the poet, but I had noted the press before because it is located in the northern part of my state in Moorhead, Minnesota.



Suzuki-Martinez's poetry ranges between a kind of absurdist lyric and a more typical (first person) lyric voice. This collection is especially interesting for the ordering of the poems in four sections, beginning with the more absurdist, even nonsensical poetry and ending with more confessional poems that draw on the poet's own life.

I was a bit unsure of how to approach the poems at first, beginning with the odd collection of three epigraphs by the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus, the fictional film character Keisuke Miyagi (Mr. Miyagi of the Karate Kid films), and ancient Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu. The sandwiching of a comical Asian American film character (who embodies many stereotypes of Asians in America, especially in his accented speech and his fortune cookie utterances) between more serious philosophers who nevertheless also might be read in an American context as marking exotic Asian difference signals a mischievous playfulness. Thankfully, Suzuki-Martinez carries through this playfulness in the first few poems rather than veering into a serious philosophical mode.

In the first poem "Proverbs," for example, Suzuki-Martinez offers a series of nonsensical proverbs that challenge the expectations of fortune-cookie philosophy:
The one who pets the scorpion
with the hand of compassion and receives punishment
is not unlike the woman who throws her cabbage to the fire
while the beloved moose marked for death will be spared.
Such is the way of the world.
While the first two lines of the poem start it off with an image that seems to lead to a proverb-like lesson about the need to act wisely in addition to compassionately, the next lines do not follow through with such an expectation. The other stanzas of the poem throw layer upon layer of absurd images into the mix in increasing nonsense: "Lo, the quiet duck places its foot on the oblivious worm." The images are humorous, quixotic, and open-ended in meaning, challenging the pat quality proverbs.

While many of the poems in the collection maintain the kind of humor and nonsense quality of "Proverbs," others take on more serious and reflective qualities. A few of the poems are rooted in specific locations where the poet seems to have lived or visited, as revealed in the biographical note at the back of the book. For example, "Written by the Mississippi River" offers a poem that visually snakes down the page and asserts, "Translucence is / the most beautiful / quality a body could have / it's the movement of / light."

The final section includes more poems that reference the poet's experiences and details about her family. In "Mom among the Birds of Paradise," she writes:
On this frozen Minnesota night,
I'm an old empty sky.
BUt your memory warms
me like the full moon
floating long ago over Kaneohe Bay.
And in "The Names Rain Down," she writes:
My brother left Hawaii in 1978 for
Seattle before it became fashionable.
He told me it wasn't safe to see
Washington's interior with an Asian face.
To lose sight of the ocean
suggested certain disaster.
These lines connect racialized experience with concrete regions such as the Hawaiian Pacific, Minnesota and the Upper Midwest, and the Pacific Northwest in Washington state. The poems reflect on little details of the experiences of Japanese Americans in these differing spaces.

While the poems are almost all a page long each and mostly in free verse, the collection ends with a more specific poetic form in "Desert Cicadas Haibun," with a prose passage capped by a haiku. Suzuki-Martinez reflects on the image of the cicada outside her Arizona home and remembers the plastic cicada keychain she gave to her mother, who traveled from Hawaii to Las Vegas with it as a lucky charm. The poem thoughtful connects these disparate locations and contrasting interpretations of the figure of the cicada along with her own feelings about cicadas and their buzzing.

I think there is something really fascinating going on with the ordering of the poems in this collection, moving from the nonsensical to the lyrical (ethnic self), but I'm not sure what else to say about it...
 
 
Current Mood: deviousdevious
 
 
29 December 2012 @ 10:19 am
Naomi's Tree is a children's book with story by Joy Kogawa and illustrations by Ruth Ohi. The story is based on Kogawa's life and her rediscovery of her childhood home decades after her family was removed from Vancouver during the WWII quarantining of Japanese Canadians. That rediscovery has led to the movement to make the Historic Joy Kogawa House a historical site and writer-in-residence program.



The children's story focuses on the cherry tree planted outside this house, beginning first with a fairy-tale like story of cherry trees and their pink blossoms in Japan. These trees, known as Friendship Trees, serve to bring families and communities together with their beauty and their sweet fruit.



A young bride takes a cherry seed with her to Canada and plants it with her husband outside their new home. The tree grows along with the family. Young Naomi and Stephen enjoy the tree with their parents until one day suddenly, they are forced to pack up their belongings and move away from the tree and house. The story offers snapshots of Naomi's life in the ensuing half century in the interior and east coast of Canada. When she finally returns to the house and finds it empty, she discovers that the tree is stil there. The story makes the tree a symbol of endurance and memory.

The book is a beautiful little story, if a bit melancholy. Like other great children's stories, it manages to find a strand of beauty in an otherwise dark narrative. Though children in the target audience may not be able to process the full meaning of Japanese Canadian dispossession during and after WWII, this story plants the seed for future understanding and questioning.
 
 
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
 
 
29 December 2012 @ 09:21 am
David H.T. Wong's Escape to Gold Mountain: A Graphic History of the Chinese in North America (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2012) is one of a growing number of non-fiction books using the comic book format to tell histories. The author and publisher (the amazing Arsenal Pulp Press based in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada) are marketing the book to a juvenile audience under the logic that graphic narratives are a good way to engage younger audiences in topics and materials otherwise less interesting.



Wong fictionalizes the story of his own family in order to make it more representative of the broader contours of Chinese life in North America--both the United States and Canada--from the mid-1800s to the late 1900s. This family story traces the lives of Chinese men who helped build the transcontinental railroads in the United States and later in Canada, examining the prejudices they faced and the ugly story of exclusion laws, lynching, expulsions, and head taxes that structured the Chinese North American community for much of the first century of its existence.

The graphic narrative begins in the present with children at a history museum, confronted with the Iron Chink, an artifact from the early twentieth century fish canneries in Canada and Alaska.



The children laugh at the racist name, but then Grandma Wong explains how the machine was created and marketed to replace Chinese and Native workers. The Iron Chink embodies the history of exploitation and rejection that Chinese workers faced over the century. When their labor was needed for the fishing industry, for building railroads, and for other labor-intensive work, the Chinese were not only begrudgingly allowed to work in North America but were actively solicited from China and brought over as cheap labor. As soon as their work was done or when new technologies made their labor obsolete, though, the Chinese were driven out and treated as invading hordes.

This graphic historical narrative nicely weaves together the struggles that individuals might face in their lives (such as negotiating transnational families during the exclusion era) and the significant political, economic, and social events that both restricted and enabled the choices those individuals could make in their lives. Wong discusses some of the Opium Wars that formed the backdrop of initial Chinese migration to North America, the gold rush, Chinese house boys, the Chinese Exclusion Act, railroad workers, farm work, paper sons, and the Chinese head tax, among other topics. Throughout the narrative, Wong also introduces historical figures such as the first Chinese North American elected officials in various places as well as a young Sun Yat-Sen, whose Western education and values were a significant feature of his leadership in China and Taiwan in the mid-1900s. Wong also identifies white allies in North America along with some significant anti-Chinese agitators who are otherwise remembered as heroes of industry. I also found it really interesting that Wong makes a point of mentioning a few sites of Asian-Native contact and even has one of his Chinese railroad workers rescued by Natives.

This book is a great introduction to the expansive and complicated history of Chinese North America. It covers a wide range of topics and historical moments in a relatively short volume, and I think it really is a great resource for pointing people to other materials. Someone particularly intrigued by Wong's narrative of the Chinese railroad workers could follow up with further readings on the topic, for example, or those interested in the Chinese American (in both the United States and Canada) experiences during WWII could follow the leads that Wong provides of those experiences.
 
 
Current Mood: satisfiedsatisfied
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans Megareview for December 23, 2012

In this post, reviews of Brigitte Wallinger-Schorn’s “So There It is”: An Exploration of Cultural Hybridity in Contemporary Asian American Poetry (Rodopi Press, 2012); Derek Kirk Kim’s Tune: Vanishing Point (First Second, 2012); Rajorshi Chakraborti’s Shadow Play (Minotaur Books, 2010); Rebecca Lim’s Mercy (Hyperion Books for Children, 2011); Mike Jung’s Geeks, Girls, and Secret Identities (Scholastic Press, 2012); Kim Gek Lin Short’s The Bugging Watch and Other Exhibits (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2010); Kim Gek Lin Short’s China Cowboy (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2012); Jenny Boully’s not merely because of the unknown that was talking toward them (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2011).

A Review of Brigitte Wallinger-Schorn’s “So There It is”: An Exploration of Cultural Hybridity in Contemporary Asian American Poetry (Rodopi Press, 2012).



Wallinger-Schorn’s monograph emerges in concert with the new formalisms wave in Asian American cultural critique focusing on poetics. This study is part of a thankfully growing group of books that is giving attention to a long neglected side of Asian American cultural production and makes a nice addition to other works such as Timothy Yu’s Race and the Avant-Garde, Steven G. Yao’s Foreign Accents, Josephine Nock-Hee Park’s Apparitions of Asia, and Xiaojing Zhou’s The Ethics and Poetics of Alterity in Asian American Poetry. Wallinger-Schorn’s is probably the book that is written for the widest audience of the current poetry books as it tackles some of the major modes of cultural hybridity (broadly defined) in Asian American poetics (including narrative hybridity, formal hybridity, and linguistic hybridity). Unfortunately, the monograph will price out most of the critics interested in the work, but I hope this text finds a larger life perhaps in course adoptions or excerpted as part of its secondary materials. Because the book is arranged in broad thematics, Wallinger-Schorn is able to move through an impressive swathe of examples and readings, bringing in readings of more contemporary poets such as Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Victoria Chang alongside poets who emerged in earlier generations such as Cathy Song, Kimiko Hahn, and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. For those looking for in-depth readings of one particular work, your best bet is to look elsewhere.

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/So-There-Exploration-Hybridity-Contemporary/dp/9042034149/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1335798397&sr=8-1

A Review of Derek Kirk Kim’s Tune: Vanishing Point (First Second, 2012).



Let’s begin at the end: Derek Kirk Kim’s Tune: Vanishing Point is the first part of what looks to be a series of graphic novels with the main character, Andy Go—a a Korean American slacker and our dynamic protagonist. There was a point about three quarters of the way through the graphic novel where I realized that there was simply no possibility that all of the plot points were going to be resolved with any finality and that the only way for this book to be achieve its greatness was clearly to have more installments. And then, there was that lovely final page arc where it becomes clear that Tune: Vanishing Point is simply the beginning of a series. Tune is Kim’s first graphic novel since Same Difference which came out quite awhile ago and then was reprinted by First Second within the last couple of years. Andy Go is not entirely unlike Simon from Same Difference in the sense that he does not seem to have to have a clear career trajectory. Andy is attending school for illustration when he decides that that particular education path is not for him and he drops out. His parents, fearing that Andy will become a parasitic Gen-Y slacker, give him seven days to find a job. Thus, the graphic novel explores Andy’s various misadventures as he attempts to hammer down a job. Of course, Kim throws a wrinkle into the narrative equation in the form of the romance plot. In this case, Andy harbors romantic feelings for one of his sassy former classmates and illustrator buddies, Yumi. Andy has little experience in the dating department and so his feelings for Yumi remain unexplored, until one day they bump into each other and she leaves behind her sketchbook. Though Andy valiantly attempts to give Yumi’s sketchbook back to her before she boards a bus, he arrives too late. Andy, realizing it may be an opportunity to get to know Yumi better but at the cost of her privacy, ends up looking through her sketchbook and discovers that Yumi thinks he’s “cute.” Of course, Andy is entirely jazzed by this realization, but reality soon hits that he must still find a job. What kind of job will Andy ultimately find? And how will he be able to get the sketchbook back, given the rather strange location he finds himself in at the graphic novel’s conclusion? A fun read and backed by Kim’s wonderful drawing style, we’ll be chomping at the bit for the sequel to appear.

Buy the Book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Tune-Vanishing-Derek-Kirk-Kim/dp/159643516X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1356307722&sr=8-1&keywords=Derek+Kirk+Kim

A Review of Rajorshi Chakraborti’s Shadow Play (Minotaur Books, 2010).



I’m a huge fan of the Minotaur Books Imprint for the simple fact that it focuses on a genre that I enjoy: the mystery/ detective fiction. I’ve reviewed some here, including works by Qiu Xiaolong, Laura Joh Rowland, and most lately, Cassandra Chan. There’s always a degree of innovation and idiosyncrasy in these works, no doubt the work of sophisticated writers and talented editors, but for the most part: I haven’t been necessarily surprised by what I have read from the imprint thus far. With Rajorshi Chakraborti’s second novel (after Or the Day Seizes You, which I think was only published in India, making it again more challenging to find stateside) I was absolutely challenged and astonished by its rather strange structure, plotting, and even its contribution to the so-called mystery/detective genre. It does not fit the roughly bi-linear structure offered by Tzvetan Todorov in what is still the classic typology of detective fictions in which there is the detective/ investigation plot and then the crime/ murder plot, with the detective plot always trying to catch up to the crime/ murder plot over the course of the narrative. In Shadow Play, you have at least four narrators, one modeled on the writer himself, another who seems to be a serial killer-turned-assassin, the writer’s editor, and then finally, the writer’s wife. By fictionalizing a person modeled on himself, Chakraborti clearly invokes a kind of metafictional paradigm we might say that is more characteristic of postmodern fictions, but there’s something different working here with respect to a rather strange murder-plot involving the Raj character. Indeed, the Raj character engages in a brief romantic dalliance with a journalist who is about to publish a nonfictional account concerning the power held by six mega-influential people all over the globe and who seem to hold the strings over all the major events that have been occurring. When that journalist seems to have been the target of an assassination, the two plots begin to potentially converge, but the central question remains: what is the line between fact and fiction? In one of the most compelling sections of the novel, Raj and the journalist (Sharon) debate the issue of representation and ideology and the political import of any sort of writing: it’s this point that seems to be one of the primary mysteries uncovered but never solved by Chakraborti’s experimental work and the one that drives us inexorably toward the painfully unclosed, but fascinating conclusion. We might call Shadow Play a mystery novel of ideas.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Play-Mystery-Rajorshi-Chakraborti/dp/B005UVYVN6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355931540&sr=8-1&keywords=Rajorshi+Shadow+Play

A Review of Rebecca Lim’s Mercy (Hyperion Books for Children, 2011).



Ah, so the paranormal urban fantasy genre meets young adult fictional romance meets the “fallen angel” figure in Rebecca Lim’s debut, Mercy, part of a larger series, which is being published stateside at slower installments than in Lim’s home country of Australia. The title refers to an angelic figure named Mercy, who has been shunted into a new body once inhabited by a young teenager named Carmen Zappacosta. The novel follows the mystery that arises when Mercy/ Carmen is placed with a host family. The family, The Daleys, have one daughter named Lauren that went missing and Mercy/ Carmen decides to help Lauren’s brother, Ryan, in the hopes that Lauren might be found alive. The other plotline involves the fact that Carmen happened to be a very talented singer, so part of her educational background involves performing in choir. Here, Lim showcases the socially complicated world of the high school in which Mercy/ Carmen is tolerated for her talent, but can hardly be considered popular. There are other issues to contend with once Mercy begins to realize that there are other angelic figures who are moving throughout her world, and she wonders if she can recover a fuller sense of her identity and her past. Lim’s is the first I’ve read that delves into the “fallen angel” genre; there have been clones (Sangu Mandanna’s Lost Girl), twin-souled bodies (Kat Zhang’s What’s Left of Me), vampires (Andrew Fukuda’s The Hunt), high school dramas and dramedys (Jenny Han’s Summer Series, Melissa de la Cruz’s Au Pair Series), necromancers (Michelle Sagara’s Silence), zombies (Linda Watanabe McFerrin’s Dead Love), postapocalyptic landscapes and worlds (Marie Lu’s Legend) among other such topics and narrative tropes, so this novel certainly moved me in a different direction. As with many other young adult fiction writers, race is hardly a topic of concern especially when angels and demons seem to be entering the picture, but target readers will most likely be turning to this work for an entertaining supernatural twist to the young adult fiction. Lim is particularly adept here in the plotting, which moves at a breakneck pace, powered especially by the central mystery. Fans of the mystery and detective genre thus should be intrigued by the novel’s premise.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Mercy-Rebecca-Lim/dp/1423145178/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1355854229&sr=8-4&keywords=Rebecca+Lim

A Review of Mike Jung’s Geeks, Girls, and Secret Identities (Scholastic Press, 2012).



Apparently aimed at those 8 and up (I guess I’m on the older end of the suggested readers for this work), Mike Jung’s debut novel, Geeks, Girls, and Secret Identities follows the rather extraordinary adventures of a young boy, Vincent Wu, who is enamored of a particular superhero, Captain Stupendous, and is the president of one of his many fan clubs. Off the top of the bat, Jung frames this work as a speculative fiction, especially as we see Captain Stupendous having to deal with a new villain known as Doctor Mayhem. Beyond possessing such great admiration for Captain Stupendous, Vincent also happens to have an innocent crush on his classmate Polly Winnicott-Lee. Though there seems to be little hope for a fledgling young romance, Vincent has a couple of bosom buddies, Max and George, who keep him company and otherwise engaged. I will reveal one major spoiler that is actually uncovered early on in the plot: Captain Stupendous has a particularly interesting secret identity. In this novel, we soon discover that Captain Stupendous’s secret identity is none other than Polly Winnicott-Lee, who has taken on that hero persona as it has been handed down unexpectedly to her. The thrill of this revelation is one of the high points of this novel for the simple fact that Jung subverts the masculinist conceptions of the genre and complicates how heroes can be conceived and finally constructed. Further still, there is this rather interesting, but unspoken discourse of gender fluidity that the novel must play with, as Polly must occasionally negotiate what it means to occasionally have the body of a male superhero. Jung’s other skill here is clearly in the action sequences, which makes this novel potentially perfect to be adapted into a movie. Mike Maihack provides useful companion drawings that ultimately suggest a future fun-filled addaptive life for this novel as an animated cartoon.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Geeks-Girls-Secret-Identities-Mike/dp/0545335485/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355881915&sr=8-1&keywords=Mike+Jung

A Review of Kim Gek Lin Short’s The Bugging Watch and Other Exhibits (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2010) and China Cowboy (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2012); Jenny Boully’s not merely because of the unknown that was talking toward them (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2011).



I earlier reviewed the work of Jenny Boully and Brandon Shimoda (who has since come out with two full length poetry collections) from Tarpaulin Sky Press and I wanted to review some of their newer offerings that would be most germane to this reviewing community and blog. There was a point about a third of the way through that I stopped reading Kim Gek Lin Short’s prose poetry collection, China Cowboy, to read the book blurbs. I had many questions? Am I reading what I think I am reading? Is this allegory? Is it meant to be literal? Was something put into my drink? In any case, after having just read Jay Caspian Kang’s The Dead Do Not Improve, I did not think a work could provoke such a strong reaction in me. On the literal level, Short’s novel is a brutal read. A 12 year old Chinese girl living in Hong Kong is repeatedly raped by an American man from Missouri named Ren, who is meant to invoke the Western mythos of the cowboy. So, the first read through, simply on the plotting level, is brutal. After sitting with the work and letting it stew for awhile and thinking about all of the wordplay going on in the text, its humor, other readings begin to emerge. The plot is a bit surrealistic, so we Short seems to be pushing us along a different direction, with constant references to Clint Eastwood and Dante’s Inferno. At this point, I found a couple of reviews quite illuminating:

http://www.bookslut.com/fiction/2012_08_019273.php

http://joehalljoehall.wordpress.com/2012/07/27/book-notes-china-cowboy-by-kim-gek-lin-short/

Sarah Heady makes some great points and literary allusions here, the Nabakov being one that I thought of immediately simply because of the dates that Short includes in the text refer to Hong Kong’s transfer over to China, some sort of suspended adolescence. If national or postcolonial allegory is being invoked, then we have the problem of Mr. Ren (with a full name of O’Rennessey) and what he might symbolize. When I think back to Annie Wang’s The People’s Republic of Desire, the danger is always in attaining a fantasy object is that that object becomes far more than you can handle—in that case, the ugliness that comes out of the excessive desire for the West. Mr. Ren appears as that and of course more, but is Mr. Ren more largely an allegory for U.S. capitalist desire? Hard to say with any sort of finality, but Short still is able to have some obvious fun with these strange characters. At one point, La La, our Chinese anti-heroine, is able to take on her dream of becoming a form of her own “china cowgirl,” as she takes on the stage name of Patsy Clone and sings her own songs. The latter portions of Short’s work take a further unusual turn as the collection becomes “meta.” Mr. Ren commemorates his warped relationship with La La through a series of microphone installations, while the last section seems to be a libretto of sorts, at least an album insert, with the lyrics of Patsy Clone songs. At another point, it seems important to note, La La dies from what seems to be poisoning—what sort is unclear—but another dark drive of Short’s text becomes emerges when it seems that there are other La Las to take her place. If there is anything to say about this text, it is sure to provoke discussion and Short shocks in her daring and experimental work.



I guess I should have expected that I would have a similar reaction to Short’s The Bugging Watch and Other Exhibits. I thought: what have I gotten myself into reviewing this work? What can I possibly say that will make sense of the prose poetry contained within this deceptively slim volume? Now that I have cast aside the desire to make any sense, I will simply write some impressions. Part of the reading experience was simply figuring out what to hold on to as a reader: over time, a sort of fascinating series of dense vignettes arises between our principle characters (if we can call them that): Toland and Harlan. Then, of course, other things come up: mason jars, balls of yarn, dolls, Denver, bugs and more bugs. A representative passage might be found on page 31 in a section called “Audition”:

Harlan has an audition. The director appears, he asks Harlan if he would like a potion to drink. Harlan reads the script and answers, ‘Yes.’ The director signals to an immature larva who spills a cloudy tincture of borax. ‘Jean Toland is our protagonist, have you heard of Toland? Are you familiar with her hamartia’ ‘Yes. I studied at a sister institute—here are my references. My emphasis was in bugs so Toland’s hamartia inevitably surfaced throughout my studies. ‘Did you say ‘bugs’?’ ‘No.’ The director called Harlan a week later. The direct deigned to cast Harlan as Toland’s bane.

What is to be made of such a passage, except that Toland and Harlan have a very unique relationship, one that cannot be read as some simple love affair. The theatricality of their connection is certainly something that is repetitively invoked across Short’s collection, as their various misadventures together accrue over time, perplexing us until we give in to both of them as our delightful readerly bane. What can we do but embrace our bug-eyed Harlan and Toland, our offbeat lead characters, and enjoy the way that Short continually refigures and remakes our relationship to the English language.

Buy the Books here:

http://www.amazon.com/China-Cowboy-Kim-Gek-Short/dp/0982541686/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347986188&sr=8-1&keywords=Kim+gek+lin+short

http://www.amazon.com/The-Bugging-Watch-Other-Exhibits/dp/0982541619/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355791350&sr=8-1&keywords=kim+gek+lin+short



Jenny Boully has never shied away from unique book titles and not merely because of the unknown that was talking toward them (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2011) follows in that tradition. Here, we have Boully’s reconsideration of J.M. Barrie’s well-known novel (and play) Peter and Wendy. Perhaps what is most important about Boully’s take is that she probably would reverse the order of those names and make Wendy our primary consideration. For those that recall the novel, Peter Pan’s Neverland is not populated with many females. Further still, what females appear, so many are so invested in Peter Pan that it gives Boully the perfect opportunity to redirect her creative lenses to ruminate upon gendered politics of the novel and how it can be reimagined in the 21st century. The most interesting aspect perhaps of Boully’s prose poetic work is the structural conceit. There is a main narrative that flows from one page to another, but there are sections on evert page entitled the “house underneath” which refers to the place that the Lost Boys lived (alongside Tinker Bell). The “house underneath” functions as a kind of side conversation, giving us pause concerning some of the main narrative developments. The “house underneath” sections were some of my personal favorites, as they also provide Boully the opportunity to get a little bit more meta and consider what aspect of writerly construction goes into the creation of characters and their various motivations. Perhaps, Wendy might take a different path, these sections seem almost to encourage and of course: what is really so great about Peter Pan, this boy who never grows up, who is so petulant, and at the end of the day, wants you to export your domestic work as a child-mother. Really is he all so wonderful, this Peter Pan? He sort of sounds like a drag and Boully really revels in these sorts of upturned meditations, especially as Wendy is that character through which the theme of love and its many slippery manifestations can be explored. As is consistent with prose poetic works, there are blocked off paragraph-type pieces that are dense and absolutely lovely to read through with Boully’s spirited narrator guiding the way. There are some lovely reviews of this work; one of finest is Jai Arun Ravine’s over at the Lantern View (oh and Ravine also reviews The Bugging Watch and Other Exhibits), which contains some inspired passage analysis:

http://www.lanternreview.com/blog/2011/12/20/review-jenny-boullys-not-merely-because-of-the-unknown-stalking-toward-them/

I agree with Ravine’s point about Barrie’s Neverland already being so twisted. Indeed, Jacqueline Rose takes up this novel as the point of a fierce critique of the childhood fascination with innocence, thus following in that grand tradition of re-reading fairy tales through the lens of psychoanalysis. Boully’s work is far more self-conscious about these psychic pitfalls and so we’re lead into another narrative landscape in which we’re always re-thinking our choices and where we will go and where at the end of the day and at the end of our lives we will want to sleep.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/merely-because-that-stalking-toward/dp/0982541678/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1348070109&sr=8-4&keywords=jenny+boully
 
 
08 December 2012 @ 02:37 pm


Sujata Massey’s book The Bride’s Kimono is part of a series featuring the character Rei Shimura as the heroine. The book is categorized as a mystery/suspense story and has a little romance thrown in. As a mystery/ suspense story the book does a fair job; however, the events are very predictable. Although there were times when Massey produces a sense of curiosity, these moments were few and far between and were not enough to keep me hooked on the plot.

The protagonist Rei Shimura also fits the motif of Asian American women who are discontent with conforming to the pressures of their heritage. There a many instances in the story where Rei is treated unfairly because of her gender and ethnicity. For instance the Japanese curators at the museum are reluctant to entrust her antique robes to deliver to an exhibit because she is an unmarried woman. Also after one of the kimonos she was entrusted to deliver was stolen, both Japanese and American officials suspect her of stealing it.

Rei’s character is a strong, independent woman. She is the polar opposite of what you might expect as a tame young lady. I like Rei as a character; however The Bride’s Kimono – being my introduction to the series – doesn’t particularly make me want to continue reading them.

 
 
22 November 2012 @ 10:09 pm
You're stuffed to the gills with turkey and tofu-rkey, now it's time to read some Asian American literature!

In this post, reviews of: Cassandra Chan’s Trick of the Mind (St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2008) and Cassandra Chan’s A Spider on the Stair (St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2010); Imran Ahmad’s The Perfect Gentleman (Center Street Press, 2012); Sarwat Chadda’s The Savage Fortress (Arthur A. Levine Books, 2012); Mine Okubo’s Citizen 13660 (Reprint edition, 1983); Aamer Hussein’s Another Gulmohar Tree (Telegram Books, 2009); Sarah Jamila Stevenson’s The Latte Rebellion (Flux Press, 2011); Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian’s Burn for Burn (Simon and Schuster for Young Readers, 2012).

A Review of Cassandra Chan’s Trick of the Mind (St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2008) and Cassandra Chan’s A Spider on the Stair (St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2010).



For those looking for a little bit of British culture and simultaneously interested in mystery plots, you must turn to Cassandra Chan’s Phillip Bethancourt and Jack Gibbons series. I am reviewing Chan’s third installment, Trick of the Mind, though I eventually intend to get to at least one more of these entertaining novels. In Trick of the Mind, Phillip Bethancourt is called in to help with his friend’s case. You see DS (detective sergeant) Jack Gibbons has been shot and boasts short term memory loss and cannot remember any of the events of the day leading up to his shooting. He is in the hospital with a serious injury and there is fear of an infection that might lead to peritonitis. Jack was investigating a case involving a jewelry heist of a rich dowager by the name of Miranda Howard. Much of the novel remains invested in the mystery of the events of that day and Chan puts many characters in Jack’s own investigatory office to help out, including another detective sergeant named O’Leary as well as Jack’s superior named Carmichael, a more crotchety and no-nonsense character. Why was Jack seen in the area known as Waltham? Who was Jack seen to be following that day in a separate taxi? And of course, who ultimately shot him? Who was Jack calling that day? The suspect list begins to grow slowly and deliberately and Chan shows a great patience in letting this novel unfold. For instance, Jack’s cellular phone reveals that he put in a call to his relative, a woman named Dawn Melton. Dawn, as we had discovered, was already previously questioned, and lied about ever having received any contact with Jack that day he was shot. When the police force are able to recover the contents of Jack’s notebook, though it had been splattered in blood and at first unreadable, Jack must attempt to re-translate certain shorthand symbols concerning his preliminary work in the jewelry heist investigation. Chan throws another mysterious wrinkle into the equation because it seems as though the jewelry heist may in fact be related to a murder that occurred with someone in that Waltham area, a pawn shop owner who once dabbled in jewelry theft. The connection is unclear so Jack must attempt to help pull all the strands together while his buddy is in the hospital, recovering from his various wounds. One of the novel’s great strengths is in Chan’s consideration of British cultural elements; though I am not expert there, certainly, there is an attempt to configure such aspects through spirited dialogue. Further still, Phillip is an entirely singular character, with great love for his dog Cerberus; he comes off both as professional and comic at the same time.



In A Spider on the Stairs, our plucky detective Jack Gibbons is now up and about and looks to investigate the murder of one Judy Faraday, found strangled in a bookshop in the area of York during the Christmas holiday season. This murder is of some concern because the investigators are unsure whether or not it may be linked with the Ashdon serial killer. Once it seems as though the serial killings are not attached to Faraday’s murder, Gibbons and Phillip Bethancourt head off to interview everyone connected with the bookshop. Much revolves around Faraday’s rather idiosyncratic life: she had very few close friends and was known to be a little bit of an eccentric. Why was she in York and given the fact that she had not worked at the bookshop for many years, why was she even found there? As the investigation turns up few leads, Gibbons and Bethancourt’s investigation is given another huge wrinkle when a prominent customer of the bookshop (named Sanderson) is murdered. In this case, the crime scene bears some clear resemblance to the Ashdon serial killings. More problematic is that Faraday, Sanderson, as well as a previous homicide victim (named Veronica Matthews) all seem to have a connection to the bookshop. If Faraday was not the victim of the serial killer, yet all three have had some sort of relationship to the bookshop, who is perpetrating such horrific crimes? Though the murder and mystery plots are quite dark, Chan always balances the investigation with Bethancourt’s cassanova-esque ways. In this novel, his seesawing relationship with Marla comes to a head and he must consider whether or not all the drama is really worth it. When the novel finally reaches its conclusion, Chan stages a brilliant interrogation sequence that sees our mystery and the murders finally and completely solved. At this time, Chan does not have a fifth installment in the works (at least according to amazon) but we hope to see Bethancourt and Gibbons back in action soon!

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Trick-Phillip-Bethancourt-Gibbons-Mysteries/dp/B002XULWVG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350488900&sr=8-1&keywords=Cassandra+Chan

http://www.amazon.com/A-Spider-Stairs-Cassandra-Chan/dp/0312369409/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1350972132&sr=8-4&keywords=Cassandra+Chan

A Review of Imran Ahmad’s The Perfect Gentleman (Center Street Press, 2012).



Imran Ahmad’s The Perfect Gentleman: A Muslim Boy Meets the West is a comic coming-of-age memoir that explores the author’s upbringing in the UK. Ahmad takes a rather strict structuralist approach to the construction of the memoir in that it faithfully details every year of his existence until about the age of 25, when he gets married. Then, the last chapters skip a number of years, leaving behind rather large gaps that illustrates the complications of the creative nonfictional genre. On the one hand, Ahmad is quite keen on the problems of growing up as the “Muslim Boy” in the “West,” particularly as he must deal with many of his more Christian-oriented classmates, who even occasionally seek to convert him from his apparently heathen ways. Further still, Ahmad is quite adept at detailing his long suffering, unrequited love affair with his peer, a woman named Janice. The torch that he carries for Janice is one of the ways that the memoir keeps an emotional center. Even when Ahmad finds himself attracted to other women, somehow he keeps fixating on his eventual romantic union with Janice. Though this plotline never carries out, his devotion to her is the subject of many spirited sequences throughout the memoir. On the other hand, Ahmad also makes sure to explore some of the larger contextual and historical dynamics that are occurring as he grows up. Often times, his personal arc is weaved together with the complicated dynamics taking place in the United Kingdom, in South Asia and in the Middle East. As detailed as Ahmad is in tracking his life through his first 25 or so years, it is perhaps the un-narrated section that strikes me as the most interesting. Indeed, he seems to realize that his arranged marriage is not the right path for him, so we wonder about the 12 or so years that are omitted, the ones that saw him through a divorce and leaving the land of his birth to work elsewhere. These aporias are what point us to the limits of the creative nonfictional genre, but fortunately, we’ll be carried through such breaks by Ahmad’s many misadventures as he attempts to find his way as a Muslim in the West.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Gentleman-Muslim-Meets-West/dp/1455508497/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352229764&sr=8-1&keywords=the+perfect+gentleman

A Review of Sarwat Chadda’s The Savage Fortress (Arthur A. Levine Books, 2012)



Sarwat Chadda’s The Savage Fortress is one of the first that I’ve read in the young adult fiction genre with the paranormal elements that actually includes an Asian American protagonist. In the others I’ve read and the many that have been reviewed here, race more broadly becomes this unspoken element in these works. For instance, Paul Lai recently reviewed Kat Zhang’s What’s Left of Me, the first in her hybrid chronicles series, and it was interesting to see the trailer and how they cast the protagonist. Though the main characters are never racially marked, the trailer necessarily and more directly offers an entry into the choices behind casting and how we must visualize the characters. In Chadda’s The Savage Fortress, our hero is Ash (short for Ashoka) Mistry and to a lesser extent his younger sister, Lucky, who have traveled to India and are visiting their Aunt and Uncle. They all visit some important sites with historical and anthropological significance, including the titular Savage Fortress, connected to a mysterious and wealthy man named Alexander Savage. But all is not well as the Savage Fortress and soon Ash and Lucky are embroiled in a dangerous adventure, which soon claims the lives of their Aunt and Uncle. Their primary antagonists seem to be rakhasas who are shapeshifting entities with incredible and deadly powers. With the help of another mysterious figure, Rishi, Ash and Lucky begin to fully explore the magical world in which they are now enmeshed. No young adult fiction would be complete with the possibility of potential romance and even our young teen protagonist finds himself wondering about the possibilities of courtship in relation to a beautiful rakhasa named Parvati. Chadda has done some exceedingly interesting work by exploring the Hindu religious mythology and re-routing it here in this work. Many of the characters that appear in this work are reincarnations of past figures and it becomes evident that this novel is as much about breaking cycles of violence and trauma as it is about exploring heroism and courtship. More exciting still is that this novel seems to be part of a new series with Ash Mistry at the center. I will be interested to see how Chadda will develop the hero figure at the center of this series, especially as a contrast to his previous series, which focused on a female lead.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Savage-Fortress-Sarwat-Chadda/dp/0545385164/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352145735&sr=8-1&keywords=savage+fortress

A Pedagogy Report – Mine Okubo’s Citizen 13660 (Reprint edition, 1983).


(this is the original 1946 cover in a high resolution scan!)

The first book I have assigned for my ENGL88N: Graphic Narrative Asian American Style course is Citizen 13660, a virtual staple of the field, though it has long stood alone in its recognition in terms of its form. I begin with Citizen 13660 because it offers one of the foundational ur-narratives of Asian American literature—that of the Japanese American internment. Mine Okubo’s Citizen 13660 was first published in 1946, not very long after her internment period and stands as an intriguing work simply because it comes out during a period when anti-Japanese sentiment was still high. Okubo like others publishing around this time (like Jade Snow Wong and Monica Sone) could not simply express direct outrage over perceived injustices. Indeed, while reading Citizen 13660, the most negative experiences are rendered without noting the violation of civil liberties that had occurred. These are the social contexts in which graphic narrative much be embedded and Citizen 13660 shows us that the cultural productions must be historicized with respect not only to the time in which they were published, but how the cultural production itself changes meaning across time (especially given the eventual birth of Asian American Studies). Citizen 13660 is also interesting as a graphic narrative because it doesn’t obey what might one might consider a more traditional tenet: that there is a sequential storyline, something that Scott McCloud might call a “sequential” art. Some might call Citizen 13660 an illustrated novel. But Okubo’s approach is still important to consider with respect to the lack of relative sequencing from one frame to the next, giving us a sense of the directionless and purposelessness of the internment experience. The other element I plan to bring up in class is the way in which Okubo appears on almost every panel; what purpose does this serve? Why must she be in every panel? From whose perspective do the “panels” arise?

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Citizen-13660-Mine-Okubo/dp/0295959894/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347504496&sr=8-1&keywords=Citizen+13660

A Review of Aamer Hussein’s Another Gulmohar Tree (Telegram Books, 2009).



Aamer Hussein is a Pakistani-British writer who I have wanted to read for a very long; he’s published numerous fictional works, including This Other Salt and Turquoise. Another Gulmohar Tree is a deceptively short novel that begins with a strange allegorical sequence about the land of crocodiles; this piece does not become important until we read the second half of the novel, which is a more traditional narrative, following the lives of an interracial couple: Usman, a Pakistani writer, and Lydia, a British-Scottish artist and writer. Lydia eventually moves to Pakistan and settles in a comfortable life with Usman, taking on a new name Rokeya, and raising their children there. Like Doshi’s Pleasure Seekers, this novel sees the “wife figure” move to the husband’s “homeland” country and attempt to assimilate to this new culture and landscape. In this case, Rokeya has little problems adjusting. Indeed, she eventually flourishes there, even though her artistic and creative aspirations remain secondary to the career of her husband. For his part, Usman finds his own connection to writing quite tenuous. On the one hand, there is the question of which language to write in, as he is fluent in multiple languages. Further still, his connection to the larger literary establishment is vexed and he shifts in his own approach to the construction of narrative in the latter half of his career, where allegory and symbolism become far more important. Thus, we begin to see that the first half of the novel actually speaks to these questions of assimilation, national identity, and heritage that much of the second novel concretely maps out. While there are occasionally some marital tensions that surface, what the novel seems to ultimately reveal is Usman’s understanding of the faith and the unshakeable love that Rokeya retains for him, something that becomes evident in the way he can read her actions, her half-unfinished artistic pieces, her half-unfinished writerly projects. She could simply be content in the exploration of these interests without having to finish them, because for her, the meaning of life and fulfillment could be found in the family and country she had come to call her own.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Another-Gulmohar-Tree-Aamer-Hussein/dp/1846590566/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1350083923&sr=8-2&keywords=Aamer+Hussein

A Review of Sarah Jamila Stevenson’s The Latte Rebellion (Flux Press, 2011)



So, school is officially in full swing. I’m not getting nearly as much reading done as I’d like to, but I managed to squeeze in time this week to read Sarah Jamila Stevenson’s The Latte Rebellion, a rather spirited work about the complications of mixed-race identity in what has been called the “mulatto millennium.” The novel is told from the perspective of part-Indian/Irish/Mexican American Asha Jameson, who with her fellow mixed-race buddies start an unofficial and non-sanctioned high school club known as the Latte Rebellion. Their initial intent is simply to sell t-shirts to get the funds to travel to Mexico, but the club soon turns into something far more political, a platform of sorts to explore issues of mixed-race identity in our increasingly multiracial United States. In some ways, I can’t help but think that the novel could have found few other places to be set than Northern California, where issues of racial and ethnic consciousness might arise simply based upon the highly heterogenous makeup of some urban and suburban areas. One of the most interesting aspects of the novel is that one of the primary antagonists is an Asian American student who calls Asha a “towelhead” early on in the novel. This incident, in part, spurs Asha to identify herself as a multiracial subject rather than strictly Asian American. Indeed, the novels calls out the complications of identity politics in an age where multiracial ancestries are increasingly commonplace. There is of course a romance plot to spur part of the novel forward, but its heft remains strongly in its consideration and reconsideration of race and ethnic communities in the contemporary moment and how politicism might develop in unexpected places. The novel also includes a particularly interesting plot development concerning Asha’s potential expulsion from high school due to the latte rebellion’s influence in fomenting high school “revolution.” I thus have to commend Stevenson for taking up such a politically relevant topic in a realist context.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Latte-Rebellion-Sarah-Jamila-Stevenson/dp/0738722782/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349114980&sr=8-1&keywords=Sarah+Jamila+stevenson

A Review of Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian’s Burn for Burn (Simon and Schuster for Young Readers, 2012).



So, I’m always curious as to the status of co-authored books. How are they written and what level of collaboration exists during the writing process? In any case, while I’m unable to answer such questions for now, I am going to be reviewing Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian’s Burn for Burn, which is, I believe, the first part of a trilogy, which places this book alongside the many other young adult fictions which are being published in three parts. Burn for Burn is told from in alternating first person perspective among three different characters: Mary, Kat, and Lillia. Each has experienced what they consider to be a form of a betrayal by another character within the fictional world. Mary suffered especially aggressive and traumatic taunts by another classmate named Reeve, whose companionship she had at one point valued quite highly. Kat used to be besties with a classmate named Rennie, but Rennie ends up dropping Kat and moving on to become friends with those who will become the most popular set at the local high school. Rennie herself will become Queen Bee. And finally, Lillia believes that one of her closest friends, Alex, hooked up with her younger sister, Nadia. Of the three characters, Han and Vivian only explicitly racializes Lillia, who is of Asian descent, though the ethnic background (at least from my estimation) is never clarified (though we suspect she may be Korean). These three narrators operate in very different sectors of high school life. Lillia is part of the popular set, whereas Kat, seems to be more illustrative of the high school counterculture. Mary is the new girl and has not settled into a particular crowd. The three come together in what can only be described as a tenuous community, once they decide that they will work together to get their revenge! At this point, the novel picks up quite a bit of steam. We’re invested in seeing how they will manage to work together to pick off each antagonist, but perhaps one of the most tragic elements of this novel is how much each character seems to be filled with insecurity, hatred, and animosity. Moments of true camaraderie are fleeting and so we’re not surprised by the rather unclosed conclusion. There’s also a strange point at which you you’re wondering if the novel has shifted into a super-realist register and we’re in a Stephen King novel, but perhaps that’s revealing too much. As with Han’s other books, the high school characters seem rather ignorant of or simply do not think beyond their most immediate circumstances. Rarely are classroom lessons or current events a part of their daily vocabulary leading one the narrative to seem historically ungirded, almost timeless in its representation.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Burn-Jenny-Han/dp/1442440759/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1351535700&sr=8-1&keywords=Burn+for+Burn
 
 
15 November 2012 @ 12:56 pm






Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna is a tragic love story that follows the lives of 3 young children in Coorg, India. What first seems to be just another love triangle story turns out to be so much more than that as Mandanna spins a tale that cuts so deep and spans nearly 70 years.

The story's main characters are Devanna, Devi, and Machu. Devanna is an extremely smart boy while Devi is an outspoken brave girl. These two grew up together in the same village. Machu is Devanna's cousin and the esteemed tiger killer. It is the tangled relationship of these three and a series of unfortunate events that sets the somber mood of the entire story. It is through these characters that Mandanna explores the themes of love, regret, redemption, and forgiveness.

It takes a skilled author to make her audience feel and connect with her characters and setting so deeply and this is what Mandanna accomplishes. From the beginning of the story you become fully immersed in the lush landscape of Coorg and its flora and fauna. You feel like a child again reading about the children's adventures. You also feel the depression, the regret, the longing for what could have been. The story is gripping, and once I got to a certain point I could not put it down.

In all honesty I had no idea how Mandanna was going to reconcile the estranged relationships however in the end she wraps the story up well, conveying the message that forgiveness is the only way to unshackle yourself from the pain of the past. 

 
 
Asian American Literature Fans - Megapost for November 5, 2012

In this post, reviews of: A Review of Kazu Kibuishi’s Amulet series, including The Stonekeeper (Graphix, 2008), The Stonekeeper’s Curse (Graphix, 2009), The Cloud Searchers (Graphix, 2010), The Last Council (Graphix, 2011), and Prince of the Elves (Graphix, 2012) and Copper (Graphix, 2010, Reprint Edition); Paul Yee’s Shu-li and Tamara (Tradewind Books, 2008) and Paul Yee’s Shu-li and Diego (Tradewind Books, 2008).



A Review of Kazu Kibuishi’s Amulet series, including The Stonekeeper (Graphix, 2008), The Stonekeeper’s Curse (Graphix, 2009), The Cloud Searchers (Graphix, 2010), The Last Council (Graphix, 2011), and Prince of the Elves (Graphix, 2012) and Copper (Graphix, 2010, Reprint Edition).

I’m reviewing the first five books in the Amulet series as well as Kibuishi’s stand-alone book, Copper! The Stonekeeper begins the series, which focuses on the struggles of one family as they come to terms with a tragic accident and the loss of the father figure. Emily and her little brother Navin are moving to a new town presumably for the fresh start that their mother envisions will be important for all of them. They live in a house that was once owned by Emily’s great grandfather who is now presumed to be dead. Things soon escalate into the realm of the fantastic when Emily’s mother is somehow taken by a mystical being in the basement. Upon following their mother, Emily and Navin find that the basement extends into a whole other world. In this new landscape, Emily discovers that the amulet that she is wearing contains magical powers and she must learn to harness them in order to rescue their mother. She and her brother eventually come upon the “secret” home of their great-grandfather, who is on his deathbed. When Emily decides to take on the powers of the amulet, she ostensibly takes on his legacy and all that comes with it, including a band of robots (with appropriately fun names such as Miskit and Cogsley) that end up being worthy sidekicks. The first book in the Stonekeeper concludes with a cliffhanger, as Emily’s mother is rescued from the clutches of evil creatures, but she remains poisoned. Emily and Navin must continue adventuring in search of a cure.

The second book, The Stonekeeper’s Curse, develops the lineage of Emily’s new powers, specifically as they arise from the amulet she is now wearing. She is tasked with finding a special fruit that will help cure the poison that is coursing through her mother’s body. Emily and her brother Navin are soon unfortunately separated. Emily goes on her journey to find a cure for the poison with the help of a new “foxy” sidekick, Leon Redbeard, while Navin realizes that he must come to her aide, if she is to avoid being sidelined by the Elf King’s henchmen. If you want to find out what happens to Emily and Navin’s mother, you will have to read The Stonekeeper’s Curse yourself! This particular book further develops the alternative kinship system being formed, as Emily and Navin come to befriend the inventive creations their great-grandfather made, which include humanoid-esque robots.

In the third book, The Cloud Searchers, Leon Redbeard realizes that they are going to need more support if they are going to be able to defeat the Elf King. Though Emily and Navin believe their adventures might be over, Leon makes clear that there is a larger issue at hand: the very fate of this magical kingdom they’ve stumbled upon. Leon realizes that they must locate a mythical city located somewhere in the sky and so they embark on another journey, with the hope that they will find the city known as Cielis. The surprise of the third book is that a foe from an earlier storyline seems to have become a tentative ally.

In the fourth book, The Last Council, Emily, Navin, and their many allies have entered Cielis, but there seems to be something amiss in the city and this particular book explores what happens when Emily begins to trust one of the individuals connected to the titular council with whom Emily seeks an audience. This book further develops the complicated and multi-tiered nature of Emily’s quest, which includes more than one enemy.

In the most current book of the series, Prince of the Elves, Emily, Navin and all the rest must face the various enemies that have arisen in the course of their quest to save this magical world. This particular book most fully develops the curse connected with those who become stonekeepers. As has been evident, Emily is entirely unsure of the voice and the entity who sometimes speaks to her through the amulet. In this chapter to her adventure, it becomes increasingly clear that she must be very cautious of the power of the amulet, which very much has a destructive dark side, one that has claimed those who are now her biggest adversaries. Unfortunately, book five is the latest in the series, and I have no clue when Kibuishi plans to wrap this series up!

As with all of the books in this series, the illustrations are absolutely lush and breathtaking. You can tell that Kibuishi was likely a big fan of fantasy fiction and film because there are certain panels that recall something straight out of David Eddings or Tolkien. One detail that I absolutely loved about the books is that the panels themselves are circumscribed in rough borders that look “sketchy,” giving the pristine use of colors a rougher quality. Finally, though Kibuishi is listed as the main “author” to the text, there is a section at the end of each book which details the the larger “staff” that is required to pull off these graphic novels. In some sense, it might be more accurate to call these books a collaboration.

Kazu Kibuishi’s Copper was apparently originally a webcomic, so the version I read is actually a compilation of those comics. Consequently, there’s a little bit narrative cohesion among the different comic strips and you sort of read them as an impressionistic whole. In this case, the titular main character and his beloved dog Fred go out on various adventures. There is a clear surrealistic and fantasy impulse to this work. The first two strips see Copper engaging in various activities only to discover that it was all a dream. These two comic strips thus remind us that perhaps these adventures all stem from the imagination of a young boy. Nevertheless, we revel in his outings, his desire to find the perfect melon bread, to gain new friends, and to avoid almost certain disaster. Copper’s dog Fred is an equally important character, perhaps a little bit “Eeyore” in quality, but an excellent foil. There are a couple of longer comic strip sections as well and these often reveal the development of Kibuishi’s attention to narrative and herald his interest in the graphic novel form, which comes to fruition in the Amulet series (to be reviewed at a later time). I believe, though, that the most monumental piece of this work is actually the concluding section in which Kibuishi offers a step-by-step process of how to make one’s own graphic novel. As part of the course I am teaching next year, I am having students produce and digitize their own comic strips. Admittedly, I’m not expecting these comics to go through the entire and rigorous process that Kibuishi sets up, but I have decided that during a time away from research and writing I will attempt to use Kibuishi’s approach as well as the work of Ivan Brunetti in the construction of a comic in order to see what might be useful for students. I rarely tell people but I was once commissioned to do a mini-comic for a job that I worked at as an undergraduate and I’ve always had a fondness of sketching though my talents were obviously limited. It’s something I picked up from collecting Marvel comics as a kid and I am relishing the opportunity to see how difficult it may be to actually make a short comic strip of my own. Kibuishi’s step-by-step process makes the construction of a comic seem rather doable, with perhaps the exception of the use of adobe photoshop only because I have such limited technological capability.

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Copper-Kazu-Kibuishi/dp/0545098939/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1337960876&sr=8-8

http://www.amazon.com/The-Stonekeeper-Amulet-Book-1/dp/0439846811/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1338843639&sr=8-5

http://www.amazon.com/The-Stonekeepers-Curse-Amulet-Book/dp/0439846838/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1351061938&sr=8-7&keywords=kazu+kibuishi

http://www.amazon.com/The-Amulet-Cloud-Searchers/dp/0545208858/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1351061938&sr=8-8&keywords=kazu+kibuishi

http://www.amazon.com/Amulet-4-The-Last-Council/dp/0545208874/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1351313399&sr=8-2&keywords=Amulet+Kibuishi

http://www.amazon.com/Amulet-Prince-Elves-Kazu-Kibuishi/dp/0545208890/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1351313399&sr=8-1&keywords=Amulet+Kibuishi

A Review of Paul Yee’s Shu-li and Tamara (Tradewind Books, 2008) and Paul Yee’s Shu-li and Diego (Tradewind Books, 2008); both illustrated by Shaoli Wang.



Paul Yee’s Shu-li and Tamara and his follow-up Shu-li and Diego are two children’s books which explore the daily adventures and misadventures of our spirited young protagonist known as Shu-li. Her parents are Chinese immigrants living in Canada and they operate a restaurant. In the first book, Shu-li is looking to make a new friend and believes she has found it in a classmate named Tamara, but there are rumors that Tamara may be a petty thief and that Tamara comes from a very low income background. Those rumors soon filter up to Shu-li’s parents and they seem rather discouraging when it is discovered that Shu-li has decided that Tamara is her friend. Shu-li and Tamara still team up on a school project to raise money for an African tribal village, which is looking to get help with the purchasing of some livestock. At first their bake sale goes badly, but with the help of some classmates, they turn their fortunes around. Of course, Yee throws one last wrinkle into the equation when it is discovered that some of the money they have raised is missing. A classmate casts suspicions on Tamara, but it is discovered that the money has simply been misplaced. This story seems to be suggestive of the fact that one cannot listen to gossip and rumors in the judgment of others. In this respect, the “Shu-li” series certainly operates with a specific moral message.



In the semi-sequel to the first book, Yee shifts the focus on the friendship that eventually develops between Shu-li and Diego after they are tasked with taking care of a dog named Baxter. Baxter’s owner is a customer who occasionally purchases food from the Chinese restaurant and Shu-li, having always fantasized about owning a dog, is particularly excited about the prospect of this opportunity. Of course, Shu-li’s parents realize how much work and care it takes to properly handle a dog. And as we can expect, there are many crises that develop, the most climactic of which is the fact that Baxter goes missing and Shu-li and Diego must mount a desperate campaign to find him before his owner recovers from a hospital procedure. As with the previous book, this one explores not only a friendship in development, but also the issue of raising and caring for another living being. Thus, Shu-li and Diego reveals how even children at young ages must come to develop a sense of empathy that will extend to their contact with animals.

The illustrations give these stories a dynamic edge that would obviously find popularity with its target audience. Of course, the rather wholesome rhetorical nature of these books will have parents also approving of these narratives and characters. As I’ve been teaching a graphic novel course, it’s been interesting to think about the differences between children’s picture books and graphic novels. The main contrast seems to exist on the level of panel usage, which in most children’s picture books, there is no actual panel to panel transition. If there is a “gutter,” it appears in the shift from one page to another.

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Shu-Li-Tamara-Paul-Yee/dp/1896580939/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350922282&sr=8-1&keywords=shu-li+and+tamara

http://www.amazon.com/Shu-Li-Diego-Paul-Yee/dp/189658053X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1350922304&sr=1-1&keywords=shu-li+and+diego
 
 
I came across Kat Zhang's young adult novel What's Left of Me: The Hybrid Chronicles (HarperCollins, 2012) in the ebook catalog of my local public library as I was downloading books last week for my trans-Pacific journey. The book is the first in a trilogy about an alternate world where people are born with two souls in each body but one soul eventually takes over and the other disappears, a process called settling.



The best part of this novel is its premise, which creates the potential for many intriguing critiques of contemporary society, and I am really quite impressed that the author is so young (still a college student... and she certainly must have been working on this novel while still in high school if not earlier). I think I might be particularly taken with the idea of two souls in one body because I am a twin, and any stories that deal with doubling or halving of one's identity and self always call out to me. The novel would be excellent for science fiction classes to explore politically-engaged novums and narratives.

Like other young adult novels, What's Left of Me features a teenage protagonist--15-year-old Eva who shares a body with Addie. Addie is the dominant soul in their body, but Eva has managed to hang on well after she should have disappeared in the settling. To others, Addie pretends that she is alone in her body, but within she maintains a strong relationship with Eva. Zhang's choice to narrate the story from the perspective of Eva allows for a lot of interesting exploration of how Eva feels to be the silent partner in the body and how she slowly learns to reassert herself in the body.

The plot centers on Eva/Addie's discovery of other hybrids and how this knowledge turns their world upside down. Along with finding others like them, they learn that the world is not what they have been told all their lives.

At a linguistic level, the narrative is interesting for this play between I and we, between the singular first-person point of view and the plural first-person. Eva's voice negotiates the strange blend of her individual consciousness and her shared body. Eva and Addie can talk to each other in their minds, a form of communication only they are privy to but that is not quite verbal communication. It is a type of telepathy although the two girls also can keep their thoughts to themselves and do not share thoughts like one being.

In addition to the important narrative arc of Eva's return to actively using her shared body is the larger story about Eva and Addie's institutionalization at a facility meant to treat hybrids. The world in which they live is dedicated to ridding bodies of this hybridity; it is seen as a dangerous defect (leading to mental illness and violent behavior). The peoples of the Americas, where Eva and Addie live, have been told by the government and media that the world beyond the continents is dangerous territory where hybrids run amok. In this layer of detail, Zhang brings in the possibility of exploring political critiques of xenophobia, immigration, and other issues about global mobility of differently-raced peoples. In the novel, the people of the Americas are mostly white, with anyone exhibiting darker skin, hair, and other physical features seen as suspect (both as outsiders to the Americas and as hybrids).

Overall, this novel was very interesting, and I certainly look forward to the other books in the series. The writing was a bit cliché in places, though, and some passages worked too hard at being lyrical. Eva's voice never fully cohered for me because of these issues, but there is certainly potential for a stronger voice to emerge in the following books.

Here's the publisher's trailer for the novel:

 
 
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
 
 
22 October 2012 @ 05:00 pm


  Charles Yu's Third Class Superhero is a collection of interesting short stories written in a abstract, pondering style. This stories in this book deal with questions of existence, regret, and ideas about life that we hardly ever think about. 
One of the most intriguing stories in the book is Realism. I personally found the idea presented in this story quite fascinating. The character who also narrates the story perceives reality as a fixed, linear thing.  We travel forward in time on this fixed line. If this is true then the line we travel on can not be changed and every point on this line has been created already therefore everything we are and will be has already been determined and depending on where you look on this line has already happened. Like ghosts we can both exist and not exist depending on where you look on this line of reality. The character says, "My mother is going to die, my mother is dying, my mother is already dead." In his view of reality all three of these statements can always be true at any point on the line. The linear representation of reality is independent of anything else and cannot be changed. The character cares for his mother as she is suffering from a terminal illness. She wants to grasp the concept of realism, to feel all feelings, she wants her son to tell her a story that will make her feel the concept of realism. The son knows that he can't come up with a story that will capture the essence of his mother's existence.  His mother tells him a story about an insect which transforms into a man who now has to deal with the horrors of human consciousness. In the end she dies but since realism entails the idea that time is an illusion and reality is just a line, they keep reliving the same moments of her dying and him trying to tell her a story. He tells her that not all stories have endings.  Yu presents this philosophical idea in such an interesting way; through the relationship between the mother and son. 

  Another notable story was Problems for Self Study, where you describes the relationship between a husband and wife through only mathematical and scientific contexts. I find the works in Third Class Superhero very impressive and Yu writes stories in a way I have never seen before.      
 
 
In this post, reviews of Sangu Mandanna’s The Lost Girl (Balzer + Bray, 2012); Roshi Fernando’s Homesick (Knopf, 2012); Karl Taro Greenfield’s Triburbia (Harper, 2012); Malinda Lo’s Adaptation (Little Brown for Young Readers, 2012); Sandi Tan’s The Black Isle (Grand Central Publishing, 2012); Vincent Lam’s The Headmaster’s Wager (Hogarth, 2012); Jay Caspian Kang’s The Dead Do Not Improve (Hogarth, 2012); Da Chen’s My Last Empress (Crown, 2012).

A Review of Sangu Mandanna’s The Lost Girl (Balzer + Bray, 2012)



I was fried after teaching this week. My attempts to do some research failed miserably, so I decided to throw in the towel and do some pleasure reading and I picked up Sangu Mandanna’s debut novel, The Lost Girl. Mandanna’s work follows in the grand tradition of clone novels, evoking shades of Huxley’s Brave New World, Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, and Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, but takes it in a unique direction to a certain extent given the South Asian geographies that largely ground the narrative. The other major intertext is, of course, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, as Mandanna’s clones—called echoes in her work—are much more disobedient, say in the vein of replicants found in Scott’s Blade Runner. Mandanna’s novel is further marketed as a young adult fiction in which there is a paranormal romance as part of the central plotting, following in the footsteps of numerous other writers of Asian descent already reviewed here, including Michelle Sagara, Andrew Xia Fukuda, Marie Lu, among others. Our protagonist and first person narrator, Eva, is the echo—or clone—at the heart of this work. Created by a shadowy group called The Weavers who are based at The Loom, Eva opens the novel by giving us the background to the world in which she is raised, which includes Guardians (such as a surrogate mother figure named Mina Ma and a young man known as Sean with whom she develops an early romantic interest) and other associated caretakers. The use of an echo is outlawed in some nations and in Eva’s case, she is to “illegally” replace a girl named Amarra (called an “other”) who lives in India, if for some reason, her “real” counterpart finds an early death. The second portion of the novel explores Eva’s life as she must adjust to mimicking someone else. Though she has studied Amarra’s mannerisms and personal history, only her new parents (called Familiars) Alisha and Neil, and their two children, Sasha and Nikhil, have true knowledge of her background. Those like Amarra’s old boyfriend, Ray, do not have any idea that Eva is actually an echo and the Amarra they think they are engaging with is actually someone else. The novel really takes off here and gets at the central ethical questions that Mandanna is ultimately interested in, especially regarding questions of the soul as it relates to the clone figure. In the later arcs, we aren’t surprised when the Weavers take on a bigger role and we’ll all have flashbacks to the replicant scene in Blade Runner, as he queries his makers. It wasn’t clear if The Lost Girl will be the start of a trilogy, as is typical of these paranormal urban young adult fiction romances, but this work would be especially interesting to discuss in the classroom format given the concerns of biotechnology and organ harvesting that have come up in recent years.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-Girl-Sangu-Mandanna/dp/0062082310/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349715167&sr=8-1&keywords=Sangu+Mandanna

A Review of Roshi Fernando’s Homesick (Knopf, 2012)



Knopf has been the imprint that has been particularly attentive to writers in the South Asian diaspora and here I am reviewing Roshi Fernando’s debut novel, Homesick, which is a rather fragmented novel about a Sri Lankan-British community, with most of its emotional focus on one specific family. Fernando takes a tricky narrative approach to this novel because it does not move chronologically and each of the beginning chapters tends to focus on a new character. It is only once Fernando begins to return to one character’s longer life trajectory that the novel begins to take shape and meld together. About half way through, the narrative finds this general cohesion and we begin to see how Fernando scripts the challenges related to the Sri Lankan diasporic experience. The most compelling characters—in my opinion—were Preethi and Lolly. Preethi’s character receives the most sustained arc as we see her in different stages: as a rebellious teen, later as a doting wife, and then further still, in the wake of her disintegrating marriage, her sojourn to Sri Lanka, and then her ambivalent success as a novelist (this last aspect is interesting given Fernando’s exploration of the literary marketplace and how Preethi changes a nonfictional account of Sri Lanka to a fictional account about a different historical moment and then has her manuscript accepted). One of the most fascinating chapters focuses on Lolly, otherwise known as Louisa, who engages in a lesbian relationship with a poet named Marguerite. When Marguerite dies, she is startled to discover that she had a son and this son comes to Louisa seeking more information about her mother’s life. Lolly and this son end up having their own affair, one that also encourages Lolly to take a harder look at her own life and her estrangement with her birth father. Fernando’s strength is in the utter confidence in her narrative approach, that much will eventually be unveiled to reveal the contours of this eclectic bunch of individuals. She is also able to use this work to explore the complicated political arena in relation to Sri Lankan ethnic and racial tensions and further explores the anti-Muslim sentiment in British context. Never overly sentimental, Homesick is at its core an engrossing multigenerational immigrant saga.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Homesick-Roshi-Fernando/dp/0307958108/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1348462416&sr=8-1&keywords=Roshi+Fernando

A Review of Karl Taro Greenfield’s Triburbia (Harper, 2012).



Karl Taro Greenfield is the author of numerous travel writings and other creative nonfictional works, including Speed Tribes, Standard Deviations, Boy Alone, and China Syndrome. I am reviewing his debut novel here, which makes me utterly curious to go back and read his previous writings (which I admittedly have not). As of this review, I just purchased Standard Deviations, which is quite difficult to find actually. Triburbia is apparently a swanky neighborhood in lower Manhattan. I’m terrible with New York City geography and the only analog I can think of are those tiny boutique neighborhoods that you find in Los Angeles like the Larchmont District. In any case, this novel is about the gentrification of that neighborhood and the rather motley crue of individuals who hang out with each other because their children happen to all attend the same relatively elite school. These denizens are perhaps not your more typical residents in that they are not accountants, stock brokers, or hedge fund managers, but these characters include: a sculptor, a sound engineer, a photographer, a chef, a literary agent, a memoirist, among other such characters who are thrown together in a rather eclectic pot. Perhaps the most dramatic aspect of Greenfield’s novel is its use of narrative perspective, which shifts between the third and first person and focuses on chapter headings that are addresses, so we see that each address corresponds to a different character’s viewpoint. Here, we see the importance of the neighborhood come to life in the structure of Greenfield’s aesthetic. This structural approach fragments the novel and it takes a bit of time for the pieces to come together, but when they do, you begin to see exactly how flawed each character is, how little each character communicates with each other, and finally still, the quiet heartbreaks of the everyday. A chapter concerning the sound engineer’s (Mark’s) daughter, Cooper, is particularly stunning in its exploration of “mean girl” pathology. We can see, too, Greenfield’s brilliant journalistic and anthropological eye, which swoops in on these characters with a razor sharp clarity. There is a point, though, and Greenfield is more than aware of this, that our sympathy for these characters will eventually wear thin: most are of an elite background and seem to be rather ignorant of or unwilling to admit that their lives are rife with privilege and so we wait for the light bulb to turn on. It really isn’t until we meet Sadie, the down on her luck working class nanny, that the novel really moves to the next level and Greenfield offers us the possibility that one of the characters might find redemption amid the morass that is Triburbia.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Triburbia-Novel-Karl-Taro-Greenfeld/dp/0062132393/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350884961&sr=8-1&keywords=Triburbia

A Review of Malinda Lo’s Adaptation (Little Brown for Young Readers, 2012)



Malinda Lo’s Adaptation is another addition to the paranormal young adult fiction urban fantasy romance genre. The novel’s protagonist, Reese Holloway, is a high school teen who is in Arizona for a debate competition when a series of bird strikes causes numerous planes to crash. In the ensuing chaos, Reese and her high school classmate David (their high school debate coach is killed) attempt to try to find a way back to Northern California by road. Instead, they end up crashing their car, only to end up in comas and to awaken twenty seven days later in a classified military building. Reese suffers serious injuries from the crash, but is somehow miraculously treated with advanced military medicine. So, too, is David, and they both travel back to their homes in Northern California, having signed NDAs (non-disclosure agreements) concerning their time in what seems to be a top secret military facility. At this point, the novel’s direction changes fairly abruptly, as it focuses on the romance plot. A young woman named Amber literally runs into Reese and later, they will begin to tentatively date. Along with the way, we are introduced to other characters: Reese’s concerned mother as well as Reese’s queer best friend, Julian. When Reese and her mother discover that their house has been bugged, Reese begins to realize that the health changes she has been experiencing may be more than the residual effects of the car crash. Reese, David, and Julian begin an investigation into the military facility and company that may been involved in their rehabilitation post-crash. It becomes clear that there is much more than meets the eye and Reese must reconsider the nature of her relationship to Amber, as well as her confront that her newfound healing abilities may not be the simple product of advanced medical technologies.
For fans of this particular genre, Lo is a clear pro at reeling in the target audience, with the paranormal themes and the main romantic plot. As with Lo’s previous two works (Huntress and Ash, which have both been reviewed on Asian American literature fans), queer desire is a large thematic, though Lo is able to skirt having to explore this plotting fully, especially as the narrative shifts back to the paranormal aspects in its final arc. Perhaps, the most interesting aspect of the narrative is its exploration of governmental oversight, which in light of the bird-strikes and crashes, reveals itself to be a shadowy organization in which power can be brutally centralized. Fortunately, for those that cannot get enough of this particular plotline and for these characters, Lo returns with an intended sequel in 2013.


Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Adaptation-Malinda-Lo/dp/0316197963/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350232472&sr=8-1&keywords=Malinda+Lo

A Review of Sandi Tan’s The Black Isle (Grand Central Publishing, 2012).



Sandi Tan’s The Black Isle was a novel I saved for that night when I didn’t want to do anything but read. It was the thickest book on the shelf that I could find among the books I hadn’t yet tackled (2nd place goes to Vincent Lam’s The Headmaster’s Wager; will get to that soon enough). The Black Isle is a strange amalgam of historical fiction and paranormal occurrences, with a framing narrative concerning our aged protagonist who is being stalked by a professor. This professor seems to be intent upon our protagonist, Cassandra, because there seems to be something a little bit off-kilter about her, especially her connection with the dead. As we soon discover, Cassandra can see and interact with ghosts and she agrees to be interviewed by the professor so that her story will be known. Born into an affluent family in Shanghai in 1922 alongside her fraternal twin Li, Cassandra’s special status is soon revealed, though her parents immediately dismiss her otherworldly talents. In the wake of the stock market crash, her family’s fortune turns and she moves with her brother and her father to the titular Black Isle, a tropical island that is located somewhere near Singapore. Once there, Cassandra and her family are soon working on a rubber plantation, though she realizes that her father and her brother are far from ideal in managing that location. Cassandra will then end up taking care of a prominent and wealthy dowager of the Wee family, will marry one of the heirs, a man named Daniel. The novel will take an entirely dark turn with the arrival of the Japanese imperial army during World War II. Cassandra will be forced to make difficult choices, especially once she is taken as a kind of sexual captive of a Japanese serviceman named Taro. After the fall of the Japanese and the ending of World War II, Cassandra attempts to harness her power over the spirit world when she joins up with a communist cadre that includes a former member of the Wee family named Kenneth. Kenneth will later rise in the wake of postcolonial independence to a high position within the Black Isle at which point Cassandra realizes that he may be far more dangerous than any of her other foes, supernatural, military, or otherwise.
Tan’s novel is ambitious in that she weaves in these major historical events alongside these supernatural elements, but at the end of the day, this novel finds its most stable grounding in the plotting that leaves us wondering how Cassandra will ultimately deal with her ghost-seeing talents. Of course, ghosts are nothing new to Asian American fiction, so this book could certainly be part of a course on the Asian American literary supernatural, which would be entirely a fun one and totally politically engaged as well.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Black-Isle-Sandi-Tan/dp/0446563927/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1348170120&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Black+Isle

A Review of Vincent Lam’s The Headmaster’s Wager (Hogarth, 2012).



Vincent Lam’s debut novel, The Headmaster’s Wager (Lam is also author of Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures, a short story collection), takes on the interesting context of the overseas ethnic Chinese who ended up residing in Vietnam amid the conflict and war occurring in the mid to late 20th century. Percival Chen, the titular headmaster and the protagonist, is the lens through which the novel unfolds and the center of our readerly attentions. We get a little bit of Chen’s backstory: amid the devastation wrought by the Japanese during World War II, Percival and his combative wife, Cecilia, escape China and make new lives in Vietnam. They settle in Cholon, the Chinese-ethnic section of Saigon. Though Percival comes from a modest background, he ends up succeeding in Vietnam by running a school (from whence half the title comes) that often caters to those looking to learn foreign languages in light of the increased involvement of colonial and overseas powers. By the time the novel opens, Cecilia and Percival are divorced and Dai Jai, their son, is in high school. The first section of the novel spends time exploring Dai Jai’s growing pains: he cavorts around with a Vietnamese woman and also publicly challenges the growing anti-Chinese sentiment. When Dai Jai is jailed on the grounds of being a dissident, Percival must pay exorbitant sums in order secure his release. With growing suspicion of the Vietnamese government’s prejudicial practices, Percival (with the assent of his ex-wife) sends Dai Jai back to China, hoping that he will be safe there. From that point forward, Percival is in a serious financial predicament because of all the money he had to raise in order to get Dai Jai freed. As he raises tuition at the school and finds other methods to raise cash, Percival also takes part of a high stakes gambling game (the titular “wager”) that ends up producing much needed capital and secures him the company of a lovely young escort of half-Vietnamese half French background named Jacqueline. Percival ends up falling in love with Jacqueline, which produces considerable tension between him and Mak, one of his biggest advisors and friends, who lets him know that his relationship has become gossip-fodder. Further still, it is discovered that Jacqueline is not just an escort, but also a student at Percival’s school. Once Jacqueline becomes pregnant, Percival must take great care in shielding Cholon society from their relationship. Adding to the stress is the fact that Percival is attempting to acquire an American certification for his school, which would add greater prestige and enable him to charge higher tuition rates so he can finally be free of all of his debts. As the novel moves toward the conclusion, two important developments arise. First, the American’s war campaign is visibly failing, as evidenced by the harrowing chapter in which Jacqueline gives birth essentially during and after the Tet Offensive. Second, Dai Jai’s letters from China are revealed to be fake and that he has actually been in serious jeopardy in his time in China, suffering under the communist regime change. Thus, Percival must somehow balance his various responsibilities: first, to his mixed-race mistress and their child especially as she demands more support from him in the wake of the increasingly instability in Vietnam and second, to his son, Dai Jai, who needs to find an escape route out of China (shadowing the trajectory of his own parents). How will Percival manage such issues? Such a question fuels the novel’s tension-filled final pages. Lam’s novel certainly fits within the grand tradition of sprawling romantic war epics, recalling the work of Grahame Green in The Quiet American and other more recent efforts, including Tan Twan Eng’s The Garden of Evening Mists and Madeleine Thien’s Certainty. Lam’s greatest strength in this novel is in the creation and perfection of Percival’s character, such a flawed figure but the ideal construct to explore the dynamic context of wartorn Vietnam and the situation of overseas ethnic Chinese that resided there during that period.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Headmasters-Wager-Vincent-Lam/dp/0307986462/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1349977310&sr=8-3&keywords=Vincent+Lam

A Review of Jay Caspian Kang’s The Dead Do Not Improve (Hogarth, 2012).



The Hogarth imprint of Random House has put out a number of really dynamic titles this year that have been reviewed on AALF, which certainly includes Jay Caspian Kang’s debut novel, The Dead do Not Improve. This novel is certain to rile some feathers. Kang has created some rather flawed characters, some of which seem to be the contemporary versions of characters that you might find in Ellis’s Less than Zero but transported into the contemporary San Francisco scene, replete with hipsters, potsmokers, and leftovers from the counterculture movement of the sixties. Kang employs alternating first and third person narrative perspectives. The first person perspective is given to Philip Kim, who is implicated in some sort of plot that has already claimed the lives of his strange neighbor, Dolores Stone, and his friend William (Bill) Cullen. The third person perspective follows two detectives, Jim Kim and Siddhartha “Sid” Finch, who are tasked to finding out what is going on with the murders. Is it related some porn mogul? Is it some cult? At the end of the day, what we begin to see fomenting in Kang’s narrative is a discourse about the aestheticization of violence and how it might relate the Korean American subject. This novel finds its heft in its reconsideration of the Virginia Tech shootings; our first person narrator seems to be the anti-hero meant to invoke the lost Korean American male slacker figure who may or may not find some sort of transcendence pursuing his art. Indeed, Philip Kim is a post-MFA graduate student now working for a suspect social networking site who carouses around SF realizing that his uber-observant wit can only get him so far. Sometimes Kim’s voice can get grating, but we get that even beneath all that slackerism that there is some sort of earnestness and that Kim is striving for meaning in his desultory life, suddenly turned upside down by FBI agents, new age groups, and femme fatales. The novel finally questions whether or not the violence can be legitimated in an artistic forum and pushes us to consider when it becomes pornographic excess.
Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Dead-Do-Not-Improve/dp/0307953882/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347476281&sr=8-1&keywords=Jay+Caspian+Kang

A Review of Da Chen’s My Last Empress (Crown, 2012).



Da Chen is the author of numerous publications, including the novel Brothers. The Last Empress is his most recent publication and the first I’ve read in his oeuvre. The novel is narrated from the first person perspective of a man named Samuel Pickens, who hails from an elite American East Coast background. There is a framing narrative that reveals that the entire novel is being told from a retrospective position and that this story is likely to be a tragic one. He falls in love with a young woman named Annabelle, whose ghost begins to haunt him and certainly encourages him to travel to China. There, he takes a job with the Emperor, which allows him to meet the Emperor’s fourth consort, a young teenage girl named Qiu Rong. Qiu Rong, coincidentally, looks exactly like Annabelle, a blonde, fair-haired figure who nevertheless speaks fluent Mandarin. Pickens with the ghost of Annabelle imprinted in his mind finds himself having to control his sexual attractions to Qiu Rong. When Qiu Rong asks him to help her escape from the Palace, he cannot do anything but comply, but it becomes clear that Qiu Rong’s lineage is far more complicated than he realizes and Pickens discovers that Qiu Rong may actually be Annabelle’s daughter and the product of a purported sexual assault. Complicating matters is the fact that the Emperor basically forces Pickens to take on an advising position that requires him to oversee certain governance practices. Pickens soon discovers discrepancies in important accounting documents and the murder of a political figure makes it clear some sort of conspiracy is being hatched. When Qiu Rong and Pickens are both almost killed and later, Pickens is falsely attached to a supposed coup that is taking place, they both flee the Palace. Qiu Rong convinces Pickens to help her track down her biological father and to seek answers from him. Once Pickens realizes that the man, Wang Dong, that Qiu Rong believes is her father could never actually be related to her, Pickens makes plans to flee the country with her, but these plans are dashed and the novel finishes with its rather somber and introspective conclusion.
To be sure, Chen’s novel is likely an allegory and his constant use of the nymphet motif is sure to draw comparisons immediately to Lolita. That novel is widely considered to be a figurative plot, the relationship being Humbert Humbert and Lo masking Nabokov’s rather idiosyncratic and growing devotion to the English language. Chen might be following a similar route. Indeed, Chen largely eschews any realist impulse in the narrative construction: Pickens comes off as a stilted American with a fetish for the East. In this regard, Chen has created a rather idiosyncratic Orientalist novel, one sure to ruffle a couple of feathers.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/My-Last-Empress-A-Novel/dp/0307381307/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350232090&sr=8-1&keywords=My+Last+Empress
 
 
I became aware of Aimee Nezhukumatathil's poetry through stephenhongsohn's review of her first two collections, Miracle Fruit and At the Drive-In Volcano (part of his series of reviews of small press poetry books). I made a note of Nezhukumatathil's work because of the dog poem mentioned in that review, and I finally got around to picking up a couple of her collections. In this post, I offer some of my thoughts on Miracle Fruit (Tupelo Press, 2003) and Lucky Fish (Tupelo Press, 2011).



Many of the poems in Nezhukumatathil's first collection, especially in the first two sections, use the trope of food to examine cultural histories, identities, and experiences. The book title comes from the opening poem of the collection, "One Bite," which begins, "Miracle fruit changes the tongue. One bite, / and for all hours all you eat is sweet." From this opening line, Nezhukumatathil does something interesting with food and consumption--she reverses the direction of agency, making the miracle fruit the thing that causes a change in the person. This idea lurks in the entire collection, where the beauty and danger of foods are in how they affect people. In "One Bite," the ability of the miracle fruit to make subsequently-consumed foods taste sweet is bound up with the idea of the vendor who "had one / tooth, one sandal." The lyric speaker as a little girl wonders what the costs of this miracle are, concluding the poem with the questions, "So how long before you lose / a sandal and still walk? How long / before you lose the sweetness?"

Each of Nezhukumatathil's poems offers a brief contemplation of an idea with startling and amusing insights. Sometimes, these insights come with the most mundane types of objects, ones that nevertheless hold much cultural meaning. One such poem I must point out because it is about a very regional U.S. thing--cheese curds! Cheese curds are the pride and joy of Upper Midwesterners (in Wisconsin and Minnesota). In "Cheese Curds, the First Time," Nezhukumatathil describes the significance of cheese curds for local:
A swarm descends on a booth
selling said curds, each person wanting the freshest bag-full:
white chunks, bite-sized, more solid than I imagined,
just a bit salty and sweet.
The poem continues on with the image of a baby's reach for a bag of her own, turning thoughts towards the idea of desire, of wanting something you can't name in words yet.



Nezhukumatathil's third collection (I haven't picked up a copy of At the Drive-In Volcano yet) follows in the mold of her first collection, consisting of short lyric poems that all offer interesting comments on the everyday world while also exploring historical, literary, and imaginary figures. As in her first collection, many of the poems in Lucky Fish also explicitly explore her personal Filipino and South Indian heritage. In addition to the lucky fish of the book's title, there are many other creatures who appear in her poems, and if food was a central trope in the first collection, animals seem to be a major trope in this one. One of my favorite poems in this book is about her dachshund, and I had to scan it to send to a friend who has a pack of hot dogs in his house.



I love how Nezhukumatathil translates her dog into little bits, like "a sneeze / in the crook of my elbow." The poem is such a heartwarming declaration of love for her dog! :D

Lucky Fish also contains a couple of poems that respond to readers of her earlier work. These readers have a younger, more innocent perspective. One poem in particular is about high school students who read her work in class (alongside Walt Whitman, it seems). This poem, "Dear Amy Nehzooukammyatootill" contains a note that it is "a found poem, composed entirely of e-mails from various high school students," and includes some hilarious gems like, "I just don't / get literature, but for a fast hour and a half read, your book / / takes the cake," "You are very young to be a poet," "It was an easy read," and "Walt Whitman is better than you." While it is possible to read this poem as depressing commentary on how students engage with poetry, it is also very humorous, and as constructed by Nezhukumatathil becomes a tongue-in-cheek reflection on her own work, almost a cautionary tale to herself not to take her poems too seriously.
 
 
Current Mood: amusedamused
 
 
The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns (G. P. Putnam, 2012) is Margaret Dilloway's humorous second novel about a high school biology teacher, Galilee "Gal" Garner, a woman with a serious hobby of breeding hybrid roses. I really liked the characterization of Gal as someone who is a bit unaware of how others perceive her and what is going on around her regarding relationships. She is a very intelligent person whose health issues (failed kidneys since childhood) have shaped how she sees the world around her.



It's easy to think of the rose with symbols as a symbol for Gal herself--someone whose personality is a blend of beautiful and sharp. The novel takes place over the course of about a year, with the major events of the plot stemming from the sudden appearance of Gal's niece Riley at her school, having taken the bus from across the state to live with her. Gal's sister had sent Riley along without bothering to check with Gal first and making arrangements. Riley is a 15-year-old, moody teenager whose childhood was unstable with a mother with substance-abuse problems. Much of the novel traces the ups and downs of Gal's relationship with Riley.

Woven together with this central, developing relationship is Gal's struggle with her health condition. She has been on dialysis for many years after a couple of previous kidney transplants eventually stopped working. She soldiers on and believes that she can continue to function fully as a full-time teacher and a rose-breeding hobbyist, but with the arrival of Riley, that balance she has struck between the demands of her health condition and her activities begin to fall apart.

And the other major narrative line in the novel is Gal's drive to develop a hybrid Hulthemia rose with splotches and fragrance (that fragrance being a particularly desirable and elusive trait for rose breeders). I like novels like this one that weave in a lot of facts about subcultures of hobbyists, these worlds of people intensely engaged in activities that many people don't even know exist. The novel offers excerpts from a fictional rose growers' almanac with tips on what to do with roses each month in Southern California (I think it's fictional, at least, though I believe it's modeled on real books). This technique of using excerpts of nonfictional texts throughout the narrative is something Dilloway also used in her first novel (with the how-to-manual for war brides. Gal takes her roses to a few regional shows and competitions, and there are some interesting takes on the competitiveness of the people at these shows as well as the importance of interpersonal dynamics for these things.

Unlike How to Be an American Housewife, which dealt explicitly with Asian/American experiences, this novel does not focus on Asian American characters. There is one Chinese American model minority student in the novel who plays an important role in the story, albeit never as part of the foreground of the narrative. Certainly, we could think about how the trajectory of Dilloway's two novels mirrors the work of other Asian American writers, perhaps even more significantly for mixed-race Asian American writers (starting off with published works that explicitly mark Asian American identities before moving off to racially unmarked narratives or featuring white characters).

As I mentioned earlier, I found this novel to be quite humorous--both in the protagonist's dry sense of humor and in the unreliable narrative voice that we get from Gal who, though very intelligent and a certainly a survivor, does not always fully understand friendship, kindness, and other aspects of social life.
 
 
Current Mood: contentcontent
 
 
12 October 2012 @ 01:36 pm




Other than Bone graphic novels series, I haven’t read a legitimate graphic novel until now. After reading many novels it is fun and relaxing to kick back with a book you can enjoy both literally and visually. American Born Chinese is a fun graphic novel written by Gene Luen Yang. Paralleling the experiences of a Chinese American boy and the Monkey King of Chinese fable , Yang makes the point that you should accept yourself and your roots and not try to become something you’re not.  

Jin Wang is one of the very few Asian Americans at his schools. Due to his ethnicity, he is ostracized by his peers early on in his academic life. Wanting to fit in, Jin does everything he can to assimilate with his peers and become fully Americanized. In essence he becomes more “white-washed” as he grows older. This change in his character is optimized by the artist’s depiction of him as a Caucasian male in parts of the book. Only in the early years and after he realizes who he truly is does the artist represent his character as Asian.

It is sad how hard Jin tries to fit in and the lengths he will go to maintain his image held by his peers. Jin forces his ideals on his other Asian American peers.  When he first meets his friend, Wei Chun he asks him to only speak English. Jin cannot stand his cousin Chin-Kee, and is embarrassed by his actions. Chin-Kee embodies the stereotypical FOB archetype. He speaks with a distinct accent, substituting many consonants with an R in his speech. He answers every question in class, and eats traditional Chinese food for lunch. Besides the fact that he is extremely obnoxious and annoying, Jin despises Chin-Kee’s Chinese mannerisms and even beats him up for it.  Yang compares this example of identity rejection by telling another story of the Monkey King alongside it. Born as a monkey leader, the Monkey King trains in order to master various disciplines and proclaims himself as “The Great Sage, Equal of Heaven.” The supreme creator becomes displeased by the Monkey Kings defiance and rejection of his true being and punishes him.

Although this graphic novel is fun and light hearted in nature, in essence it is a true work of satire. Yang exposes the uncomfortable experience that minorities have to face. I believe an equilibrium of being both Asian and American can be reached however depending on factors such as demographics and age, the pressure to fit in can sometimes be too great.

 
 
09 October 2012 @ 12:23 pm





And Laughter Fell From the Sky is the first novel by Jyotsna Sreenivasan. Combining traditional and modern literary elements, Sreenivasan writes a particulary moving and enlightening piece. This story is about self-discovery and letting love happen. 

Like Romeo & Juliet, the two main characters of this novel, Abhay and Rasika, are from two distinct and separate families. Their families are friends and both speak the same language, Tamil. However, what keeps the two apart is the age-old caste system and more importantly traditional expectations. Although not a real problem in modern day Ohio, a few characters mention the caste as a reason for the two not to be together. Rasika is from the Brahmin class while Abhay's is of the Vaishyas class. In old times people of different castes were not allowed to marry. The real reason why she can't be with Abhay is mentioned by her mother, "You cannot want to marry Abhay. And not just because of his caste. I can be open-minded if the boy is really special, but what has he done with himself? He has thrown away every opportunity." In Indian culture professional success is everything and this is evident in every guy Rasika's parents try to match her up with as they are all occupied with successful careers.

Abhay's character is the mirror image of Rasika. Where Rasika is an obedient daughter who listens to her parents and does everything they want, Abhay has followed his own path. In the beginning of the novel he returns to Ohio from a commune called Rising Star. He went there in search of a place he belonged, a place that matched his ideas. However he was unable to find what he was looking for there. Instead of focusing on a set major in college, he graduated studying general studies. His parents want him to apply to graduate school, although he is very smart, he doesn't want to and spends much of the book lost, searching for a place to belong. Throughout the story he tries to convince Rasika to live her life her own way. He knows the kind of girl she really is, a person who likes to have fun, who wants to live freely but Rasika's devotion to her culture prevents her from breaking out of the mold she was raised in. 

Abhay and Rasika spend a lot of time together but when her parents become really serious in getting her married before her birthday, she stops contacting him. Tied by her traditions she must marry a suitor her parents have arranged for her. Abhay moves to Portland in an attempt to forget about Rasika, and find a place where he belongs. He ends up getting involved with people there and working on an environmental project. He invites her over and she agrees to visit him. They abscond but she returns home knowing that she cannot be with Abhay, and must instead focus on the suitor her parents have picked for her.

Rasika travels to India with her parents to meet the man she will marry. Abhay also travels to India to visit a spiritual environmentalist commune called Auroville and also for the off-chance to run into Rasika there. Abhay has an enlightening moment and begins to realize the beauty all around him, and he understands that he has been pushing away what he has been searching for all along. Rasika gets engaged to Yuvan, but it is broken when he finds out that she has met Abhay in India and hung out with him. Distraught and shamed by her family she meets Abhay who tells her to go back home and explain the incident to her family. Bewildered she ends up in a car accident. Abhay nurses her back to health, and she slowly regains her recollection of the events. She ends up confessing her love for Abhay and says she wants to marry him. They end up together and they move to California where Abhay is attending graduate school.

Although the book ends with a happy ending, I think it is tragic that Rasika had to almost die before her parents would give in and finally allow her to be with Abhay. It is a testament to how powerful and dangerous traditional ties can be. Sreenivasan portrays the problem with her culture. All of the Indian women in the story had arranged marriages. A few characters mention the experience of getting married to someone they had never met at such a young age. They were expected to serve their husbands and never question him. It took much time for them to adjust and finally care for their husbands. Most of the women in this book are of an older generation and try to instill their traditional values on their children. Almost all of the women in the book submit to arranged marriages, the ones that don’t are used as examples of why marrying without parental guidance is risky. For example they mention women who marry out of love end up being divorced when their partner’s lose feelings or women who must struggle because their husbands are not successful. At the same time they mention the feelings of helplessness. Abhay’s mother sheds a tear when she actually speaks back to her husband in defense of Abhay. Such an action is out of the realm of a traditional Indian woman.   

The main conflict in this book arises from the obedience Rasika has to her culture and her longing to fulfill her own desires. Rasika confuses what her parents want for her for what she wants. She wants to make her parents happy by marrying an Indian man of their choosing yet at the same time she masks her own desires of freedom and love. She keeps telling herself that once she gets married to this man she’ll be happy. In the end she realizes that the only way for her to be happy is to follow her own heart and desires, she realizes that she must break the image her parents have of her in order to move forward. This process is all propelled by Abhay’s relationship with her.

Sreenivasan communicates that love can bring happiness and people together, and perform miracles too. 

 
 
Current Mood: draineddrained
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans - Megapost for October 8, 2012

In this post, reviews of Alma Katsu’s The Reckoning (Gallery Books, 2012); Rosie Dastgir’s A Small Fortune (Riverhead Hardcover, 2012); Katie Kitamura’s Gone to the Forest (Free Press, 2012); Michelle Wan’s When I Kill You (Raven Books, 2012); Kim Moritsugu’s And Everything Nice (Raven Books, 2011); Gail Tsukiyama’s Dreaming Water (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2003); Gail Tsukiyama’s Street of a Thousand Blossoms (St. Martin’s Edition, paperback, 2008); Gail Tsukiyama’s A Hundred Flowers (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012); Rosie Dastgir’s A Small Fortune (Riverhead Hardcover, 2012).

A Review of Alma Katsu’s The Reckoning (Gallery Books, 2012).



This whole trilogy thing is entirely new to me. I can’t pinpoint much but the influence of those young adult fictions, which have ultimately seeped into the paranormal urban fantasy genre for adults. In The Reckoning, Alma Katsu returns with the second scintillating installment of The Taker trilogy. The third book, The Descent, is already listed on amazon.com for a May 2013 release. I, of course, look forward to it. Trilogies I think are difficult. The second book, to me, always seems like a “filler” episode. Katsu manages to make the most of it by returning the uber-villain from the first installment, the man known as Adair, who is a master practictioner of the dark arts and who seeks revenge or love or both from Lanore McIlvrae, our ostensible and plucky heroine. The novel thus tracks Adair’s awakening from his imprisonment and how he seeks to track down Lanore, more familiarly known to us as Lanny. For her part, Lanny is looking to reconnect with Adair’s old companions so that she might find a way to foil Adair’s plans. Her narrative arc is moving basically from one companion to the next until she finds a possible way to antagonize Adair effectively. I won’t say much more because I don’t want to spoil too much of this novel, but Katsu struggles with creating tension for this novel because she wants Adair to seem more than just a malevolent villain, but this task is difficult because he seems sort of bipolar. On the one hand, he seems to be developing a capacity to truly love someone else and then we’ll have a sequence where he just goes onto the street, rapes and kills an innocent woman. At a different point, he decapitates a character who he had just reanimated from the dead. It’s hard to want to root for a character like that and given his immense power, it seems like a naturalistic trajectory, a dark conclusion in the hopes that it will set us up for the triumph (we envision) of the third book. Despite such a morbid ending, Katsu’s world is simply entertaining to read about: there are these spells, reanimated corpses, beautiful men and women who live long lives, so we can’t help but be enthralled ourselves and we will be “taken” quite willingly to the realms of the third book.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Reckoning-Book-Taker-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B0061Q5LO2/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1346777867&sr=8-3&keywords=The+Reckoning

A Review of Rosie Dastgir’s A Small Fortune (Riverhead Hardcover, 2012).



Interestingly enough, when I went to go look on amazon about this book, there was a reprint edition of another novel called A Small Fortune also published in this same year. In any case, Rosie Dastgir’s A Small Fortune was one of the first immigrant novels in a long time that I simply relished reading from the first page to the very last. Part of this novel’s strength is that Dastgir spends a painstaking amount of time making sure to draw up the intricacy of the three main characters: Alia, the Pakistani British young woman and medical school dropout; her father, Harris, recently divorced and looking to begin a new romance with a professor named Farrah; and Rashid, Alia’s cousin and Harris’s nephew who is desperate to help his sisters find proper medical care in the United Kingdom. The “small fortune” from the title is a divorce settlement that Harris receives; he wants to put it toward purchasing a new residence for him and Alia, but Alia has her mind set on other things. Each character has secrets. Harris doesn’t know about Alia’s dropping out of medical school. Alia doesn’t know about Harris’s new romance with Farrah. Harris doesn’t tell Alia that he’s putting Rashid up to spying on her. Rashid doesn’t let anyone know what lengths he will go to in order to take care of his immediate family. Harris’s other family members, Nawaz and Safeena, who help him manage his corner shop also seem to be sly villains. Others like the charismatic Muslim leader Begg seem to be dangerous opportunists. Though Alia’s dropping out of medical school is certain to bring up questions of the model minority stereotype, here appearing in the British-Asian context, Dastgir always makes this plot point secondary to the problematic communication that occurs among all the extended family members. Amid all the drama, Dastgir impressively makes this novel quite funny. There are moments where the omniscient narrator is poking a satirical eye at the characters and the contexts and this approach really makes the reading experience so wonderful. This novel is also slightly reminiscent of the more lyrical and less comedic, but no less wonderful Pleasure Seekers (by Tishani Doshi) and one can only hope that there are many more brilliant novels coming from these two writers.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Fortune-Rosie-Dastgir/dp/159448810X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1345396053&sr=8-3&keywords=A+Small+Fortune

A Review of Katie Kitamura’s Gone to the Forest (Free Press, 2012)



I was first alerted to the work of Katie Kitamura through pylduck who reviewed her debut novel, The Longshot, over this-a-way:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/76679.html?thread=132231&mode=reply

I managed to get a copy of her memoir Japanese for Travellers, but still haven’t managed to read it (bad me), but I couldn’t resist the call of her second novel, due to the interesting title. Who has “gone to the forest”? I had to find out. In any case, I absolutely adore Kitamura’s prose in this novel. It’s the first thing I noticed and it was just so different than anything I had read in awhile; she uses short staccato sentences, often times they are fragments; the bare, austere quality of the prose works perfectly with the dark narrative. It focuses on Tom, his father, and the woman who is supposed to marry Tom—who has a questionable reputation—named Carine. The first part, Mountain, explores the trio’s life on the property his father first built and managed on an unnamed Caribbean island. At some point, Tom’s father realizes that Tom will one day own the land as well as the fish farm that has been their financial mainstay, so he sets him up with Carine, a young woman who is associated with their neighbors, the Wallaces. Tom is a strange character and can’t find a way to relate to Carine. The novel makes its dark turn once Tom’s father takes up with Carine instead, resulting in a sham marriage. The concluding sequence of part 1 focuses on the mountain, which seems to have volcanic activity occurring and is occasionally spewing large amounts of ash—some of which end up destroying the fish farm. Further still, Carine’s attempts to assert her individuality leads to a particularly difficult narrative sequence that was difficult to read through. Finally, there is the issue of those that have “gone to the forest”—a reference to the revolutionary activity occurring on the island that is causing the white landowners much cause for concern. At the conclusion of part 1, Tom’s father and Carine leave the property. In part 2, forest, Tom’s father and Carine return because of Tom’s father’s health problems. He is clearly dying. Once Carine realizes that her desire to become upwardly mobile has been dashed, she evacuates from the property. Compounding the stress for Tim is the fact that those that had “gone to the forest” are now emerging and openly pushing for revolution and the expulsion of the white settlers. Interestingly enough, Salman Rushdie compares Kitamura’s work to Coetzee and Gordimer, which I definitely saw in terms of content, but in terms of its prose, Kitamura seems more of a throwback—someone looking to the work of Hemingway or Steinbeck. The especially naturalistic quality of the work, too, calls attention to the physical struggles of characters against the environment and was reminiscent of the work of Jack London. So, as much as Rushdie puts her in an Anglophone tradition, I’ll push her back firmly into an American one. Okay, so I hope you all go out and read this book so we can chat about it.

Buy the Book Here:


http://www.amazon.com/Gone-Forest-Novel-Katie-Kitamura/dp/1451656645/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346126979&sr=8-1&keywords=Gone+to+the+Forest

A Review of Michelle Wan’s When I Kill You (Raven Books, 2012)


(is this Chico falling off?)

Michelle Wan’s When I Kill You is part of the “rapid reads” series out of Raven Books. These are short, almost mass-market sized paperback books, which can be read probably within an hour or two. I earlier reviewed one of Michelle Wan’s novels from the Orchid series. In When I Kill You, Wan takes a break from that series, but continues in the murder/mystery genre in this entertaining tale of Gina Lopez, a female mud wrester and a recent widow. When Marcia Beekland arrives one day to show her a video of Gina in a struggle with her husband Chico just before he accidentally falls of a cliff, the video makes it look as though Gina deliberately pushed him off. Marcia threatens to expose the video and Gina, knowing the video looks bad, but Gina, armed with the knowledge that she actually did not kill Chico, still feels that she must go along with Marcia in order to save herself. Marcia asks her to off her husband, Stan, giving Gina seven days to complete the task. What follows are a number of chapters that involve Gina attempting and failing to kill off Stan. Finally, Marcia hatches a plan that involves Gina rigging the steps into a basement with the purpose of having Stan fall down that stairs and presumably die. Will Gina go through with the plan? For that, you’ll have to read the book! This novel is certainly a frothy and breezy read; Wan sets up the novel easily for a sequel and it’s the kind of book that would be easily brought with you on a trip, waiting at the airport.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/When-Kill-You-Rapid-Reads/dp/1554699908/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1346258677&sr=8-4&keywords=Michelle+Wan

A Review of Kim Moritsugu’s And Everything Nice (Raven Books, 2011).



Ah, I love Kim Moritsugu’s use of first person narration. She always creates these indelible character perspectives. Even in this short work, we get to inhabit the quite witty viewpoint of a young woman named Stephanie, who is eventually encouraged by her mother to join the local church choir. Though Stephanie is not exactly certain about her career trajectory, she seems to show an interest in communications, and is especially interested when Anna Rai, a TV host of a local television show, also appears to be in the choir. The title comes from Anna Rai’s segments, which noticeably cleave out the “sugar and spice” portion from the popular aphorism. The novel’s tension ramps up considerably when Anna loses a very important journal and it seems as though someone from the choir might have stolen it. The problem is that Anna is being blackmailed and if she doesn’t pay 10,000 she will not get her journal back and its contents may be publicized. Anna eventually tells Stephanie that there is incriminating information regarding Anna’s affair with a popular and aging television news anchor, who is about twenty years her senior. At this point, like Wan’s When I Kill You, there is a more noirish quality to the narrative, as both Anna and Stephanie team up to find out the identity of the thief. Moritsugu’s characters are always so wonderfully flawed. There’s a point at the conclusion of the novel where Moritsugu simply lets Stephanie run with the darker impulses we know she won’t ever follow, but ones that seem entertaining enough to speculate about.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/And-Everything-Nice-Rapid-Reads/dp/1554698383/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347071165&sr=8-1&keywords=And+Everything+Nice


A Brief Review of Gail Tsukiyama’s Dreaming Water (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2003) and A Review of Street of a Thousand Blossoms (St. Martin’s Edition, paperback, 2008) and A Hundred Flowers (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012)



I had read only one other novel by the prolific writer Gail Tsukiyama before picking up a pair of her novels this year. I admit that to a certain extent I was a little leery of her other books, simply because the titles seemed to or could evoke a kind of Orientalist aesthetic. I still have not read Women of the Silk or Samurai’s Garden. The earlier title I had read was called Dreaming Water and from my vague recollection was narrated in alternating perspectives focused through a mother and her daughter; the daughter is suffering from something called Werner’s disease, which makes her age at an accelerated rate. This novel focused so strictly on the familial relationship between mother and daughter that I did not find the work that compelling from a social context standpoint, though Tsukiyama was quite adept at showing the strain between family members as they navigate such a difficult illness. One of Tsukiyama’s clear goals in Dreaming Water was to show how familial dynamics could change in the face of a complicated and chronic health issue in which the daughter could look older than the mother.



Street of a Thousand Blossoms is a far more ambitious novel and clearly involved considerable research, extensive organization and plotting. The novel begins with a framed narrative that tells us it is 1966. A famous sumo wrestler named Hiroshi Matsumoto is about to retire; what follows is a story of his life beginning just prior to the World War II period; the narrative also extends to the people most important to him. Hiroshi and his brother Kenji are orphaned at a young age and end up living with their grandparents Yoshio and Fumio Wada. Hiroshi shows a prominent interest in sumo wrestling from a young age and soon begins to study under Sho Tanaka. Tanaka is the father of two daughters, Haru and Aki, both of whom will later be romantically linked to Hiroshi. Tanaka’s wife Noriko will be killed during the Tokyo firebombing during World War II. Kenji will be interested in the art of mask-making, eventually apprenticing for a brief time under a queer man named Akira Yoshiwara. Akira must flee Tokyo as the kempetai focus their efforts on regulating the progressive and subversive art movements. He lives for a time in a rural town with a widow and her daughter Kiyo. He will later lose his hand in a freak avalanche. In essence, then, Tsukiyama’s task in this narrative is considerable precisely because Hiroshi, Kenji, Haru, Aki, Sho, Fumio, Yoshio, and Akira all appear as major characters. The first half of the book possesses its own urgency simply because of the historical period. In the wake of Japan’s post-war reconstruction, the novel loses some of its moment, as Tsukiyama juggles narrative trajectories for so many different individuals (and also explains the novel’s length clocking in at a hefty 448 pages). Nevertheless, the novel is quite compelling in the way that it maps the local alongside the nation and the transnational. Hiroshi becomes a larger emblem of the reconstruction era, pride in the persistence of survival and the celebration of a cultural and athletic tradition. At the same time, Kenji’s less flashy path is also hailed equally as important and the novel treads the most stable ground when adhering to the unique milieus of sumo wrestling and mask-creation.



A Hundred Flowers also takes on a specific historical context. In this case, we have gone to China in the late 1950s, a period which saw Mao create the “hundred flowers campaign,” which on paper seemed to push artists and intellectuals to openly criticize the fledgling communist government. The campaign was unfortunately a mask to root out dissidents. Amid this milieu, the novel opens. Kai Ying, an herbalist, is married to a man named Sheng, who has been taken away by authorities for writing a letter criticizing the government. Kai Ying’s young son, Tao, wonders when his father will come home and has no real idea about why he was taken away. In the opening arc, Tao falls out of a large kapok tree and severely injures his leg. Kai Ying’s father-in-law and Sheng’s father, Wei, harbors a deep secret which will alter the course of the novel. Other important characters include Suyin, a young teenage pregnant girl who is homeless and Song, the sister of Wei’s deceased wife, Liang. The novel alternates among these five characters, giving the narrative a kaleidoscopic aesthetic. If Dreaming Water was perhaps the most localized and decontextualized work and Street of a Thousand Blossoms had the grand sweep of an ambitious historical epic, A Hundred Flowers falls somewhere in between. The focus on one family over a couple of years gives this work a strong cohesion and the subtle plotting twists give enough urgency that readers are compelled forward.

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Dreaming-Water-Gail-Tsukiyama/dp/0312316089/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337060849&sr=8-1

http://www.amazon.com/Street-Thousand-Blossoms-Gail-Tsukiyama/dp/0312384777/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337060864&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/A-Hundred-Flowers-Novel/dp/0312274815/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349368678&sr=8-1&keywords=Gail+Tsukiyama
 
 
03 October 2012 @ 12:55 pm
The Asian American Writers' Workshop just posted "The Occasional Writer: An Interview with Science Fiction Author Ted Chiang" by Vandana Singh. If you haven't read any of Chiang's short stories, you must do so immediately! Here's a webpage with some links to free online versions of some of his stories: Ted Chiang. I'm particularly fannish about his novelette "Understand."
 
 
Current Mood: bouncybouncy
 
 
01 October 2012 @ 10:21 am
C. Dale Young has a short story just published online: "Between Men" at Four Way Review.
 
 
28 September 2012 @ 07:32 am


I'm teaching Hisaye Yamamoto's short stories "Seventeen Syllables" (1949) and "Yoneko's Earthquake" (1951) in my Asian American Lit class today. Her stories, which I first read probably 17 years ago (!!!), are superbly constructed, subtly layered, and devastating. They still take my breath away.
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans Megareview for September 26 2012

In this post, reviews of: Vaddey Ratner’s In the Shadow of the Banyan (Simon & Schuster, 2012); David Yoo’s The Choke Artist (Grand Central Publishing, 2012); Alex Kuo’s Panda Diaries (University of Indianapolis Press, 2006); Henry Chang’s Chinatown Beat (Soho Press, 2007) and Year of the Dog (Soho Press, 2008); Kim Sunee’s Trail of Crumbs (Grand Central Publishing 2008); Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost (Vintage, 2001); John Hamamura’s Color of the Sea (Anchor, 2007).

A Review of Vaddey Ratner’s In the Shadow of the Banyan (Simon & Schuster, 2012).



I believe Vaddey Ratner’s In the Shadow of the Banyan is the first novel written by an American author of Cambodian ancestry. Cambodian American literature has been perhaps not surprisingly dominated by the memoir and autobiography as a form; there was one chapbook that I recall reading as well by Sarith Peou that came out of Tinfish Press called Corpse Watching.

skim666 has already posted two megareviews on the Cambodian American memoir; they can be found here:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/134888.html

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/133322.html

Interestingly enough, Ratner’s In the Shadow of the Banyan concludes with an author’s note where she basically reveals that the story of a young girl named Raami who survives the reign of the Khmer Rouge. The choice then to fictionalize much of her own life is an interesting one and it seems that based upon the author’s note that her decision was largely related to the fact that she had to compress certain events together. Part of the issue is clearly related to the fact that Ratner is attempting to convey a story that will in part be enthralling to readers, which begs the question of how audience and capital ultimately influence and perhaps even distort the way that historical events can be represented. In any case, the novel basically follows Raami’s harrowing journey as she is moved from one location to another, basically separated from more and more family members, until she is practically by herself for long periods, doing whatever task that the revolutionary soldiers are forcing her to do. She must endure several incredible tragedies: her father is taken away and assumed to have been executed for his intellectual-class background, her Uncle kills himself, her Grandmother (named Grandmother Queen) goes insane having endure living with the dead bodies of family members (Uncle’s wife and children). Raami’s sister Radana dies from malaria; this occurs due to the fact that Radana was left without supervision for sometime and is exposed to the elements. By the conclusion of the narrative, of the core family members who had begun the flight from Phnom Penh, only Raami and her mother are actually alive. If it seems like the novel is a brutal read, it really is, but there are moments when Ratner punctuates the traumas being endured with beautiful descriptions of the landscape that almost pop up unbidden. These passages perhaps amplify the aesthetic of trauma in that we cannot quite comprehend the juxtaposition of impressive vistas against the constant fear of torture and execution. The other element to consider is the nature of retrospective narration. The novel is told in the first person past tense and it is only until the very ending where we get a sense that the story is being told retrospectively. Indeed, we understand quite intuitively from the very beginning that the narrative cannot really be told from such a young girl’s perspective, which makes us wonder about why the revelation concerning the retrospective aspect until the end? In any case, I plan to teach this novel in the fall and some of these questions are sure to be a part of my discussion. If you have secondary materials that you would recommend to read alongside this novel, just let me know.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/In-Shadow-Banyan-A-Novel/dp/1451657706/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345949356&sr=8-1&keywords=In+the+Shadow+of+the+Banyan

A Review of David Yoo’s The Choke Artist (Grand Central Publishing, 2012).




In Confessions of a Choke Artist, David Yoo, author of a number of young adult fictions (including The Detention Club, which was earlier reviewed on Asian American literature fans), turns to a little bit of navel-gazing in a comic memoir that speaks to an individual crumbling under the burdens of the model minority stereotype. I’ve always admired those willing to write memoirs simply for the fact that it is ultimately such an intimate form—to really pen an engaging work, one must be willing to plumb potentially embarrassing or difficult moments in life. Yoo excels in this area. He admits to, for instance, his insecurity over his masculinity, heterosexuality, and his racial difference, a combination that results in his attempts to woo a number of different girls. In the later years of high school and college, Yoo attempts to aggressively change his physique as a way to measure up to his conceptions of the masculine ideal. He explores his thorny relationship with his family, one made complicated by the fact that his older sister is the poster girl for the model minority stereotype, especially when she later is admitted to and attends Yale. Further still, given his inclination to bounce around from one temp job to another, his career trajectory seems rather desultory. Yoo finds it difficult to ever find favor in his parents’ eyes; in one tragicomic chapter, he returns home for his father’s birthday to discover that his father has taken on what seems to be a surrogate son. Another chapter explores how Yoo once hoodwinked a coworker into believing he was actually Japanese. Perhaps, though, one of the most important moments in the memoir occurs quite late when Yoo must consider his racial identity with respect to his creative interests: “Was I shying away from writing about myself? Maybe I was leery of being tagged an ethnic writer. The fact that I could spot a novel written by an Asian writer from a mile away at the bookstore did grate on me—always that bambooish font, or at least a serpentine flair to the jacket design, and I knew the insiders were going to be littered with italicized Asian entrees” (252). Though Yoo finds himself steering clear of any Orientalist impulses, he comes to realize that he “never finished’ some of his stories “because the narrators’ motivations never made any sense, thereby rending them unlikable” (252). Yoo adds that such stories “were merely flimsily disguised masks for the story I really wanted to write, about a twentysomething Asian guy trying to come to terms with a lifetime of self-loathing” (262). In this final goal, Yoo’s The Choke Artist brilliantly succeeds and manages to put a large dent into the model minority ethos that has cast such a large shadow over Asian Americans everywhere.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Choke-Artist-Confessions-Underachiever/dp/0446573450/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343067090&sr=8-1&keywords=David+Yoo


A Review of Timeri N. Murari’s The Taliban Cricket Club (Ecco, 2012).



Timeri N. Murari’s novels The Taliban Cricket Club certainly should be noted for its wonderful title, a narrative whose interesting premise involves the Taliban’s attempt to restore its international image by forming its own cricket team. Murari is the author of a number of novels and other publications, most of which have not seen publication in the states (these include The Imperial Agent and The Last Victory). The Taliban Cricket Club is told in the first person by an enterprising female journalist, Rukhsana, who lives in Afghanistan. The novel’s early plot involves Rukhsana discovering that she must report on the Taliban’s attempts to reform its image through the construction of cricket clubs, who will then represent the country in international competitions. Rukhsana’s life is turned upside down when a Talib Leader named Wahidi desires to marry her. Though Rukhsana is already promised to a man named Shaheen (who has left the country), Wahidi and his ally Droon look to make Rukhsana’s life a literal living hell. Of course, no romance plot would be complete without more drama; Rukhsana herself still has feelings for an Indian man named Veer that she met while completing some university schooling in India. It is while in India that Rukhsana also learns to play cricket, so when she decides to disguise herself as a man named Babur in order to escape the attentions of the Talib who are after her, she puts these skills to use in coaching the local team in cricket. Murari’s story is based upon an actual social context in which the Taliban attempted to reconstruct its image through the sport of cricket competitions. Murari’s novel finds its political texture especially through the plight of free journalism under the regime of the Taliban as well as the general oppression that the many Afghan characters experience during that period. Though Murari does have a very intriguing overarching plotline, one of the challenges of reading through this narrative appears in the use of flashback sequences that can sometimes abruptly shift the flow. This novel clearly adds to the growing interest by South Asian Anglophone writers concerning their proximity to the Middle East and this novel could easily be read alongside Jamil Ahmad’s The Wandering Falcon, Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya’s The Watch, and Nadeem Aslam’s The Wasted Vigil.


Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Taliban-Cricket-Club-Novel/dp/0062091255/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345135909&sr=8-1&keywords=Taliban+Cricket+Club


A Review of Alex Kuo’s Panda Diaries (University of Indianapolis Press, 2006).



I have always appreciated Alex Kuo’s rather satirical and darkly comic writings. In Panda Diaries, Kuo explores conceptions of preservation, especially as related to indigenous communities and endangered species in China. Of course, what seems to be the literal issues at play in the novel are masking the issue of “preserving” or even allowing for political freedoms. The main character, Colonel Ge, is a fascinating character who must consider how to respond to the increasing militarism directed at Tiananmen Square dissidents. He is in a complicated marriage to an academic who believes that her intellectual pursuits are being stymied by the assumption that her work is too bourgeous and elitist. They are both so focused on their careers that they arrive at particular social events separately, as they are often acting in official and professional capacities. They have one young son and when Ge’s wife considers taking a position at a different institution, they must make a difficult decision about how to negotiate their careers with respect to their personal lives. Perhaps, though, the most interesting element in this novel is the early period of Ge’s life, the years he spent with an indigenous group known as the Oroqens and the surreal inclusion of another character, Panda, that serves as a useful foil for Ge, as he sorts out his next move. At one point, the narrator reveals: “There are now more than 10,000 Oroqens. Since the government started helping them in 1951, six have graduated from college, sixty-four from technical schools, and more than two hundred from high school. Some of them have become teachers and government officials, and every year Oroqen singers, dancers, and storytellers travel to Beijing in October to perform in the National Day celebrations at Tiananmen Square in front of Premier Li Peng and state television cameras” (70). The discourse of cultural preservation being considered here is compared against the nature of political oppression during the same period; how does a the nation-state then reconcile certain policies and approaches toward bio-regulation the novel seems to ask us? What is the purpose of preservation at all and how does it promote its own form of violence and brutality? Of course, Kuo is always pushing boundaries in other ways. The final sequence of this fictional work is actually an alphabetically oriented poem, linking various “animal” type words together from “albatross” to “yak.” The dynamic wordplay reminds us of the Kuo’s intent to playfully critique how we attempt to taxonomically configure the world around us.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Panda-Diaries-Alex-Kuo/dp/088093865X/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1338057787&sr=8-1

A Review of Henry Chang’s Chinatown Beat (Soho Press, 2007) and Year of the Dog (Soho Press, 2008).



So, I somehow “lost” my copy of Chinatown Beat and Year of the Dog in the black hole of my office. This event has encouraged me to engage a large office purge and I’ve begun to toss out and give away a number of books that I haven’t read in quite a long time. In the process, I found Chinatown Beat and Year of the Dog. I read Chinatown Beat after Year of the Dog, so there was a little bit of readerly disorientation for me. In this particular work, Jack Yu is still working the titular Chinatown beat. His connections to the local Chinatown area allow him to engage his various investigations with a different perspective. There are a number of different issues that come up. On the one hand, a very powerful underworld boss, Uncle Four, is murdered. On the other, there is a serial rapist of young Chinese American children on the loose. Jack is tasked to help solve both cases. Jack must employ whatever tools he has to his advantage. There is his long ago childhood friend, Lucky, who has now become a Chinatown mob boss. There is Alexandra Chow, an employee at a progressive political organization who finds the police officers to be cogs in the wheel of true justice. There is Ah Por, the Chinatown elder who possesses occult knowledge that may be able to point him in the right directions. Chang has an interesting writing style. He uses a third person omniscient perspective that shifts from one character to another. This mode can sometimes be confusing, but it does allow us to follow a wonderful femme fatale character named Mona who seeks to turn the tables on the various men who have taken advantage of her over and over again. Some of the reviews I briefly browsed describe this novel as noirish and this novel both relishes in that form but also explodes it precisely because Jack is able to access Chinatown in a way his fellow police officers often cannot. One of the most pivotal scenes occurs when Jack is able to get a Chinatown resident to allow him to interview a relative who has been sexually assaulted, in part because he happens to be Chinese and possesses linguistic and cultural facility to keep the family at ease. Chinatown Beat is a particularly notable and auspicious beginning to the Jack Yu series and the conclusion sees Jack exiting the local precinct for a different part of New York City.




I actually accidentally started the Jack Yu series with mystery #2, Year of the Dog. I was really surprised this novel, which was certainly noirish in character, but had much less of a traditional detective mystery plot to it. There are many dead bodies, but there aren’t always clear indicators of who perpetrated the crimes. In this novel, detective Jack Yu is outside of the Chinatown precinct, but still realizes how deep his connections to Chinatown still remain: “Jack felt it again, the tension at the back of his neck, the reasons why he had to leave the Fifth Precinct. The Chinatown way, the Chinese mistrust of policemen and government officials, a historical divide covering centuries of corruption in China and Hong Kong, where they’d refined corruption to an art form” (emphasis original, 60). If there is the presence of an old world way, this novel is intent in showing us, as with any great noir, that the divide between heroes and villains is always a little bit murky and that justice is just as difficult to pinpoint. Further still, his boyhood friend, Lucky, who is now part of an organized crime cartel looks to maintain control over the various Chinatown gangs. Embroiled in all of this is a bookie dying of cancer named Sai Go, who also has one of the most poignant narrative arcs in his relationship with an aging, single mother named Bo. The novel is particularly notable for its attention to the contemporary social contexts for New York City’s Chinatown and is reminiscent of Ed Lin’s Robert Chow detective series. For instance, the novel reveals how the demographics of the Chinese immigrant populations have changed with a larger percentage coming being of Fukienese background. Likewise, the organized crime rings must attend to this shift in the immigrant population and look to exploit any possible immigration dynamics. Thus, Chang’s primary goal in writing this novel seems to be an exploration of these organized crime dynamics and how they can embroil not only criminals and police officers, but also more ordinary individuals who get caught in the crossfire.

Eventually, after all is said and done, I hope the office purge will produce book three of the series entitled Red Jade!

Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Chinatown-Beat-Detective-Jack-Yu/dp/1569474788/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1348554620&sr=1-1&keywords=Henry+Chang

http://www.amazon.com/Year-Dog-Henry-Chang/dp/B005M50GD4/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1348554620&sr=1-3&keywords=Henry+Chang

A Review of Kim Sunee’s Trail of Crumbs (Grand Central Publishing 2008).



It’s been awhile since I’ve reviewed a memoir. This one will be relatively short, but I just wanted to say that Trail of Crumbs is an interesting addition to the KAAD (Korean American Adoptee) literature in that it does not focus so much on questions of the birth family, but rather on how one constructs new kinships, when one is “orphaned.” I put the word “orphan” in quotations only because the circumstances of Kim Sunee’s background are hazy at best, as she is left in an open air market, and later placed in an orphanage. She is then adopted by an American G.I. and his wife and grow ups in New Orleans. While her relationship to her adopted family is not always optimal, Kim Sunee’s narrative nevertheless draws much emotional force from this intial concept of kinship. From New Orleans, Kim Sunee is drawn to France and from there the bulk of the memoir is spent on the complicated relationship with Olivier Baussan, the founder of the cosmetics company, L’Occitane. While Olivier is quite well off, his control over her is certainly alarming, but given Kim Sunee’s still developing sense of self, she does not find his controlling ways to be too problematic at first. Interspersed with her search for “home,” Kim Sunee includes original recipes. At first, I was a little bit perplexed at their inclusion, but given the fact that the memoir is invested in psychoanalysis, one can’t help but think her turn to cooking is one way in which to address the hunger she has felt for a stable domestic life. Because Kim Sunee’s voice is so assured and her style so poetic, the memoir succeeds even when the narrative starts to meander toward the conclusion.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Crumbs-Hunger-Love-Search/dp/0446697907/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1284087464&sr=8-1

A Review of Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost (Vintage, 2001)



This review is going to be on the very short side. I am considering teaching Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost this fall in a course on trauma theory and Asian American literature. Ondaatje is always hard to situate from a US context, but because parts of this book are set in the U.S., I believe it can be at least elliptically related in this way. Nevertheless, most of the book is actually set in Sri Lanka. The main character is Anil Tissera, a forensic anthropologist, who returns to Sri Lanka to help identify ancient bones. Among these bones are ones that are significantly “newer.” Indeed, a set of bones belongs to a person who had died recently and the book is propelled in part by the quest Anil takes to identify this individual (who is nicknamed Sailor). I found the novel absolutely fascinating and look forward to potentially having discussions about the vexed politics surrounding the Sri Lankan Civil War context and its depiction within the fictional landscape.

Buy the Book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Anils-Ghost-Novel-Michael-Ondaatje/dp/0375724370/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277265230&sr=8-1

A Review of John Hamamura’s Color of the Sea (Anchor, 2007).



This novel has been sitting on my shelf for a couple of years. I’ve been waiting to dust it off to read it, but it wasn’t the right time to read it yet. Color of the Sea is a historical fiction in that it is set roughly 20th century. The narrative revolves for the most part around Sam Hamada, who arrives in Hawaii as a young man of 9, joining his father for work on plantations. He eventually moves to Lodi, California, a small agricultural town outside of Sacramento, populated in part by Sam’s relatives and by other Japanese Americans. There he meets a woman named Keiko, who becomes his main romantic interest. An earlier, but serious dalliance with the daughter of a madam leads Sam to believe he is already betrothed, leading to the novel’s most unsuccessful sequence. Here, the novel struggles to overcome some of the more maudlin aspects of the romance plot, but nevertheless later finds surer footing in the final sequence, which inevitably includes the problematic events that lead up to and include World War II. Despite the fact that the plot must tread such perilous territories and we obviously worry for the fate of many characters, Hamamura has an obvious gift with a kind of historical narrating voice, which certainly draws in readerly interests. Color of the Sea adds to the rich and growing tradition of sansei-generation Japanese American writers who have been considering the internment camp experience directly within their cultural productions.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Color-Sea-John-Hamamura/dp/0307386074/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1348554284&sr=1-1&keywords=John+Hamamura
 
 
23 September 2012 @ 02:40 pm
Raza Ali Hasan's Grieving Shias (The Sheep Meadow Press, 2006) is a collection of short, lyrical poems that bring together historical figures from the Middle East and the history of contact between the East and West.



Hasan's book would be wonderful to read along with historical materials that help to flesh out the people, dates, and events that he references throughout. Since I am, like many Americans probably, woefully ignorant about the history of the Middle East/West Asia, I could only read the poems at a level unengaged with that historical depth.

In the second poem of the collection, "In that Part of the World," Hasan's stanzas provide brief snapshots of the people and places of Afghanistan in ways that both familiarize and defamiliarize for a Western audience:
II

Locked in, its people:
nomadic, peasant or simply pleasant,
green-eyed, blue-eyed, brown-eyed or simply wide-eyed.

Its great teacher: Noor Mohammad Taraki,
the proud translator of great works
into Pashto, Dari, Durkic and Uzbek.
Its cities: Herat, Kabul, Kandar.
This catalog of eye-colors for the diverse people, the languages spoken, and some cities offer a glimpse of "that part of the world."

More than anything, Hasan's lyric sutures the historical with the cultural and religious, bridging Western reductions of the region's people into an ahistorical, barbarous mass with the complexity of long traditions that aim for the transcendant and the sublime. One example of this dynamic is in the poem "Cathedral Mosque":
The cathedral mosque appears as it must, at night,
to the seminary student finished with his studies,
on his way to the outskirts of Kabul to fight the Russians,
through the arcing pair of windshield wipers,
as a lingering, rain-drenched dream
on a mirroring lake by the road,
with its four minarets puncturing the clouds,
as if stapled to the sky,
its gusts of minnows arcing west, now east
over its watery marble courtyard sliding into water
as the cathedral and the mosque come apart.
The notes at the back of the book offer a few useful points of departure for tracking down some of the references and allusions. For this poem in particular, the note reads, "K.N. Chaudhuri's term for masjid-i-jami in his book Asia Before Europe," thus linking the startling image and idea of the cathedral mosque to a concrete text and discussion.
 
 
Current Mood: coldcold
 
 
22 September 2012 @ 06:34 pm



The book China Dolls, by Michelle Yu and Blossom Kan, is a Sex in the City -esque story that follows three friends on their journey of exploring what it means to be a Chinese American woman. The three women, M.J. , Alex, and Lin, have to struggle with the expectations set for them by their heritage, and at the same time, follow their dreams and deal with the pressure of being viewed differently in worlds dominated by men.

Yu and Kan make it a point to repeat the theme of dealing with cultural identity throughout the entire book. The book is sub-divided into 3 sections, each written in the perspective of one of the girls as they all experience 1 year together. M.J., a sportswriter belongs to the first section of the book. Her occupation places her in the midst of older white male counterparts, vying for the same interviews and sports stories. Marked by her race and gender, she has to work twice as hard as her colleagues to prove herself. At the same time her family and other friends constantly remind her that she is Chinese and should find a good Chinese man to settle down with, many of whom also have the traditional notion that Chinese woman should be the homemakers. Alex shares the same set of problems as she is a high-powered attorney where being a woman and Asian is a rarity. Lastly Lin follows suit as she is a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch. The book also explores other themes such as finding love, and letting go of the past.

The men come in two flavors in this story, Caucasian or Chinese. The authors don’t discriminate one race over the other; instead they portray the value and vices of both kinds of men. For example two main Chinese male characters in the story are Ming and Stephen. They each embody two sides of the spectrum; Ming is far more traditional than Stephen. Ming is characterized as the brotherly figure that looks out for the girls. Throughout the story he constantly warns the girls about white men, telling the girls that they will leave them heartbroken and that their parents would never accept them. On the other hand Stephen is characterized as almost the perfect Chinese husband. He has a good job, comes from a good family, he is adoring, and offers a stable relationship. Indeed other minor characters shape the portrayal of Chinese men in the book as well. One character Grant embodies the negative stereotype; he expects Chinese women to take care of their men, stay at home and raise children, and forget about having careers. Grant is portrayed as a close minded traditionalist.

Caucasian men are portrayed differently in the book. The main characters are generally charming, outgoing and more appealing than their Chinese counterparts. Indeed Alex and M.J. both end up with white boyfriends by the end of the book. Jagger is M.J.’s guy and he is portrayed as an outgoing jokester with a unique sense of style. Dressed in jeans and wacky t-shirts he is far from the clean cut figure that girls or even Chinese families would possibly accept. Brady, Alex’s man, is an assertive, charming lawyer. He is protective of Alex and is there for her. Although the Caucasian men may seem generally better they do have their flaws as well. Many of the minor characters like to flaunt their money around and some are intimidated by successful women. Kevin, M.J.’s former love interest is incapable of committing to her. Hailing from a posh family he broke up with her in high school yet met her again. He prefers to keep is options open rather than be tied down. Drew, a ladies man goes out with Lin however do to his spiteful nature and lack of trust inevitably explodes at Lin when their interoffice relationship is discovered. In the end Lin, goes back to her former ex Stephen. She misses the stability and care that he offered, showing that she still values what an idealized Chinese man can offer.

Although these men work with the women on a daily basis, the reason I believe that they chose to involve themselves with these men is because they offered risk, excitement, and even a chance to rebel against their cultural norm of being with Chinese men. As 2nd generation Chinese-Americans I believe Yu and Kan are trying to send the message that as the Chinese and American culture mix, it is time to break away from being overly traditional and embrace the idea of the strong, independent woman shared by feminists. 

I found this book a good read and found that the story and culture is something that many Asian Americans can relate to. The book does a great job of balancing the positives of the culture such as the close knit family, holidays and traditions, and emphasis of Chinese virtues with the negatives that come along with it such as the expectations, lectures, and over protectiveness. The book is about trying to balance the pressures of Chinese culture and American culture, and in the end, it suggests that it is the heterogeneous mix of cultures and values that make us who we are.
 
 
Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
 
 
21 September 2012 @ 09:01 pm
In his latest book Sorry Please Thank You: Stories (Pantheon Books, 2012), Charles Yu returns to science fiction short stories that move quickly from idea to idea, exploring a range of topics about the limits of the human, of understanding reality via language, and of the tropes in science fiction (Yu's signature metafictional narratives are often present).



The collection begins with a page of epigraphs, including one from Edward Sapir and another from Benjamin Lee Whorf. People who've studied linguistics or literature may be familiar with the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis on the linguistic construction of reality. That is, they argued that a culture's language shapes the people's perceptions of reality and ability to comprehend the world around them. Yu is clearly interested in how language and narrative shape the reality around us, and science fiction in particular offers many ways to play with that conception of the relationship between words and reality.

The epigraph page rounds out the two quotations from Sapir and Whorf with a third quotation from Anonymous--"Sorry." Thus, as early as the epigraph page, Yu reveals his interest in playing with genre conventions. Epigraphs are meant to be words from particular writers, and to have an epigraph from an anonymous writer is unusual unless the quotation is a famous saying. However, "Sorry," is merely a word. Stripped of context or identifiable author, it makes a curious epigraph. Who is sorry? For what? Is he sincere? Who is he apologizing to? These questions remain unanswered but create a framework for the stories that follow.

The thirteen stories in the collection are divided into four sections: Sorry, Please, Thank You, and All of the Above. The table of contents, like the cover image, preface these terms with a familiar checkbox from web browsers. Structured as answers to a multiple choice, the stories thus suggest the ideas of selection, of right and wrong, and of being quizzed. The stories are hardly like an exam, though. They exhibit Yu's characteristic humor and tongue-in-cheek, self-deprecating commentary.

Many of the stories are in the first-person narrative point of view, with narrators whose voices are often indistinguishable (something I found frustrating in his first collection). There are also first-person narrative voices with the name Charles Yu, as was the case in Yu's novel How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe. In general, I was still invested in these stories because though the characters were not always distinctive enough, the different ideas each story took on helped to make the experience of reading through each one worthwhile. A few of the stories take on other narrative perspectives, though, such as "Adult Contemporary" in the third-person point of view about Murray, a man who purchases a life simulator product, and "The Book of Categories" which takes the form of an outlined definition or description of the eponymous book.

In the bulk of the stories, however, Yu creates first-person narratives that explore the interiority of less-than-heroic protagonists in interesting science-fictional situations. The opening story, "Standard Loneliness Package," concerns a man who works for a company that allows the wealthy to transfer their pain to others. The protagonist experiences physical and emotional pain like migraines, guilt, and grief. He takes over the clients' consciousness when they break up with someone or when they attend a funeral. The story thoughtfully explores a range of human pain and dwells on the question of what it means for humanity when even this experience of pain can be bought and sold. This story was my favorite of the collection, the one I felt most thoroughly delved into the interesting novum that Yu created as the context of the narrative.

One of the other stories that stuck out for me include the second story, "First Person Shooter," in which the protagonist works the graveyard shift at a big box store and encounters a zombie woman one night. He ends up helping her decide on a series of purchases that suggests she is preparing for a date. Things take a turn, though, when the zombie woman encounters the demo sequence for a first-person shooter game about killing zombies. As with many contemporary stories about zombies, this brief story traces the contours of what we "know" about zombies as brain-dead, brain-starved creatures and what it might mean to discover otherwise. I also liked "Human for Beginners: Chapter 5: Extended Family Relations," which takes the form of a how-to manual like some of the sections in Yu's novel. This how-to guide is for aliens who find themselves confused about how to deal with cousins, uncles, and other family members who are neither intimates, fellow workers, nor enemies--people who exist in a kind of in-between space with respect to the axes of blood-relation, sexuality, friendship, and other ways of defining relationships.

A number of the stories dealt with the idea of alternate realities or other versions of the self, including stories that were conversations between those selves. Many of the stories also included details of a hyper-consumerist world where everything is bought and sold (as with the experience of pain in the first story). And most of the stories also engage with familiar science fiction narratives or tropes. In "Yeoman," for example, the story concerns the anonymous yeoman introduced each week on a space exploration television show who meets with an untimely end (the story in particular seems to poke fun at Star Trek).

All in all, Yu's latest collection continues in much the same vein as his earlier publications. As I discovered with his novel, I like his writing best when his stories really dive into the details of the science fictional universe he has created, and I suspect that in general I prefer Yu in long form rather than in short story collections where there is a nominal movement between stories but the lack of distinctiveness between characters often leaves me wanting more.
 
 
Current Mood: sillysilly
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for September 14 2012

In this post reviews of: Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (Vintage, 2009); Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table (Vintage, 2012); Leonard Chang’s Crossings (Black Heron Press, 2009); Eric Gamalinda’s People are Strange (Black Lawrence Press, 2012); Melissa De la Cruz’s Serpent’s Kiss (Hyperion, 2012); Gina Apostol’s Gun Dealers’ Daughter (WW Norton, 2012); Cynthia Arrieu-King’s People are Tiny in Paintings of China (Octopus Books, 2010); Jenny Zhang’s Dear Jenny, We are All Find (Octopus Books, 2012).

A Review of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.



First off: a caveat. Kazuo Ishiguro isn’t an Asian American writer per se, but we’ve always been troubling definitions within this blogging community and I see no reason to discontinue the practice. Indeed, Ishiguro is always a bit difficult to situate from any ethnic literary tradition because after his first two novels, there hasn’t been much related to Japanese or Japanese-British figures within his fiction. Never Let Me Go operates in much this fashion as the race of its major three character are left unmarked. Kathy H. narrates the novel and she is the prism through which we see a love triangle eventually emerge among her and the other two major characters: Tom and Ruth. She’s a relatively unreliable narrator, prone to many anachronic digressions. The first sixty pages or so of the novel is set at Hailsham, what seems to be an exclusive boarding school for “gifted” students. As it stands, I’ve been meaning to read this novel forever. I let the hype get to me and possessed expectations that would have made it impossible for Never Let me Go to live up to. And now let me lead on to spoilers for the novel.

**Spoiler Alert**

I knew for some reason that this novel was about clones. Knowing this revelation, the novel didn’t have much traction for me. In some ways, I found the relative nonchalance of the characters concerning their fates as clones and as essentially human reservoirs for harvestable organs to be a more than a little disconcerting. I suppose I expected them to act more like the Replicants from Blade Runner, refusing the expectation that they must eventually donate vital organs for “true” human others. The discourse on cloning is, I think, far more interesting than the actual romance plot itself, which is a problem because so much of the novel sets up the romantic tensions among the three characters. We are lead to think it tragic to believe that the two clones who finally end up with each other: Kathy H. and Tommy are not able to get a deferral, some mythical chance to live together for three to five years or some such short amount of time, prior to the expectation that they would have to give up their vital organs. Here, I think is where the novel falls shortest: the romantic attraction and connection between Kathy H. and Tommy. Nevertheless, Ishiguro’s talent cannot obviously be denied. He is a seductive storyteller; we’re drawn in despite the occasional glaciation that the plot experiences.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Never-Let-Me-Kazuo-Ishiguro/dp/1400078776/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1347512802&sr=8-1

A Review of Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table (Vintage, 2012).



The hardcover edition of The Cat’s Table came out the year before, as is typical, but I haven’t gotten around to reviewing this title until it has come around in paperback. If you’ve had a conversation with me about literature in person, you know I’m always raving about Ondaatje in terms of his style. Even when I don’t find the plotting as compelling, I always savor his multitextured writing. The Cat’s Table seems to be a semi-autobiographical fictional novel concerning a young boy named Michael who is traveling to England from Sri Lanka as a young boy (the year is 1954). It is Ondaatje’s follow-up to Divisadero. He makes fast friends with two other boys, Cassius and Ramadhin, and much of the novel is structured with respect to their many adventures. The beginning arc seems episodic at first, but Ondaatje is a patient writer and the many denizens on board have their various motives for their travels aboard the boat titled The Oronsay (I couldn’t help thinking about Ghosh’s work here with his boat trilogy). The title refers to the fact that those who are of a lesser class status are grouped together in one section of the boat, dine together, and are generally sequestered from other. One nexus point appears around a prisoner who is being transported; the boys are particularly intrigued by his backstory and want to find out more about him. As the novel moves toward the conclusion, the main figures from the boat emerge to the center; the prisoner and his daughter Asutha are somehow intertwined with the life of Michael’s distant cousin, Emily. There is a final sequence that seems speculative in its scope and shows Ondaatje at his best, augmenting the tragedy that seems to have made that journey to England so unforgettable and so heartbreaking. It is this sequence that I believe Ondaatje is working the readers toward, reminding us of the complicated ways that people are bound together by finite moments in the past.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Cats-Table-Vintage-International/dp/0307744418/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1342809913&sr=8-1

A Review of Leonard Chang’s Crossings (Black Heron Press, 2009).



Over the “winter break,” I spent some time catching up on reading that I just haven’t had time to do. One of this pile was Leonard Chang’s latest novel, Crossings, a departure from his Allen Choice trilogy (Underkill, Fade to Clear, and Over the Shoulder), as well as his other detective novel independent from the Choice series (Dispatches from the Cold), but returns to the genre conventions of his debut work, The Fruit ‘N Food. By “genre conventions,” I mean to say that Crossings is more in line with the social realist leanings of The Fruit ‘N Food, where we consider whether or not the racial minority’s trajectory is a product of some innate flaw or the constraining power matrix in which he is enmeshed. The story concentrates its emotional core on Sam, a Korean immigrant and recently widowed, who struggles to rebuild his life in the wake of the death of his beloved wife, Sunny, and the enormous debt he has incurred in order to provide Sunny with the most comfortable palliative care. He has remarried a woman, Hyunjin, who is of mixed race background (her father was an African American soldier; here Chang develops the difficult life of the mixed-race Korean). Sam does not love Hyunjin and also loses touch with his son, David, as he wallows in his melancholy. In order to get himself out of debt, he decides to work for a mob boss named Mr. Oh, someone who already has had long ties with Sam’s brother, Jake, the more successful sibling. The other major plot points involve illegal trafficking in women, where young, single Korean women are duped into immigration schemes that ultimately result in their exploitation, often to the point of their death. Such women are portrayed as hapless victims in which their bodies are ruthlessly brutalized and their psyches completely undone. One of the more fortunate women is Unha, who is “chosen” to work as a hostess and waitress at a hip Korean nightclub. Her fate is distinguished from someone like Minji who is taken to work a massage parlor, where she is conscripted into sex acts with clients. Perhaps, most alarmingly, Chang elucidates on how everyday suburban locations in Silicon Valley, California possess their seedier locations, even in the midst of extreme American wealth and affluence. In this banality of the everyday, Chang slowly reveals the continuing challenges faced by Korean immigrants, as they continue to face the harsh reality of transnational movement and class immobility. Chang’s prose here also seems to be a departure from his detective series and does remind me much more of his debut work in its sparseness, a characteristic which fits the somber lives of so many of these characters. If there are flaws in the story, it is that it seemed as if there was a pressure to more firmly resolve each major characters’ arc, which results in an epilogue that serves to distract rather than to complete the novel. In some ways, we already know that there can only be one ending for a man so desperate as Sam, someone willing to do anything to find the kind of “pure” love he idealizes with his first wife. Everyone else is merely an afterthought.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Crossings-Leonard-Chang/dp/0930773926/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347580820&sr=8-1&keywords=Leonard+Chang


A Review of Eric Gamalinda’s People are Strange (Black Lawrence Press, 2012).


BEST COVER EVER! Flip it over and then you get a mermaid!

Ah, what a pleasure to be reading Eric Gamalinda’s first American fictional publication. Like Gina Apostol, Gamalinda has published extensively in Filipino presses, but has had limited publications stateside. He is author of two poetry collections which have come out in the United States (Zero Gravity and Amigo Warfare), but his other works such as Peripheral Vision and Empire of Memory are only to be found in the Philippines. I have been able to get some of Gamalinda’s work while up in San Francisco through Arkipelago Books. In People are Strange, Gamalinda’s stories certainly live up to the title. There are colorshifting entities, work drones, poets-turned-con artists, celebrity impersonators, mystics among other such unique figures. One of my favorite stories, “I Alone and the Hours,” involves a woman who keeps receiving e-mails from a husband who has already died in a tragic accident. Believing it to be some kind of hoax, she tracks where the e-mails seem to be coming from only to come to discover something quite extraordinary about the source. This short story sets us up quite well for the others, as something is always slightly off kilter about each narrative. For instance, in “Famous Literary Frauds,” Gamalinda riffs off the infamous case of James Frey. In this case, an aspiring poet and creative writing teacher ends up colluding with a young and attractive looking, but very average student to get his own poetry published. As this student (instead of the teacher) achieves more and more notoriety, the charade becomes difficult to sustain. “People are Strange” was perhaps the most experimental and speculative story in the bunch as it involves an individual who can change color and therefore identities. The narrator also happens to be named Eric Gamalinda: “No, my special talent is this: I can change my color at will, and so thoroughly and flawlessly, that I can actually pass myself off as white, black, Asian, Hispanic, or, when I resume being Eric Gamalinda, as Vaguely Pacific Island Slash Questionably Latin, which I guess is what I am—a mutt, a mishmash, a miscellany, allegedly born of Chinese and Spanish great-grandparents, raise in Manila and educated under an American system established at the turn of the 20th century” (60-61). While such a confession might seem to be a veiled allegory for the nature of writing itself, Gamalinda pushes this literalization quite far, as it becomes clear that the character has been part of a larger experiment in which he has become the only survivor. We revel in the idiosyncratic nature of these stories and we’ll hope that Gamalinda has far more in store for us with fictional publications stateside.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/People-Are-Strange-Eric-Gamalinda/dp/1936873133/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343182899&sr=8-1&keywords=People+are+Strange+Eric+gamalinda

A Review of Melissa De la Cruz’s Serpent’s Kiss (Hyperion, 2012).



Our favorite witches are back at it again, stirring up a cauldron of trouble in de la Cruz’s follow up to the debut of her series. Serpent’s Kiss follows Freya, Ingrid, and their mother Joanna, as a new set of mysteries and conflicts emerge. Freya must contend with the fact that her lover, Killian, may or may not be involved with the destruction of a mythical bridge. Embroiled in this plot is also Freya’s twin brother, Freddie, who has escaped from limbo and seeks to find a way to cast the blame for the bridge’s destruction upon Killian. Ingrid’s troubles are twofold. On the one hand, she must navigate her growing romantic feelings for Matt Noble, a mortal and police detective. On the other, she is also harboring a group of unruly pixies who can’t seem to remember where they are from. Finally, Joanna finds herself dealing with the affections of two men, while also trying to figure out why a dead witch seems to be haunting her from the grave. Though certainly focused on the female characters, Freya’s twin Freddie also has his hands full as he falls in love with a woman named Hilly and must contend with impressing Hilly’s family who hail from a very affluent and cultured class background. As with all of de la Cruz’s work, she shows a deft hand in the plotting and dealing with changes in narrative perspective. Those who are interested in supernatural elements and romance narratives would be the best audiences for this work. As with much of de la Cruz’s fictions, the story is much more difficult to tether to explicit political or sociocultural contexts. The historical and cultural texts appear most readily in de la Cruz’s flexible use of Nordic and Scandinavian lore; there is also the requisite reconsideration of the American colonial period and the emergence of witch-hunts. After having read a number of de la Cruz’s novels, I can’t seem to recall any first person narratives and it would be interesting to see how the tone of her work might shift in that context.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Serpents-Kiss-Witches-East-Novel/dp/1401323960/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343583548&sr=8-1&keywords=Serpent%27s+kIss

A Review of Gina Apostol’s Gun Dealers’ Daughter (WW Norton, 2012).



Gina Apostol has been one of those writers who has been published elsewhere but not extensively in the U.S. She has been a part of a couple of anthologies, but nothing self-published until the Gun Dealers’ Daughter. This novel was already published in the Philippines via Anvil Press and Apostol has two previous novels (Bibliolepsy and The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata). Apostol is of course indicative of the rather complicated placement of Filipino/American writers. In this novel, our protagonist and narrator is Soledad Soliman, an affluent college age woman who, at the narrative’s inception, seems to be in a confused state. There is some issue with the loss of memory, but slowly, she begins to gain more awareness about her past and her involvement in revolutionary organizations, working to topple Marcos-era governmental supporters. Much of this novel concerns Soledad’s relationship to two other primary revolutionary figures that she meets in college: a dashing and equally affluent young man named Jed and a more working class insurgent known as Soli. The novel begins with the more mundane aspects of their disruptive activities, which include defacement of public properties through graffiti and other urban art. As Soledad (shortened to Sol in the novel and obviously meant to invoke a kind of twinning with Soli) becomes embroiled in revolutionary activities and the stakes become increasingly higher, she begins to understand that all is not as it seems. There are multiple secret agendas being advanced in this novel and Soledad realizes that she is not entirely in control of her participation in these insurgent activities. Indeed, her parents are very much a part of the current and corrupt governmental regime, so it becomes clear that Soledad might have become a pawn meant to allow the other insurgents to gain access into her own household. As with much of the Filipino American literature I have read, there is a strong allegorical impulse here concerning the nature of memory and amnesia. Soledad must fight so strongly to retain what had happened in the past. Given her status as a Manila socialite, her movement into revolutionary activities and her subsequent shielding from the most devastating actions that come out of them reveal the ambivalence of crossing class lines. If anything the novel reminds us that those with the most to lose are the ultimately the ones that must be sacrificed to maintain the status quo; all others find safe houses and refuges that ultimately protect them from the most damning of fates. A rather chilling novel.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Gun-Dealers-Daughter-A-Novel/dp/0393062945/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343159926&sr=8-1&keywords=Gina+Apostol

A Review of Jenny Zhang’s Dear Jenny, We are All Find (Octopus Books, 2012).



This review is devoted to Jenny Zhang’s deliciously strange and delightfully naughty poetry collection Dear Jenny, We Are All Find, a book that I believe could only be written by someone who is either an immigrant or the child of an immigrant. Who knows, it’s only just a guess but the title was an immediate hit for me precisely because it reminds me of numerous e-mails written by relatives which included the occasional homonymal typo that ended up changing the meaning of an entire sentence. Thus, the titular dear Jenny finds out that “we” are “find” instead of presumably the fact that they are fine. One of my favorites was when a family member would ask me for a “shit” of paper. In any case, you get my drift.

You can find out more about Jenny Zhang here at:

http://www.jennybagel.com/

Zhang’s collection is hard to describe. It seems to be at once both an exploration of language poetry (at least most loosely defined) and lyric stream-of-consciousness. Poems do not necessarily accrue over a sequence to make some sort of transparent meaning; we sometimes wonder if the lyric speaker is constantly poking fun at some subject, us, probably both and all at the same time. Language is that thing that confounds us, overpowers us, and in the end, we attempt to reconstruct in some sort of way to dramatize these idiosyncrasies, but enough babble. Let’s see an example shall we? For instance, who is this “Michael”?

We find you strange
this wire of weird hanging ass-out
the fiery cleavage, the eternal spotlight
of a sunset line of weirdness inside me
weirding out your mother
who was always weirder than my mother
who was as weird as the first Chinese person
to say his name was chinga and the rapper
chingy took that and made a song
about his dick that my kids memorized
for school where I teach old people yoga (56)

I agree with the “we” that this Michael must be “strange.” What I find absolutely fun and refreshing about Zhang’s poetry is how one line simply falls into the next, linked by a word or phrase and by sonic connections (alliterative primarily), and of course, those funky turns of phrases that defy easy explanation (“sunset line of weirdness” anyone?). “Michael” is pretty indicative of the collection as a whole, but I’ll leave you with one more mischievous gem:

Bloodturd, my friend

bloodturd, my friend
you are ophelia’s Chinese cousin
and she is also a turd
this stool I stand on has so much meaning
I cry because of the meaning
I cry because of feelings
I find you friendly
exhumed like facing spirits
who give each other
wonderful blowjobs

and that’s that (74)

Somewhere Shakespearians are probably irate that Ophelia, bloodturd, and “wonderful blowjobs” could appear in the same poem, but wouldn’t the Bard have approved of such bawdy juxtapositions, aimed square at the revelers in the pit? We’re certainly not all on those balconies.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Dear-Jenny-Are-All-Find/dp/0985118202/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1342370613&sr=8-1&keywords=Jenny+Zhang

A Review of Cynthia Arrieu-King’s People are Tiny in Paintings of China (Octopus Books, 2010).



When Iris Law at the Lantern Review picked PATIPOC as part of its reading recommendations, I meant to get on this collection right away, but my poetry time has dwindled significantly because my first book project has focused on formal elements in Asian American fiction. Poetry, though, has always been my first love when it comes to literature and it is the form I naturally gravitate to as a creative writer. PATIPOC is of course a particularly textured work, the kind that revels in the expansiveness that is the English language. Iris’s brief review is probably better than any sort of summation that I could make about PATIPOC and I’m linking it here:

http://www.lanternreview.com/blog/2011/12/21/staff-picks-holiday-reading-recommendations-2011/

But I wanted to discuss the framing device that Arrieu-King employs as part of her collection and consider its larger effect on the poems as a whole. In Iris’s post, her one reference to an ethnoracial background is located in the term “family heritage,” but what makes PATIPOC such an interesting collection to me is the italicized sections that begin every major break in the poems. These are meditative renderings on the nature of race and ethnicity as they erupt in everyday moments, much of which detail the complications of mixed ancestries. The first lines of these italicized sections roots us in such a context: “I visit the premier of The Joy Luck Club in France as an American Scholar with a French Mother and Chinese Father” (1). If there is an invocation an autobiographical sentiment, it occurs immediately. Of course, the reference to The Joy Luck Club, perhaps one of the ur-texts of Asian American literature given its popularity and commercial appeal, roots us firmly within a particular ethnoracial tradition. At the same time, there is that question of what this work means for this subject; she cries through most of the movie and later discovers that her “white women” friends also do, too, there is that question of what art might mean based upon any subjective variations in the audience. The next sequence details the lyric speaker being confused for “Cherokee,” while the following two also deal with questions of ethnic and racial identity. As we move into the collection, Arrieu-King does not necessarily remain invested in explicit lyrics related to race and ethnicity, so these framing sections, which appear periodically, do the work of reminding us of a kind of contextual scaffolding in which the autobiographical lyric rests. In intimate love poems like “White Suitcase” or the last leavetaking depicted in the elegiac “Daylight Saving Time,” Arrieu-King is always positioning us both within the confines of specific poems and the authorial inspirations that lead us further afield into the realm where aesthetics and politics productively combine. A sumptuous work.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/People-Are-Tiny-Paintings-China/dp/0980193850/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343958018&sr=8-1&keywords=People+are+tiny+Paintings
 
 
I came across Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan's first book of poetry by happenstance while browsing the Housing Works Bookstore's online inventory. It's been almost a decade since I visited the bookstore in New York City, but I was happy to be able to purchase some used books from them from afar.

Kageyama-Ramakrishnan has two books of poems out: Shadow Mountain (2008) and Bear, Diamonds and Crane (2011), both from Four Way Books. (stephenhongsohn wrote a thoughtful review of the press's Asian American poetry offerings at Lantern Review a few years ago, including about Shadow Mountain.)



As Professor Sohn points out in his review, Kageyama-Ramakrishnan's debut book is interesting as an example of how the experience of Japanese American internment in WWII has echoed across generations. The multi-part poem "Shadow Mountain" in Part II of the book traces this legacy through a series of ruminations on various emotional, physical, and memorial aspects of internment. A few lines sketch out the child's limited perspective on how her father deals with this past:
When I stepped out of the car and stood there
before the vertical and angular pillar,
smaller than the Washington Monument, white
with strokes of Japanese calligraphy,
when someone pointed and said, Your father lived here,
when I saw the trace of the block's rectangle,
when I stepped over the flaked remains of obsidian,
ants as large as my fingernails, when my uncle aimed
his camera at us, when my father tightened and said nothing,
In these lines, the child's first visit to Manzanar includes a series of little observations, a catalog of what is left of Manzanar that only hints at the traumatic significance of the site for an entire generation of Japanese Americans.

One thing I find interesting is how this title poem comes in the center of the book, sandwiched between earlier poems which are focused more on familial and interpersonal subjects and the later poems that explore an even broader range of themes and poetic forms.

My favorite poem of the collection is perhaps the somewhat silly "Feline Reasoning," which explores the fickle and enigmatic nature of domestic cats. The descriptions of cat behavior and the history of cats adopted by the speaker of the poem get mapped onto a history of romantic relationships as well.
In luxury, it gnaws my boots,
shreds my sandals, my Japanese sandals,
 strays,

tucks itself away,
in the closet or cupboard.

It likes my lover who is allergic to it.

In many ways, Bear, Diamonds and Crane reads like an extension of Kageyama-Ramakrishnan's first book. The poems have a similar lyrical style, and there is also a deliberate sequencing of poems in a few larger sections. As in the first collection, this second book covers a range of themes, from family histories to the Japanese American internment, from ruminations on the meanings of Japanese names and words to folk tales old and reimagined. Kageyama-Ramakrishnan also includes brief epigraphs for each of the five sections of the book, with quotations from writers David Mura, Maxine Hong Kinston, Hankuro Wada, Hisako Hibi, and Yei Theodora Ozaki (compiler of Japanese fairy tales).

I also noticed how many of the poems in the collection take as a title a place and date: "Haiku: Southern California, 1973," "Near Owens Valley, 1985," "Inglewood: Past Florence and Normandie, 1990." These poems focus on specific events, often hinting at the tragic or violent. In general, there is a lingering sense of sadness in the poems, with a number of poems touching on accidents and illnesses. "Tale of Hair for My Mother" beings:
I thought I was growing my hair
for a woman with sepsis
and breast cancer.

I now realize I grew each strand
for my mother, bundle
the width of my wrist,

weight I carried
for nine months.
The image is achingly beautiful--imagine the long hair grown to make a wig for someone undergoing chemotherapy and dealing with loss of hair. Wrap that image around that of pregnancy and carrying new life. The juxtaposition is startling.

Many of the poems about the younger generation of Japanese Americans focus on the melancholy of assimilation. "Cousins, 1983" begins:
They spent hours taping
their lids for the desired
lines, glued on lashes

that made them blink like
Disney characters.
The seemingly-innocent desire to turn to cosmetic facial changes caricatures these young cousins as they search for more Caucasian features on their own Japanese faces.

See also an interview with the author at the National Book Critics blog.
 
 
Current Mood: geekygeeky
 
 
10 September 2012 @ 04:48 pm
Koon Woon's poetry book The Truth in Rented Rooms (Kaya Press, 1998) turns on the idea of rooms--inhabiting them, defining them, being defined by them, and so on.



The poems are divided up into a few sections, which seem to correspond to chronological chunks of time and locations: 7th Avenue South (1985-1992), The Morrison (1993-1996), and International Terrace (1996-1998). The poems also seem to straddle reminiscences of a childhood in China with later experiences in the United States. Woon is also fascinated with philosophy, and some of the poems explicitly name figures like Socrates, Meng-Tse, and Heraclitus.

Some of the poems take on a kind of surreal quality. "Goldfish" begins, for example, with the stanza:
The goldfish in my bowl
turns into a carp each night.
Swimming in circles in the day,
regal, admired by emperors,
but each night, while I sleep,
it turns into silver, a dagger
cold and sharp, couched at one spot,
enough to frighten cats.
I love the subtle way that a hint of danger sneaks into the description of the goldfish-turned-carp. The contrast between regal gold and sharp silver is interestingly framed by the reaction of the cats.

As in the above example, many of the poems take as reference the mundane objects of one's room to reflect on more weighty historical and philosophical matters. "In my room..." begins:
In my room the world is true
Simply because I say it is true,
And truth is "spread out, like a patient,
Etherized upon a table..." in many rooms,
Rooms like mine...
And if you come to my room, one of the many
Parallel rooms that connect like the sections
Of a dragon, one black and one golden,
Interwoven and locked in mortal combat...
The reference to Eliot in these lines also demonstrates Woon's expansive reading and his incorporation of other writers' ideas into his work.

My favorite lines from the poem have to be these, which I borrowed for my Facebook status last week:
Would I cease to exist if I didn't think of my dog
Who thinks of me?
These lines humorously and thoughtfully plan on the classic questions of Cartesian philosophy about thought and existence....
 
 
Current Mood: restlessrestless
 
 
04 September 2012 @ 09:18 pm
Linda Furiya's memoir-with-recipes How to Cook a Dragon: Living, Loving, and Eating in China (Seal Press, 2008) caught my eye because in addition to its food-as-identity motif, it also has a narrative that I find particularly intriguing--the Asian American in Asia story and all the ambivalences that arise from that experience. (Also, I just realized that I read back-to-back "how to" titled books....)



Furiya is the author of an earlier memoir, Bento Box in the Heartland: My Japanese Girlhood in Whitebread America, which focuses on the author's experiences in rural Indiana. Her second memoir, How to Cook a Dragon, turns to a later time of her life (when she actually wrote the manuscript for Bento Box, it seems) when she lived in San Francisco, Beijing, and Shanghai with her boyfriend and later husband Eric. Much of the book is about Furiya's difficult relationship with Eric--the early as well as continual signs of a disconnect between them as well as the ways that she kept pushing doubts about their relationship away, submerging her more independent personality to appease him. Despite Furiya's claiming of independence and happiness as a single mother, the book is not so much a feminist treatise as it is a tracing of one woman's desires to fulfill more traditional notions of married happiness.

What I found most emotionally satisfying in the book was Furiya's expressions of how she felt as a Japanese American in China, constantly mistaken for Chinese and then not believed when she tried to explain. The locals sometimes simply thought she was lying to them or that she was somehow mentally deficient in her inability to speak Mandarin. The insights she provides into the (white) American expatriate community in Beijing in the late 1990s are also thoughtful. As one of the expatriates explains to her, there are a few types of Americans who make their way to China and live there, including those who feel a resonance with the language and culture as well as those with more crassly exoticizing desires (white businessmen in search of Chinese women to have sex with or wed).

As you might guess from the title, there is quite a bit of description of the food that Furiya ate and learned to cook in China. Again, she also traces out the way expatriate Americans navigated the availability of foods as well as the exploration of local restaurants.

One of the things that Furiya's memoir really tussles with is the idea of American identity and her insistence on claiming one that is not different from an American identity available to white Americans like Eric. She finds that such an identity is untenable, at least as a totalizing one, even if in moments she can find herself comfortable in that identity. The chapter that sticks out the most in this regards is one that comes about half way through the memoir, describing Furiya's experience of the 9/11 attacks from the distant site of Shanghai. In that moment, she found herself even more strongly tied to her sense of Americanness and felt that only other American expatriates could truly understand the loss she felt in that moment.

Furiya mentions briefly how her move to San Francisco really opened her eyes to the possibility of an Asian American identity (not just the polarized, either-or identities of being Japanese or being American), and I would love to read more about how she came to that realization and what it means to her. She notes that the presence of so many Asian Americans in SF, especially in comparison to her Indiana childhood, was an important aspect of that realization. Being around Asian Americans led her to work with organizations like JACL and to write about Asian American food for the San Francisco Chronicle.
 
 
Current Mood: fullfull
 
 
I've been meaning to read Charles Yu's How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe (Pantheon, 2010) for awhile since stephenhongsohn posted a review. Though I had checked out the book from the library a few times before, I always returned it without starting in on it. I finally got around to reading it this weekend, though.



I enjoyed the novel, and it was a shorter read than I anticipated, with the narrative moving at a fairly rapid pace. The novel is really about two things: the logic of science fiction narrative and the protagonist's relationship with his father. In another layer of playfulness, Yu names the protagonist Charles Yu--to what extent are we to think of this novel as autobiographical? In what ways, if at all? Since the novel deals with alternate universes, where individuals exist in many instances, some only subtly different from each other, the fact that the protagonist (who is himself an author in the novel of the eponymous How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, which is in some ways a tip of the hat to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as a kind of survival guide) has the same name as the author certainly seems a deliberate point. How Yu weaves together these two disparate topics is what is most interesting about the novel.

Regarding science fiction narrative, what I really found fascinating about Yu's take on time travel is that he builds up the novel-world's theory of science and time on grammatical concepts. Especially in the first half of the novel, before the second topic about family relationships takes precedence in the narrative (what stephenhongsohn noted as the more emotionally resonant aspects of the novel), Yu plays a lot with the tenses of sentences: present, past, future, subjunctive, and probably others that I no longer remember the names for anymore... He combines grammatical tense with formal logic and physics in a geeky melange of theories that make up the science fictional universe of his novel.
I've never been married. I never got married. The woman I didn't marry is named Marie. Technically, she doesn't exist. Just like Ed [his retconned dog].

Except that she does. A little paradox, you might think, but really, The Woman I Never Married is a perfectly valid ontological entity. Or class of entities. I suppose technically you could make the argument that every woman is The Woman I Never Married. So why not call her Marie, that was my thinking.
At times, this push and pull of grammatical tense can get a bit too much, but it also is perfect in conveying the kind of ambivalence that the protagonist has towards his life (past, present, and future). I suspect that people who have read far more science fiction may have a different relationship to the metafictional quality of the novel, as would people who are more familiar with the scientific concepts about time and space that Yu reinvents.

I read the book on an ebook reader, which was slightly frustrating because the novel makes use of footnotes, endnotes, and some figures that probably were rendered slightly different on the screen than they are in a printed copy. It's interesting to think about the experience of reading this particular book on an ereader, though, because of the novel's preoccupation with how narratives and genre conventions unfold in our experience of them. In the latter part of the book, the protagonist reads, writes, dictates, revise, and otherwise produces while consuming the book How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, and Yu describes the recursive, somewhat paradoxical process, in quite a bit of detail as the protagonist uses a device that can record his eye movements, his virtual typing, and even his thought patterns.

I ultimately liked this novel better than Yu's debut short story collection, Third-Class Superhero (there's a nod to that title story in this novel when the protagonist as a kid browses comic books), because it sustains a narrative perspective and story over a longer span. One of my difficulties with that earlier collection was that the narrative voice felt identical to me across the stories, even though the characters were meant to be different people in different stories (and even worlds). I do look forward to reading Yu's new collection of stories, Sorry Please Thank You, though, because I think he is really settling in to a particular kind of hyper-self-conscious narrative voice that is very interesting when it is executed well.

There's another book cover image floating around online. I like it better than the one I've seen (above) with the multiple guns. For one thing, guns aren't really a major part of the narrative. But I also like this other cover's illustration of the protagonist and his dog Ed! It also has a kind of kitschy quality, like the kinds of illustrations that might come with pulp science fiction.

 
 
Current Mood: weirdweird
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans - Megareview for September 2, 2012

A Review of Janet S. Wong’s Buzz (with illustrations by Margaret Chodos-Irvine) (Sandpiper 2002); Haemi Bulgassi’s Peacebound Trains (with illustrations by Chris K. Sontpiet) (Sandpiper 2000); Ginnie Lo’s Auntie Yang’s Great Soybean Picnic (with illustrations by Beth Lo) (Lee & Low Books, 2012); Paul Yee’s The Jade Necklace (with illustrations by Grace Lin) (Tradewind Books, 2002); Paula Yoo’s Sixteen Years in Sixteen Seconds: The Sammy Lee Story (with illustrations by Dom Lee) (Lee & Low Books, 2010); Ken Mochizuki’s Baseball Saved Us (with illustrations by Dom Lee) (Lee & Low Books, 1995); Alan Woo’s Maggie’s Chopsticks (with illustrations by Isabelle Malenfant) (Kids Can Press, 2012)



Janet S. Wong’s Buzz was a delight to read for the simple fact that she takes on the fun premise of a child who is learning about all the different things that make buzzing sounds, especially things around the house. The children’s picture book takes us through the child’s perspective as he hears things like doorbells, hairdryers, and other such modern devices that make the appropriate noise. I can see this book being read to a kindergarten audience, especially with student interaction, with the children yelling merrily out “buzz.” Haha! Again, as with other picture books, race remains unremarked though there is attention to color and shading, so given my scholarly background I can’t help but wondering about what goes into the decision about how to represent particular characters or families.



Haemi Balgussi’s Peacebound Trains is aimed at slightly older audiences—I would imagine around 7 or 8—given the amount of text that appears per page. It reminds me of Susan Miho Nunes’s The Last Dragon in that regard and coincidentally, Chris K. Sontpiet is also the illustrator for this work. Peacebound Trains takes on a difficult topic of a Korean American immigrant family who is struggling to make ends meet after the father and breadwinner dies. A young girl laments the fact that her mother is away with the army, trying to get the funds to jumpstart her own education. The young girl is comforted by the sound of trains outside, which allows her grandmother to tell her the story of her own troubling adulthood which saw her flee southward along the Korean peninsula during the Korean conflict. The grandmother is able to connect with her young granddaughter through the theme of rupture. Indeed, the grandmother tells her about the loss of her husband, who pushed her to leave on a “peacebound train” while he stayed behind to fight for the South Korean forces. He was never heard from again. The weighty topic here might be a stretch for young audiences, but the story’s historical texture is particularly impressive and brought to life through Sontpiet’s wonderful illustrations.



In Ginnie Lo’s autobiographical picture book, she along with her sister, Beth Lo, who provides the illustrations, depict a rather heartwarming story of growing up in the Midwest during the post-World War II period. As one of the few families of Chinese ancestry to be in the United States Midwest at the time, Ginnie and Beth often visit their Auntie Yang’s house. Once there they engage in various games, eat dumplings, and generally retain their connections to their Chinese heritage. Ginnie and Beth’s parents and their aunt (of the title) and their uncle of course miss many aspects of China, especially the food. On one drive through the area, they discover a large soybean field; the crop is apparently being cultivated to feed livestock and cattle, though the adults have other ideas and request from the farmer that they pick some of the soybeans. Once they have their stash of soybeans, they use it to create various dishes, the simplest of course being the steaming of these vegetables, which become a way for the older generation to bond over a food that was a staple for them while in China. The picture book concludes with all of the family—including other aunts and uncles—coming to the United States for the first time. This handsome publication also includes some historical and authorial notes toward the end that really put the finishing touches on this poignant story.



Paul Yee’s The Jade Necklace was one of the first children’s picture books where I noticed that it was really important to actually read the book jacket flap in order to get at the social contexts of the text. Indeed, Yee’s work relies upon the reader to get a sense of the historical period (very late 19th century) by reading this block of text. The illustrations for The Jade Necklace are also interestingly completed by Grace Lin, who is also a well-known children’s picture book writer and author of numerous YA fictions herself, so it’s interesting to see some of these collaborations go on. Yee himself has been reviewed here for his work, Money Boy, so we begin to see that many of these writers “traffic” in between these genres. In the Jade Necklace, we have, much like the work of Ginnie and Beth Lo, a Chinese immigrant saga wrapped up into a short children’s picture book, but which focuses on the transnational move from China to Canada. In this case, Yenyee travels to the United States after her fisherman father is presumed dead at sea. Due to the family’s growing financial problems, Yenyee is essentially sold to another family to take care of their daughter and Yenyee travels with them to the U.S. At the heart of this story, though, is Yenyee’s anger: a pendant given to her by her father and which she threw back into the ocean, hoping that it would bring him safely back home, leaves her a bitter young girl. As Yenyee must help the daughter acculturate in Canada, she must rescue her from drowning in the Pacific (this sequence takes place in Stanley Park, Vancouver). Magically, the pendant reappears during that sequence and Yenyee realizes she must let go of that anger. The father of the family that purchased her domestic service asks her what she might want and she asks that father to reunite her with her mother and brother. The last panel shows what appears to be her mother and brother arriving by boat. As with the Lo book, there’s quite a lot to squeeze in here in terms of social and historical contexts. Lin does a great job of portraying the story in pictorial terms, but again, this book is clearly suited for readers of varying ages and I’d be interested in some theoretical considerations of how children’s picture book writers must deal with the intricacy of subject matter through their various aesthetic choices.



Paula Yoo’s Sixteen Years in Sixteen Seconds take an innovative approach to a biographical narrative by reformulating it for a younger audience. In this case, Yoo takes on the story of Sammy Lee, one of the first American medalists of Korean descent, who won medals in the sport of diving. In some ways, I can’t say that I’m entirely surprised that Yoo wrote this book because it is not unlike her young adult fiction, Good Enough, in the sense that it works to (at least partially) dispel the model minority myth and would be an attractive book to consider giving to young children who might want to find a balance between their studies and their other, perhaps more idiosyncratic interests. What was especially interesting to me about Lee’s life was that, though facing an incredible amount of discrimination in the first half of the 20th century, he still found novel ways to engage his training regimen. At one point, he practices diving on days when he is not allowed to go to the local swimming pool by jumping into a sandpit. Of course, in these instances, he could not practice going into the pit headfirst and instead had to land feet first. This approach had the extra-added benefit of giving Lee a stronger spring on his dives, which would later give him a competitive edge. Dom Lee’s illustrations remind me of Chris K. Sontpiet in that they have a slightly impressionistic style that lends itself well to a story informed by the historical past.



Like Yoo’s historically informed children’s book, Ken Mochizuki takes on the subject of the Japanese American internment (remember Allen Say’s Home of the Brave) but positions the story through the eyes of a young boy who learns to play baseball at camp. This sport helps him to gain confidence and though he’s of short stature, he is pivotal in helping his team win a major championship. Problems arise when he leaves camp and realizes that he must face racial discrimination and the presumption that he cannot really play baseball. But the main character perseveres and continues to play baseball for his school team, even despite bullying and prejudice. As with Yoo’s topic, this one engages a different historical period and offers us an account of an individual who does not let his racial difference determine how he will conduct himself and or how he will pursue his dreams. It would be interesting to see how the target audience would be able to consider these admittedly complex themes and reminds us of how these books are probably aimed not only at the children who will read them, but also the adults who will want to pick them out.



In Alan Woo’s Maggie’s Chopsticks (with illustrations by Isabelle Malenfant), the titular Maggie doesn’t quite know how to hold her chopsticks. At various meals, she observes her own family deftly moving their chopsticks to gather up challenging and slippery foods, including rice grains, pieces of shrimp, and bread buns. Maggie feels an ethnoracial lack, to be sure, but by the ending of the story, we see that though she has not yet mastered her technique, she is still being embraced for her attempts. This narrative is not unlike Suki’s Kimono and others I have reviewed which work to engage the young reader in terms of a specific ethnoracial context and aspects of shame. I have been thinking more about this topic in relation to these children’s picture books that especially work toward building self-esteem in this way. The other element I am interested in, especially in these collaborations, is whether or not the writer has a vision of the way that the art should look like and gives specific directions to the artist, or does it sometimes work the other way around where the artist has a sense of the story and might suggest the narrative to the writer to flesh out? Who knows, but I’d be interested in hearing about how children’s picture books are written and illustrated together, as part of a team.




Buy the Books Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Buzz-Janet-S-Wong/dp/0152163239/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345254081&sr=8-1&keywords=Janet+S.+Wong+Buzz

http://www.amazon.com/Peacebound-Trains-Haemi-Balgassi/dp/0618040307/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345254272&sr=1-1&keywords=Peacebound+Trains

http://www.amazon.com/Auntie-Yangs-Great-Soybean-Picnic/dp/1600604420/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345310554&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=Ginny+Lo+Soybean

http://www.amazon.com/The-Jade-Necklace-Paul-Yee/dp/1566564557/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345391619&sr=8-1&keywords=Paul+Yee+The+Jade+Necklace

http://www.amazon.com/Sixteen-Years-Seconds-Sammy-Story/dp/1600604536/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1345924090&sr=8-2&keywords=Paula+Yoo

http://www.amazon.com/Baseball-Saved-Us-Ken-Mochizuki/dp/1880000199/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1345924580&sr=8-2&keywords=Ken+Mochizuki

http://www.amazon.com/Maggies-Chopsticks-Alan-Woo/dp/1554536197/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346259374&sr=8-1&keywords=Maggie%27s+Chopsticks
 
 
01 September 2012 @ 01:22 pm
I was happy to see Neela Vaswani's You Have Given Me a Country (Sarabande, 2010) on the library's shelves earlier this summer. I remember having greatly enjoyed Vaswani's short story collection, Where the Long Grass Bends, which I reviewed briefly on this community a few years ago.



You Have Given Me a Country is a collection of nonfiction pieces, mostly exploring Vaswani's bicultural, mixed-race background. In many ways, it is less an individual memoir than a family memoir or family history, focusing much attention on her parents' lives. An overarching issue, though, is Vaswani's grappling with mixed-race identity and the way people (and governments) insist on more singular claims to ethnic and cultural background. Vaswani claims for herself a place between her father's Sindhi origins and her mother's Irish-Catholic origins, and the book begins, "This place; that place. You have to stand someplace. I pledge allegiance to the in-between." The title essay, "You Have Given Me a Country," opens the book, and it is a brief reflection on Vaswani's first visit to India with her mother. The scene is the airport, that classic setting of liminality in an increasingly interconnected and transnational world.

The second piece, "This Place, That Place," lays out the story of Vaswani's parents' lives and their meeting in a hospital waiting room in New York where her father was an intern and her mother was visiting her hospitalized brother. There is also a lot of history about grandparents and great grandparents, tracing a broader trajectory of the two sides of her family to the point in time when they merged in her parents' union. Vaswani conveys a lot of the history of Partition, when her family's long-time home in the Sindh province became part of Pakistan and many Sindhis, historically of various religions, fled to India. About her mother's family, Vaswani offers details of many individuals who made a life in Hells Kitchen and later on Long Island. She connects the particular stories of her family members to the larger contours of the historical forces that pushed and pulled the Sindhi and Irish-Catholic communities in the twentieth century. All of the back story leads up to her parents' meeting in that hospital waiting room, a chance encounter made possible by and haunted by the mother's brother's suicide attempt. Her brother John was gay and saw little chance of a life without suffering.

The essays that follow tread more deliberately on the issue of claiming a bicultural heritage and on honoring both of her parents' pasts. There are some wonderfully insightful observations, such as when Vaswani reminisces on her mother's ability to confront people who said racist things around her or to her husband and daughter. As much as she admires her mother's defensiveness, Vaswani also acknowledges the privilege that her mother had as a visibly white woman.

In "Something Is Always Lost," Vaswani reflects on the events of the 9/11 attacks, connecting the violence of religious and cultural hatred in such major events to mundane encounters and prejudices. She also considers the basic impulse of humans to classify things around them, something fundamental to thought and scientific reasoning.

The last piece stood out the most in terms of its style and narrative voice. While the other essays were more straightforward in a kind of autobiographical voice, "What Hands Are These?" seemed to broaden its sense of identity in narrating experiences working in the fields with Indian women and narrating the ritual of mehndi painting for her wedding. This essay shuttled back and forth between claiming individuality and collectivity, between noting the differences of the author as an American student working in a volunteer capacity in the fields and the women whose livelihood was what they could grow and harvest out of the land.

As a whole, this book was interesting for bringing together family stories and historical narratives of Sindhis and Irish-Catholics. I liked the way Vaswani always reached for some historical details outside of her family's immediate experience, too, to make sense of the forces that compelled her family's movements around the world. There are also a number of family photographs dispersed throughout the book (with a heavy concentration in the final essay's section on mehndi), which lend themselves to some interesting discussions about the value of photographic evidence.
 
 
Current Mood: geekygeeky
 
 
27 August 2012 @ 06:57 am
Andrew Fukuda's second young adult novel, The Hunt (St. Martin's Griffin, 2012), is the first book in a series set in an alternate reality where vampire-like creatures are the "normal people" of the world, and humans are nearly extinct prey known as "hepers."



The concept for the novel is really fascinating, estranging what we consider normal by plopping a human into a world run by other creatures with different values and social structures. Fukuda's novel does an especially great job of poking fun at the limited knowledge the "people" of this world have about humans. The Heper Institute of Refined Research and Discovery, for example, comes up with some ludicrous theories of human evolution and behavior based on their experiments and anthropological studies of the remaining humans in their world. They think that humans can swim because they are evolutionarily much closer to amphibians, and they are fascinated by humans' ability to sing and reproduce melodies even months after singing a song.

The plot of the story involves a high school human boy as the protagonist, living amongst the normal people as one of them. This passing requires a lot of deception, which Fukuda describes in detail. The boy must shave all his body hair every day, scrub himself clean of any body odor, and avoid a whole range of physiological and physical responses such as blushing, smiling, sweating, coughing, and laughing throughout his nights out in school. Fukuda comes up with some interesting tics for the vampire people such as scratching of wrists as expressions of humor and other things. Apparently, the vampire people also have sexual contact differently, primarily through armpits and elbows.

The boy finds himself selected in a society-wide lottery to participate in a Heper Hunt, when a few hapless humans are released into the desert at the edges of their world to be chased by the lottery-winning people. The vampire people have an intense, predatory response to hepers, drinking their blood, rending their flesh, and breaking their bones. The response overwhelms their thinking and can lead to their death because they will try to walk through daylight (which melts them) sometimes if they are crazed enough for heper blood and flesh.

The bulk of the novel focuses on the training period that the hunters go through in the lead up to the Hunt, which usually lasts just a few hours since the hepers have no cover out in the desert and the vampire people move ten times as fast as they do. Even though the hepers have a day's head start, by the time night falls, they are simply sitting ducks out in the open. Throughout this training period, the boy must keep himself from being discovered as a heper among the vampires without his usual stash of razors, water, and other aids to his disguise that are left at home.

Though the idea of this novel is very interesting and the pacing of the novel is quite suspenseful, there were quite a number of things that I found too unbelievable to make it difficult for me to be fully immersed in the story. The major plots points are telegraphed a little too much for my tastes, too, and by halfway through the the novel, you can already figure out all the twists that are coming based on the seemingly random details that the author throws into the narrative.

Fukuda is the author a previous young adult novel, The Crossing, which I haven't read but appears to be about Asian characters in a predominantly non-Asian society. That novel is part of AmazonEncore's imprint, which republishes especially promising self-published novels.
 
 
Current Mood: surprisedsurprised
 
 
International Press and Writers Spotlight (Oberon Books, Spinifex Press, Ansh Das)

Is the summer almost over? Well, there’s still time to read some books! I think.

In this post, reviews of: Nirjay Mahindru’s The Bottle (Oberon Books, 2005); Nirjay Mahindru’s Mandragora: King of India (Oberon Books, 2005); Dolly Dhingra’s The Fortune Club (Oberon Books, 2005); Ursula Rani Sarma’s The Magic Tree (Oberon Books, 2009); Tanika Gupta’s Inside out (Oberon Books, 2003); Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s Behsharam (Shameless) (Oberon Books, 2002); Merlinda Bobis’s Fish-Hair Woman (Spinifex Press, 2012); Ansh Das's Always Forever (CreateSpace, 2012).

A Review of Nirjay Mahindru’s The Bottle (Oberon Books, 2005); Nirjay Mahindru’s Mandragora: King of India (Oberon Books, 2005); Dolly Dhingra’s The Fortune Club (Oberon Books, 2005); Ursula Rani Sarma’s The Magic Tree (Oberon Books, 2009); Tanika Gupta’s Inside out (Oberon Books, 2003); Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s Bensharam (Shameless) (Oberon Books, 2002).

Earlier, I review a handful of Oberon Books. I continue part two of my review of Oberon’s Asian British plays. For more information on Oberon books, please go here:

http://www.oberonbooks.com/



Mandragora: Kind of India is Nirjay Mahindru’s debut play and one can easily see the influence of Shakespearean drama to this piece. Interestingly enough, multiple sites have this publication officially credited to Nirjay Mahundru (amazon.com and goodreads list his name incorrectly and in amazon’s case the problem is a little bit comedic because the cover is shown next to the purchase button with the correct spelling). But I digress: this play was certainly compelling in its speculative premise. The titular Mandragora is a king of India during the pre-colonial period and must deal with the changing times when “chalky whites” arrive to challenge his claims to the territory. One of the “chalky whites” known as Hastings steals an important artifact and Mandragora imprisons Catherine, Hastings’s apparent paramour, in order to encourage him to return the precious stone. Hastings, as the obvious symbol of the oncoming colonial destruction, introduces conceptions of capitalism and conquest to other locals and he begins his own attempt to carve out and foment power. Catherine, for her part, seems to symbolize something altogether different in her eventual willingness to lose herself in the “Indian culture,” despite her difference in ethnoracial background. What is particularly notable about this work is how playful it can be, with the requisite jester type figures that would be found in a Shakespearean play, who offer a chance to catch one’s breath. Mahindru includes the occasional rhyming couplet and satellite characters certainly bring much heft and life to this spirited work. As with all plays, I would be keenly interested in the staging, especially the later battle sequences which, depending on the level and the ambition of the production company, I’m sure could be quite epic.



Nirjay Mahindru’s The Bottle is a rather strange and darkly comic play about three Asian British men who are looking to change the status of their lives as quickly as possible. Ravi, who seems to be more or less the central character, inherits a café and he believes that this new entrepreneurial venture may allow him to gain a stronger foothold as he aims for a more financially secure future. He enlists the help of his friends Irvin and Suresh to help him out, but there also happens to be the issue of a safe. Yes, the café has a safe that Ravi believes holds an incredible stash of monies, though the three characters cannot seem to get the safe open. What occurs is, more or less, a comedy of errors surrounding the safe: they use a stethoscope to see if they can hear clicks; later they must contend with a rather eccentric customer who keeps returning and interrupting their plans; stranger still is when they discover that there are dead bodies in the basement. The unique plotting of the drama allows Mahindru the chance to explore the malaise of youth who have grown up in the shadow of economic instability and continued racial tension. At one point, the friends begin to turn on each other and we see how each character holds particular dreams and aspirations that have, for one reason or another, begun to crumble. The success of this play is entirely in Mahindru’s ability to generate such snappy and funny dialogue; the repartee among the three best friends is a definite highlight. The use of the basement also made me wonder about verticality in productions with a small cast; I wonder how such scenes would be “blocked” and how spatial difference is created.



As with many of the other publications out of Oberon Books, Dolly Dhingra’s The Fortune Club focuses on legislative and juridical transgression. In this particular scenario, a group of adults decide to become criminals. The emotional center of this drama appears with two characters who happen to be sisters: Renu, an actress, and Priya, her more responsible older sister and who happens to be running the titular Fortune Club (dive bar). The rather ironic name of this bar becomes more apparent as Priya reveals that they are in dire financial straits and that they must rely again on relatives to help make ends meet. Part of the problem is that Renu does not know how to properly budget, but during a New Year’s eve party at the bar, attended by Priya and Renu’s friends and loved ones, they hatch a plan to get rich quick. Of course this scheme involves a mode of crime: identity theft. In this case, they research the backgrounds of various celebrities and affluent socialites, document their personal information and credit card numbers and proceed to buy whatever it is that they want. These schemes get increasingly outlandish until at some point they are actually purchasing items simply to pull off their identity thefts—the height of which is definitely their decision to take on the “role” of Prince Mohammed of Brunei. The subtitle to this drama states that it is “inspired by a true crime,” but I didn’t see any more accompanying information within the drama to help clarify the background of this play. Nevertheless, this drama’s narrative certainly has become more germane in light of the global economic downturn. The more satirical take of this work might strike differently at this point with so many out of work and seeking some salve for their financial troubles. Dhingra’s drama is very noteworthy for its crackling and witty dialogue; the characters spark off the page and you could see how important it would be for the group of actors cast in this play to have a kind of “ocean’s eleven” type chemistry for it to be successful.



Ursula Rani Sarma’s The Magic Tree is the first play I think that I’ve read from Oberon Books that had me mystified by it conclusion. It seems to be a speculative play about the nature of good and evil and whether or not there can be any redemption. The two main roles are given to a young attractive woman named Lamb and then her romantic lead named Gordy. Lamb seems to be on the “run” (suggestive of her name on one level) and is looking to start a new life, while Gordy is part of a crew of men who are intent upon finding some unlucky woman to gang rape. This dark premise turns on its head quickly. Gordy likes Lamb and realizes he cannot go through with the plan. Doc, the violent antagonist of the play, comes into the scene trying to force the act, but Gordy kills him to protect Lamb. Lenny, who is part of the crew but seems to be more interested in eating than anything else, is an interesting side-character. Lamb’s name is also thus suggestive of a form of sacrifice here with all of those religious connotations. The second act involves Lamb and Gordy having traveled to Cambodia. The titular “magic tree” is actually referring to a tree used in the violent executions of civilians under the Khmer Rouge. Again, there is this comparison between individual acts of violence and then systematic ones that come up in this particular way. I was a little bit confused as to the singular nature of the first act and then this move to widespread genocide in the second. Further still, Lenny seems to have been killed or has disappeared by the second act, presumably and possibly at the hands of Gordy. It’s clear though that Gordy has an incredible attachment to Lamb and will do anything to try to save her. Lamb, though, seems to be a depressed figure, who is in some sense trying to absolve herself of guilt over how she treated her “special needs” sister. Can there be individual or societal redemption? The play seems to suggest that the process is incredibly intricate and tortured in its own way; this play definitely leaves you unsettled.





One of the best things about the Oberon publications is that they include a number of paratextual materials, often with an author’s note discussing why the play was written in the first place. Tanika Gupta’s Inside Out was inspired by her time interacting with women in the UK prison system and the resulting play comes from her consideration of the futility of the carceral state which seeks to address a social problem without addressing the roots of the issue. In this case, she is particularly critical of the fact that prisons function to cover a wound, but do little to actually engage why the wound was created in the first place. This play is about two half-sisters; one is racially mixed, the other is white. Their mother is Chloe, a woman who is currently in an abusive relationship. Affy is able to escape the home when her father—presumably from a sense of guilt—is willing to take her back. Di is thus stuck with Chloe, but realizes that such a life may be an incredible dead end. Di seeks to leave one day, but tragically, that event results in a fight and Di ends up killing her mother. Di is imprisoned for the death and the later act explores how Affy and Di treat each other after Di has been released from prison. Gupta’s point is very clear: Affy and Di aren’t really all that different from each other, one just happened to have a father that enabled her the opportunity to leave a problematic domestic location. Di thus becomes a victim of circumstances rather than what modern society labels her: a criminal. The strength of this play is that Di and Affy are such normal characters; there dreams and hopes not so uncommon, which makes Di’s trajectory all the more tragic and capricious.



In Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s Behsharam (Shameless), two second generation South Asian British sisters struggle to come to terms with their immigrant upbringing. Apparently, this play broke a number of box office records in the UK. The older, Jaspal, rebels by becoming a prostitute and drug-user, while the younger, unfortunately named Sati has an unnatural attachment to a cardboard cutout of a football star. The play opens with Sati having been reunited with Jaspal after many years apart. They have a climactic fight and the scene shifts four years earlier to 1994 where we see the seeds of the family’s disintegration. Jaspal is in a dead-end relationship with a semi-retired black British boxer named Patrick; she sleeps with her drug dealer, Stan, in order to get access to more narcotics. Jaspal’s father dreams of becoming a poet, while everyone wonders where Jaspal and Sati’s mother has gone—the story being that she has been on a pilgrimage for the last seven years. A wrinkle is added into the equation because there is discussion of two mothers. Indeed, Sati and Jaspal have a stepmother, but the reason for Mum #2, as she is known, is not revealed until the later arc of the play, where secrets start tumbling out. So, from this point, you may not want to read if you do not want to be spoiled, but we see that Sati has been shielded from the truth that her mother was institutionalized after her father sought to have a divorce in order to marry a woman who would be able to bear him a son. Indeed, once Mum #1 realizes her time is up, she has a psychotic break, so the pilgrimage story is cooked up to keep Sati in the dark. For her part, Jaspal’s acting out is obviously related to the fact of the gendered dynamics that place so much value on Indian sons. There is a kind of self-degradation at work and a desire to break free, however chaotically, from an immigrant context that has suffocated her. Certainly, part of the play’s mass success can be seen in Bhatti’s colorful dialogue, most specifically dramatized by Beiji, the grandmother figure who also happens to be a kleptomaniac. With a flair for the idiosyncratic, Bensharam is a uniquely offbeat and sobering work.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Bottle-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/1840025085/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1336589759&sr=8-1

http://www.amazon.com/Mandragora-India-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/1840024453/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345482767&sr=8-1&keywords=Mandragora+King+of+India

http://www.amazon.com/Fortune-Club-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/184002545X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345482799&sr=1-2&keywords=Dolly+Dhingra

http://www.amazon.com/Magic-Tree-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/1840028661/ref=la_B001K8EUHK_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1345566347&sr=1-2

http://www.amazon.com/Inside-Out-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/184002352X/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345653798&sr=1-6&keywords=Tanika+Gupta

http://www.amazon.com/Behsharam-Shameless-Oberon-Modern-Plays/dp/1840022493/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345701628&sr=8-1&keywords=shameless+oberon


A Review of Merlinda Bobis’s Fish-Hair Woman (Spinifex Press, 2012).



As part of my continuing efforts to review books from international presses, here we have Merlinda Bobis’s Fish-Hair Woman that comes out of Spinifex Press. For more information about this press, go here:



http://www.spinifexpress.com.au/



Merlinda Bobis is the author of numerous other publications and I’ve been meaning to read something by her for a very long time. I finally sat down with this admittedly very complex novel. By the time I finished it, I still had some plotting questions and if anyone else has read it, I hope they respond to this post because I want to find out exactly how some things might have occurred. Some might consider the narrative “postmodern,” but I generally have ennui over terms such as postmodern, postrace, and really post-anything these days, so we’ll just call it slightly experimental and definitely metafictional. The premise is about a young man named Luke McIntyre who travels to the Philippines in search of his missing Australian father, a journalist by the name of Tony, who had traveled to the Philippines presumably in search of a major story. He is entangled somehow with a woman named Pilar, who many believe to have been the leader of a revolutionary cadre in a location called Iraya. The whereabouts of both Pilar and Tony are unknown. There are a number of manuscripts that Luke must sift through which provide him with a little bit of a backstory, but the revelations do not really come until the last 100 pages, so you have to be really patient with this novel, otherwise you risk missing some of the most important connections that characters have with each other. Luke happens to be staying with an important man named Alvarado who has one seemingly mute daughter and another drug-addicted one named Stella. In the backstory, we discover that Pilar was brought up in the household of a midwife, as her mother dies in the childbirth of her younger sister, the titular Estrella, shortened to Eya, and the fish-hair woman, who apparently has some magical ability to entangle corpses in her hair from the river. This conceit is fascinating and a bit morbid, but works especially in its most figurative application as a way to configure the body count that rises over the course of the novel. Pilar eventually falls in love with a married man, Benito, who also happens to be one of the leading individuals in communist insurgencies. He is a baker and he whisks Pilar away into the hills, where they foment revolution. The townfolk, led by a corrupt mayor, are heralded under the nation’s attempt to cleanse the countryside of all communist influence—here we have that oh so wonderful Truman Doctrine—and periodic purges are conducted under the guise of Total War and through a group ironically called the “angels.” Were Pilar and Tony murdered? Did they really love each other? Who ended up killing them—the revolutionary cadres who might have wondered about their motivations or the “angels” seeking to purge the countryside? Those questions can only be answered if you read the novel! But seriously, I have some plotting questions. And, if there ever is a reprint of this novel, I highly recommend the publishers consider adding two family trees—a skeletal one at the beginning and then one fleshed out with all the dual names and identities in the final pages. Of course, Bobis adds to the quite rich work of Filipino Ameican and Anglophone writers who have explored conceptions of revolution in their work; I’m thinking of Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters, Gina Apostol’s The Gun Dealer’s Daughter, and Ninotchka Rosca’s State of War.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Fish-Hair-Woman-Merlinda-Bobis/dp/1876756977/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345655874&sr=8-1&keywords=Fish+Hair+Woman


A Review of Ansh Das’s Always Forever (CreateSpace, 2012).



I was alerted to this self-published title by Marshall Moore, the editor of Signal 8 Press, and was intrigued by its premise. Ansh Das’s Always Forever is a memoir concerning the author’s brief romantic relationship with a man named Mikee Francis. Das meets Mikee in the context of the Mr. Gay World Competition (held in the Philippines) and much of their fledgling connection must be maintained through long-distance channels (as Das lives in Hong Kong): e-mails, facebook, and instant messaging become prominent forms referenced throughout the memoir. Tragically, Mikee suffers from health complications that will take his life and this work is certainly devoted to providing a kind of recovery of Mikee’s life. While such a topic is difficult to write about, Das’s memoir is imbued with a form of spirituality that is key to lifting him out of any sort of pathological depression. Indeed, Das takes on the very serious project of honoring Mikee’s life in various ways, most specifically detailed in the strong bonds he maintains with Mikee’s nuclear and extended family. In this process, Das finds an alternative home space in the Philippines. If there is a writing cure to the process of loss, Das models it effectively here. Mikee’s spirit lives on in this memoir and Das’s impassioned sense of purpose creates an indelible portrait of a life that had already affected so many in such a short span of time. The social import of Das’s work is particularly large: with so few memoirs detailing Asian queer relationships and even fewer still on this transnational scale, Always Forever stands as a pioneering publication.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Always-Forever-depths-sorrow-journey/dp/1477422269/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1343452575&sr=8-2&keywords=ansh+das
 
 
26 August 2012 @ 07:02 am
I've had Marie Lu's young adult novel Legend (G. P. Putnam, 2011) checked out from the library for awhile and finally got around to reading it. After I wrapped my head around the narrative voices, I couldn't stop reading and finished the book within a day. The book is the first in a series, and stephenhongsohn noted that the followup book is out next year, so there won't be too long of a wait!



Legend takes the form of interwoven first-person narratives. One voice is that of Day, a 15-year-old boy from the slums who is the most wanted criminal of the Republic. The other voice is June, a 15-year-old girl from a privileged class, training in the most prestigious military academy for the Republic. The author's bio on the book jacket notes that the impetus of this story came from Lu's watching Les Misérables and "wondering how the relationship between a famous criminal and a prodigious detective might translate to a more modern story." Day is the criminal with a heart of gold, then, though his character also becomes a bit of a renegade saboteur, working to undermine the Republic's regime more than simply stealing to help out his family. June is the righteous arm of the law, but instead of questioning her own worth as a person and her own ideals, she begins to see how the Republic is not all she was brought up to believe it is.

The post-apocalyptic world Lu creates is fascinating. It is set in a future where the United States has become fractured into different warring polities, where flooding and a changed climate have reshaped the landscape dramatically. The novel is set in a Los Angeles where many of the high rises are flooded up to the fifth floor or more. One of the things that this first novel in the series does well is set up a lot of questions about this world. It's set in the future, but how much is our own present world supposed to be the past for this future? What happened to split the country up? What are the allegiances between the different polities (the Republic and the Colonies are the two major ones, it seems, though there may be others)?

The novel is ultimately very much about the encounters between Day and June and what they ultimately learn about and from each other. Both are prodigies (the title of the followup book, incidentally, is Prodigy), extremely gifted youth in their mental, physical, and deductive faculties. What is fascinating is the way they are set up as parallel characters, equally outstanding but with entirely different life circumstances. In this way, there is a pointed commentary about how social factors influence the expression of more innate abilities.

The Republic is an authoritarian state that presents itself as a benevolent meritocracy. All citizens take the Trial at the age of 10, and if they pass, they get assigned to particular jobs in the Republic based on their scores. If they fail, they get sent to labor camps, which June discovers during the course of the novel are not what they seem.

The general trajectory of the plot is the hunt of Day by June. The novel begins with Day's infiltration of a hospital to steal a cure for the plague that has afflicted his younger brother Eden. Through a series of events, June becomes the lead agent in the quest to bring in the Republic's most dangerous criminal, and how she goes about finding Day is particularly fascinating. One of the central issues in the novel is the presence of plagues that pop up in different sectors of the city every year. The Republic deals with the plague in very ruthless ways, quarantining families and taking the sick away. Of course, the wealthy get yearly vaccines that prevent them from getting sick, so it is only the poor neighborhoods that suffer from this illness.

There are a few hints of the importance of race in this post-apocalyptic world such as mention that the Republic has conquered China, either by wiping it out or subjugating it as a business market (the mythical idea in business of taking over the consumer market of such a vast country). And Day is listed as predominantly "Mongolian" in his files, despite his bright blond hair and blue eyes. The use of an outdated racial term, Mongolian, is also interesting in its reference to a scientific worldview that is more willing to assign values to different groups of people based on physical characteristics (and implied psychological or mental characteristics).
 
 
Current Mood: thirstythirsty
 
 
22 August 2012 @ 08:06 pm
I just read Kyoko Mori's delightful memoir Yarn: Remembering the Way Home (GemmaMedia, 2010), and I've decided that of all the types of memoirs out there, I like best memoirs by creative writers that connect reflections on life, relationships, the writing life, and some other detail like a hobby or craft that brings in anecdotes and discussions of a larger history (beyond the individual life). Mori's memoir brings together all these elements wonderfully.



Earlier in this community, I briefly reviewed Mori's novel Stone Field, True Arrow, which focuses on a young Japanese girl who moves to Minneapolis with her mother who has remarried a white American man. Mori's memoir mentions briefly the connection that the author has to my current city--she taught a summer course at The Loft, which is an amazing establishment in town that fosters creative writing through adult education classes, readings, fellowships, and other writing-oriented events. But what I found fascinating in the memoir was that Mori actually spent a big chunk of her early adult life in neighboring Wisconsin and especially in small towns. She offers a number of observations about being Asian in these spaces, surrounded by polite white folks who are very friendly but also utterly baffled by her as a non-white person. She makes some draws out some interesting contrasts between life in small-town Wisconsin and life in the big, urban centers of Cambridge and Boston where she moves after spending most of her 20s and 30s in Wisconsin.

Of course, the overarching theme of the memoir is yarn--knitting yarn, spinning fleece into yarn, weaving yarn, and more. The memoir is not a how-to-guide on knitting, but it is a great reflection on the craft of knitting and the kinds of connections that Mori makes between the act of knitting and her life. She also offers little histories of particular types of knitting and the cultural meaning of knitted objects in different places around the world. Much of this discussion folds into interpretations of her own life, and all of it is decidedly reflective of gender roles and expectations.

Early in the memoir, she draws out the linguistic resonances of yarn and thread with the types of stories and words that we share. Yarns are meandering, often pointless, stories that are nevertheless entertaining and worth listening to as an experience. To have a solid thread in your speech or writing is to have a good grasp on your main point and argument; to lose the thread of your argument, by contrast, means to lose focus. Mori aligns herself with yarns more than threads, happy to experiment and improvise in her life rather than always following through with a predetermined plan.

One thing I liked a lot about Mori's memoir is that she doesn't offer simple adages about life based on her knitting. Instead, she explores the complex, ambiguous, and conflicting emotions about herself, her actions, the decisions she made in life, and what she hopes to do. She does not valorize herself nor how she arrived at where she is as a published author with impressive, solid teaching gigs under her belt (tenure-track and tenured university positions as well as a prestigious 5-year visiting writer fellowship at Harvard University), but rather, she explores the push and pull of her wishes for solitude and the demands of a more actively-guided life.

I really identified with Mori in this memoir, especially the way she described her intense need to be alone but also her close friendships and her relationship with her husband Chuck. Some of the memoir veers towards the kind of writing where the author draws life lessons from her experiences and mistakes, but for the most part, Mori remains fairly ambivalent about deriving meaning and that insistence in American culture that we always grow and learn.

A lot of the memoir is also about processing events early in Mori's life when she lived in Japan. Her father was frequently away from home, staying out with his numerous girlfriends while her mother suffered home alone. Eventually, her mother committed suicide, and her father insisted on blotting that aspect out, paying the police and reporters to describe the death as an accident and never talking about her mother's death thereafter. He also had one of his girlfriends move in shortly after the mother's death, and he eventually married that woman as well while carrying on with his other girlfriends. The stepmother, of course, was none too happy to be the cheated-upon wife who had to raise two children and was never kind to Mori.

Mori eventually left Japan to study in the United States, continuing on to graduate school and a career as a college professor and writer, never to return to live in Japan. Her marriage to Chuck, in fact, was in part a marriage of convenience so that she could stay in the country without having to go back to Japan to apply for a work visa (she had her teaching position all lined up already).

Mori's description of her relationship with Chuck was extremely fascinating as well. From the start, they both maintained that they were uninterested in a vision of marriage that was full of ups and downs, romance, and the dissolution of the self into coupledom. They kept their finances separate, had their own sets of friends, and mostly did things of their own accord without having to think about and take into account each other's feelings or aspirations. The relationship ultimately becomes a kind of safe space for Mori and Chuck, but one in which they were both stifled by indecision and an inability to push for anything. Mori's revelation about her relationship was ultimately that she simply prefers to be alone. I find it interesting because there are a lot of echoes with her portrayal of her relationship and my relationship. I think we sidestep a lot of what Mori saw as ultimately the problems in hers, though.

Finally, it would be remiss of me to say that though Mori talks a lot about yarn and knitting, she never once mentions crochet! As someone who is in Team Crochet, I have to say:


(I posted this drawing on Facebook as a joke to declare war on my knitter friends.)
 
 
Current Mood: pleasedpleased
 
 
19 August 2012 @ 03:08 pm
Ai is one of those poets I've long meant to read but haven't beyond individual poems in a few anthologies and online. I came across her posthumous volume No Surrender (Norton, 2010) recently and finally got around to reading one of her collections.



Ai is a multiracial poet whose work has long explored the various strands of her heritage. No Surrender offers poems with a range of speakers in dramatic monologues about their lives and families. The speakers include an Irish woman immigrating to the United States, leaving and returning to the Catholic Church over the course of her life; young Irish men in Southie; a multiracial Irish American woman at the Great Brooklyn Irish Fair; women in the circuits of war between white men and Indian men; and a young college man raped on the night of his graduation. Some of the speakers' stories seem to echo or perhaps draw from Ai's own life or the lives of her family. As a whole, the stories draw out a vision of the United States as fundamentally composed of immigrant lives and interracial encounters.

Many of the monologues concern questions of familial belonging and blood relations, a topic that is understandably in light of the history of interracial sex between warring groups of people as well as in the context of more romantic relationships. Bastards and stepchildren appear frequently in the poems, signaling the complexities of family trees as influenced by the wars between whites and Indians as well as the history of slavery.

The poem I read as perhaps most autobiographical, though I do not know much about Ai's personal history, was "Baby Florence, a.k.a. Coming Through Fire," which takes as its central concern a reflection on the speaker's past via the figure of the Granddaddy who didn't always claim his children and grandchildren. The poem ends with the lines:
Ironic to think it would

Be me who rediscovered him among the trash and debris of my exhumation of family history which did not

Lead as I had thought it would to anything good, but to dark secrets better left buried upon the Plains,

Surrounded by the mutilated remains of the dead men, women and children, red, white and in-between

Along with the corpses of the horses he had shot down that November in 1868 when he found Black Kettle

And his people asleep in their lodges one minute and running through a foot of snow and bitter cold the

Next, while bullets and arrows, tomahawks and knives pierced their bodies as they tried to escape as I do

Now from Custer's luck and failed.
This poem, like many of the others exploring relationships between white men and Indian women in the mid-1800s, ends with the idea that the history of war and extermination is something still present and unresolved.
 
 
Current Mood: busybusy
 
 
Asian American Literature Fans – Megareview for August 18, 2012

In this post, reviews for: Moni Mohsin’s Duty Free (Broadway Books, 2011); Mohammed Hanif’s Our Lady of Alice Bhatti (Knopf, 2012); Laura Joh Rowland’s The Fire Kimono (2008, Minotaur Books); Kavita Daswani’s Lovetorn (HarperTeen 2012); Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya’s The Watch (Hogarth, 2012); Ed Lin’s One Red Bastard (Minotaur Books, 2012); Anita Nair’s The Lilac House (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012); Sanjay Gupta’s Monday Mornings (Grand Central Publishing, 2012); and Sheela Chari’s Vanished (Hyperion Children’s 2011).

A Review of Moni Mohsin’s Duty Free (Broadway Books, 2011)



One of the first things you notice about Duty Free is its cover, which immediately brings to mind the multitudes of chicklit books that appeared in the wake of the success of books such as The Devil Wears Prada, The Nanny Diaries, and the HBO series, Sex and the City. Though Duty Free appears to follow in this popular genre, what you actually have in this narrative is a satirical take on a modern upper crust Pakistani woman’s existence. As a result, some might actually be disappointed in the narrative that follows. It does include a number of chicklist genre elements: the focus on fashion, romance, and the possibilities of women’s independence in a modernizing society, but Mohsin is poking quite a lot of fun at our heroine and narrator. Perhaps, the most delightful aspect of this novel is that Mohsin revels in the narrator’s misuse of the English language, something we might call malaprops. In this sense, Mohsin has so much in common with someone like R. Zamora Linmark, and we see how the use of English and its reconfiguration in the postcolonial context is very much about how language itself is evolving and taking on new meaning, how communication is already so perilous and tenuous. Mohsin also happens to include the contemporary social contexts that make Pakistan such a powder keg for political instability: references to the Taliban, the rise of tropical diseases and their exportation to other parts of the globe, as well as the international tensions that have embroiled the South Asian peninsula. The concluding arc sees a rather abrupt shift in the narrator’s goal to get her cousin Jonkers married, something that seems a little bit artificial, but we’ll go with it because our narrator is so incredibly flawed that we’ll want her to have this one triumph over her incredible superficiality. Mohsin has a lot of high powered supporters for this work with book blurbs from Daniyal Mueenuddin (author of one of my favorite collections: In Other Rooms, Other Wonders), Tash Aw (author of Map of the Invisible World and mentioned in Mohsin’s acknowledgments that follows the novel), and Kamila Shamie (author of Burnt Shadows) and we’ll hope that some of her other publications arrive on these American shores. As of this point, Duty Free is her American debut, though she has already published two other books.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Duty-Free-Novel-Moni-Mohsin/dp/0307889246/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341600111&sr=8-1&keywords=Duty+Free

A Review of Mohammed Hanif’s Our Lady of Alice Bhatti (Knopf, 2012)



Our Lady of Alice Bhatti is Mohammed Hanif’s second novel after A Case of Exploding Mangoes. Hanif’s first has always been on my to-read list, so I intend to eventually read it (I hope). In Our Lady of Alice Bhatti, Hanif revels in the creation of the social satire, where the storyline seems less about realistic depictions than they are a commentary about the state of class, caste, religion, and gender relations in contemporary Pakistan. The protagonist, the ostensible Alice Bhatti, is somewhat of an anomalous figure. Raised in The French Colony of Islamabad, Alice Bhatti is part of the Christian-religious minority. She comes from a family of healers, so it’s perhaps not entirely surprising that she decides to try to become a nurse, despite her rather humble class background. A mishap in the operation room leaves Alice the “fallguy” and she serves a prison sentence. Upon her release, she is still able to secure a job, eventually marries a man named Teddy Butt who works as a police informant, but Teddy Butt is not entirely a logical person and his passions take him toward a darker path that leads him to reconsider his love for Alice. The novel’s strength comes from Hanif’s idiosyncratic descriptions and willingness to explore all the nooks and crannies that come with Pakistan’s modernizing society. There is corruption everywhere, tacticians abound, and to survive, morality and ethics seems to be disposable qualities. There are points at which you begin to be thinking that the most upstanding citizens are the ones who are stuck in the sanitarium: the half-crazed might be the most logical. The conclusion is particularly tragic for the simple fact that Hanif seems to be suggesting that healers are in such short supply that when their lives are cut short, it leaves an entire community bereft. At times darkly comic, Our Lady is Alice Bhatti is at core a sobering tragedy.

Buy The Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Lady-Alice-Bhatti-Mohammed-Hanif/dp/0307958310/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1340293307&sr=8-1&keywords=Mohammed+Hanif

A Review of Laura Joh Rowland’s The Fire Kimono (2008, Minotaur Books).



I resisted the urge for quite a long time to read Laura Joh Rowland’s Sano Ichiro mystery series, but at some point, I realized that I will pretty much read any genre as a way to get at this unwieldy category of Asian American literature. I will admit that the covers of the first books in the series made me wonder whether or not these narratives would primarily be “oriented” toward those who might superficially fetishize the East, but the covers have moved away from the ukiyo-e type block prints that were used in the first hardcovers, so there has been some shift in the marketing and I’m not quite sure at what point this decision was made. In any case, The Fire Kimono is a late addition in the Sano Ichiro series all set during the late 17th century; at this point, there is yet another about to be published in September 2012, but the full listing of books (in reverse order) swiped from another site is here:

The Rōnin's Mistress
The Cloud Pavilion
The Fire Kimono
The Snow Empress
Red Chrysanthemum
The Assassin's Touch
The Perfumed Sleeve
The Dragon King's Palace
The Pillowbook of Lady Wisteria
Black Lotus
The Samurai's Wife
The Concubine's Tatoo
The Way of the Traitor
Bundori
Shinjū

From here on out, suffice it to say that there will be some spoilers!

In The Fire Kimono, Sano Ichiro is under a considerable amount of stress due to the fact that assassins almost kill his wife at the opening of the novel. Apparently, they were dispatched by Lord Matsudaira; when Sano confronts him, he discovers that the Lord believes that he had been attacked by Sano instead. Sano believes that Matsudaira is lying and that there is a clear “game of thrones” scenario going on, as it seems that Matsudaira has eyes on the Shogun’s position. Problems get worse for Sano when a body is discovered in a tree; the remains are identified as a 14 year old boy named Tadatoshi who was thought to have died during a catastrophic fire that occurred 40 years prior. Unfortunately, the main suspect seems to be Sano Ichiro’s mother, Etsuko, who apparently has many secrets from her past. As Lord Matsudaira continually pressures the Shogun, Etsuko is imprisoned to be executed; Sano has three days to find the “real” killer of Tadatoshi and to prevent his mother’s execution. If he is unable to do so, it is very possible that Sano himself will be executed for having any connection to the murder itself. Of course, Lord Matsudaira seems to be doing whatever he can to point fingers at either Etsuko and Sano. Witnesses are pressured or persuaded into a particular account of the events during the Great Fire that occurred in the past and actors are even hired to play particular roles to hoodwink others. When one of the eyewitnesses, Egen, turns out to be a performer, and Sano finds his dead body, it becomes clear that there is far more to the story than Matsudaira’s involvement. As the novel moves forward, Rowland relishes in the palace intrigue and the political maneuvering that is going on. The plot does get quite complicated and it is very useful to have a basic understanding of the political and bureaucratic structure in order to see how characters must negotiate their own positions within a complex web of power relations that is the late 17th century Japan. The shogun in particular seems to have a slightly comedic representation in this text, which I definitely enjoyed. I’d recommend this book to any fan of the detective genre obviously and perhaps what’s best about this book is that it’s one of a long series so those most invested in the genre always have the next installment to look forward to.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Fire-Kimono-Sano-Ichiro-Novels/dp/B003R4ZFJC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345262045&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Fire+Kimono

A Review of Kavita Daswani’s Lovetorn (HarperTeen 2012)



Pylduck earlier review Kavita Daswani’s Salaam, Paris here on Asian American literature fans:

http://asianamlitfans.livejournal.com/109715.html

In Lovetorn, Daswani focuses on the life of an immigrant teen, Shalini, of South Asian ancestry who moves to Los Angeles with her family. Her father has a promising job, but the move is especially traumatic for Shalini, who has strong ties to India. Indeed, her marriage has already been arranged to a young man named Vikram, a marriage that had been in place since she was three years old. Shalini’s mother takes the move even worse and suffers an extreme form of depression. Of the four family members, it is Shalini’s younger sister who seems to acclimate to the move the most easily and makes quick friends with others at her school. The title, “lovetorn” refers to the love triangle that develops when Shalini begins to develop serious feelings for a classmate named Toby, a talented flutist. Thus, Daswani explores the complicated nature of romance in a transnational immigrant context. Will Shalini adhere to a marriage that had been arranged for her since she was only three years old and marry the man that she had always thought she would or will Shalini engage a different path? Daswani is certainly a capable novelist and writer; the plot moves along swiftly and she possesses a clear mastery of her characters in relation to their motivations, but the narrative itself might seem derivative for some. Perhaps the most weighty aspect of Daswani’s novel is the representation of immigrant mental health. As Shalini’s father tries a number of different avenues to help address her mother’s depressed state, it becomes abundantly clear that there will be no quick fix. Her descent into social isolation clearly details the incredible mental strain upon those who must confront assimilation into a new nation, culture, and lifestyle.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Lovetorn-Kavita-Daswani/dp/0061673110/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341428764&sr=8-1&keywords=kavita+daswani

A Review of Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya’s The Watch (Hogarth, 2012).



Ah, you know you can expect some narrational inventiveness from Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya whose third novel (after The Gabriel Club and The Storyteller of Marrakesh) continually pushes us around one central event: a Pashtun woman who seeks to claim the body of her brother who was killed by American coalition forces in Kandahar province in Afghanistan. She wants to complete proper funeral rites for him. If this basic plotline and opening sounds familiar to you, it’s probably because you’re a big fan of theater and are thinking of Antigone (which is a direct intertext continually referenced throughout the novel). As an aside, I still have to read The Gabriel Club, but it’s also still not readily available in the United States (boo!). In The Storyteller of Marrakesh, Roy-Bhattacharya reveled in the postmodern aspects of storytelling by shifting perspective among a large number of characters concerning a central mystery about a traveling couple. The truth is more than difficult to pin down. There is a kind of mystery at the center of The Watch, which also features shifting storytellers, but it’s of a different kind and the “truth” is of a different nature. The woman who opens the story, Niraz, is an amputee; her family has been killed, collateral damage in the long-standing war against terror. As the novel moves on and the narrative moves into the minds of various American soldiers, it is clear that Niraz’s identity is far more murkier for the coalition forces: is she a suicide bomber? What is her intent? Is she even a man? The hysteria over her identity gives us a glimpse into the incredibly addled psychic lives of veterans who are fighting to contain their combat traumas in the face of guerrilla warfare. Roy-Bhattacharya really revels in the texture of these American military forces, so much so that I think he sometimes gets carried away with pulling off the dialogue. There were points where I simply thought: am I reading a drama (because of the constant barrage of dialogue) or a novel? I suppose the murkiness is apropos considering his riffing off Antigone, but I digress somewhat. I often cite the work of Viet Thanh Nguyen and Katherine Kinney when I am reading a work about war and conflict. So often the perspectives lead us to identify with and even to sympthathize with veterans. Bhattarcharya’s novel clearly accomplishes this task, even despite some of the more unsavory aspects of American militarism. At the same time, the clear emotional center appears in the opening sequence with Nazim, so much so that her viewpoint, her character stays with you even as we never receive her direct narrational perspective again. The tragedy of the novel appears not only in Nazim’s story, but also in the narrative inequality which continually comes back to us as readers, plagues as critics of social injustice: how does one render what seems to be ultimately unrepresentable? This novel will admittedly leave you in a million depressions, but the naturalistic conclusion is simply inevitable.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Watch-Novel-Joydeep-Roy-Bhattacharya/dp/0307955893/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345262217&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Watch+joydeep

A Review of Ed Lin’s One Red Bastard (Minotaur Books, 2012)



Genre fiction is the ultimate guilty pleasure is it not? Here, we have another slapstick-y, wisecracking installment of Lin’s Robert Chow detective series entitled One Red Bastard (after Snakes Can’t Run and This is a Bust). Robert Chow is moving on up in the world, keeping old friends (like Vandyne and the politically incorrect midget-toy store owner), and generally patrolling the streets of Chinatown. Far more than a poster boy for the post-Asian American Studies period, Chow knows he has a job to do and won’t take no for an answer. In this novel, when an important Chinatown figure, Mr. Chen, is killed amongst the growing tensions between KMT-led Taiwan and Communist China, Chow’s girlfriend Lonnie is placed squarely in the midst of the investigation. You see, Lonnie was the last person to see Mr. Chen alive, so she is being tailed by some investigators. Lonnie, for her part, was interviewing Mr. Chen for a big story concerning the political tensions that have embroiled both local and transnational sectors. So, Chow has got his hands full trying to find out who might have perpetrated Mr. Chen’s murder. Indeed, could it be a KMT-backed organization seeking to place the blame on communist-led China by offing a known exile like Mr. Chen or had a communist-linked organization taken out Mr. Chen for his supposed betrayal to the true homeland? Along with this central mystery, Chow is out trying to keep Chinatown safe with respect to the smuggling of guns in the local area. He also keeps an eye out for Lonnie’s younger brother, Paul, who seems to be the hope for upward mobility, as he has just gotten a job working at Columbia University. As with Lin’s previous entries in the Chow detective series, the dialogue is always crackling and Chow’s narration has that comedic edge that keeps the plot continually moving forward even in those moments that turn out be red herrings. The impressiveness of this mystery is of course also in its historical texture; Lin must be able to consider the milieu of the period in which these detective fictions are set in order to successfully bring this story alive.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/One-Red-Bastard-Ed-Lin/dp/0312660901/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1344022394&sr=8-3&keywords=Ed+Lin

A Review of Anita Nair’s The Lilac House (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012)




Anita Nair’s The Lilac House is really a novel about second chances. Nair is also the author of a number of other novels that I haven’t yet had a chance to read (The Better Man, Ladies Coupe, etc). The two characters at its center: Meera, a recent divorcee and mother of two and Jak, also recently divorced and a professor who studies the weather, are looking to jumpstart new chapters in their lives. The beginning of the novel sets up how their respective marriages fall apart; the majority of the novel is set in contemporary India. Meera’s husband Giri does not want to stay in the titular lilac house and wants to sell it, but Meera never told him that her family does not actually own the home they are residing. For his part, Giri seems stifled by the fact that Meera still lives with her mother Saro and grandmother Lily. The other plotline involves Jak’s move to India following a tragic accident involving his daughter Srmiti; she was severely injured and appears close to a vegetative state. Srmiti’s accident is the wedge that drives Jak and his wife apart. Jak and Meera are eventually thrown together because Meera needs a job to help pay the bills and Jak needs a research assistant. Meera’s background as a writer of a popular book (on the topic of being a corporate wife) gives Jak enough reason to hire her. Eventually, they come to increasingly rely upon each other and Meera helps Jak out when he seeks to find out in the hours just before Srmiti’s accident. The conclusion is particularly devastating and reveals the strong political impulse at the heart of this novel, concerning the state of women in India as the country continues to modernize. Meera’s blooming friendship with a woman named Vinnie is also exemplary of the fact that Nair is keenly interested in this topic and brings to mind the work of many other contemporary South Asian Anglophone and South Asian American writers such as Bharati Mukheree, Meera Syal, Mitali Perkins, among many others who explore this issue in their fictions. What further elevates this novel above a romance plot appears in the guise of Nair’s interesting use of narration, which often shifts between first, second, and third person perspectives. This approach gives the novel a quality most likened to stream-of-consciousness and reminded me a little bit of Virginia Woolf’s fiction stylistically. There is a full tapestry of minor characters who I cannot expound upon in this review, but Nair’s novel is a rich microcosm of individuals, many of whom seem to be grappling with lives that are not quite what they imagined and only some that have the courage to go after what it is that they most want.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Lilac-House-A-Novel/dp/031260677X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345093115&sr=8-1&keywords=Lilac+House

A Review of Sanjay Gupta’s Monday Mornings (Grand Central Publishing, 2012).



Many of you are already familiar with Sanjay Gupta’s name for the simple fact that he’s a well-known medical professional affiliated with CNN. He has written a couple of nonfictional titles, but Monday Mornings is I believe his first foray into fiction. Gupta uses his medical knowledge to his advantage to create the realistic background to the drama that surrounds a bevy of surgeons who populate Chelsea General. There is George Villanueva, the former football player and larger than life doctor; Ty Wilson, the talented up-and-coming surgeon who finds himself unmoored after accidentally killing a young boy on the operation table; Park, the Korean immigrant doctor who seeks to advance up the hospital hierarchy until a brain tumor changes his perspective on life; Sydney Saxena, the no-nonsense doctor who wants to move past the gender dynamics that restricts the respect she receives from her colleagues; and Tina Ridgeway, a doctor who works at a free clinic in her spare time and who is floundering in a loveless marriage. Gupta clearly is a fan of the medical drama, as his narrative seems inspired by the form that gave birth to such televisions shows as St. Elsewhere, ER, Chicago Hope, Grey’s Anatomy, House, among numerous others. Not surprisingly, there is word that Gupta’s novel is the basis of a new medical drama that will be premiering in the 2012 season. There is something deliberate in Gupta’s writing style that leaves the individual character narratives somewhat unsurprising or unbelievable, yet the novel does occasionally find bright spots especially in Gupta’s ability to bring his professional expertise into the texturization of the novel’s linguistic terrain, one that revels in the perhaps unfortunate and myriad ways that the human body can fail us.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Monday-Mornings-Novel-Sanjay-Gupta/dp/0446583855/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341265298&sr=8-1&keywords=Sanjay+Gupta

A Review of Sheela Chari’s Vanished (Hyperion Children’s 2011).


(see the Veena case, but is it a guru original?

In this spirited debut, targeted at young readers but certainly of interest to audiences of all ages, Sheela Chari’s Vanished explores the adventures of a South Asian American young girl named Neela as she attempts to find out what happened to her musical instrument, one called the veena. If anything, the novel does provide a useful introduction to this stringed instrument and also engages an interesting mystery plot. There are a number of possible suspects that Neela engages along the search to recovery her veena. The primary suspect is a strange man named Hal that she meets while traveling home in a rainstorm. He provides her shelter in a local church but he soon disappears around the same time she discovers that her musical instrument is gone. There is also her classmate Lynne who seems to have too much interest in her veena. But Neela also has her supporters: her classmate Mike seems to be her partner in crime and the novel begins to delve into the complicated history of this particular object. Specifically, there is a curse attached to the veena in that it will always vanish from its temporary owner. Then there is the question of the veena’s value. It is possible that it is an original edition created by a famous veena-maker known as Guru. Finally still, there is the question of the veena’s connection to a musician known as Veronica Wyvern, who apparently died in a train accident while researching the veena’s history during her travels in India. Given force of the accident, it is already suspicious that the veena had survived that devastating event. Chari’s a patient author and all plot strands are tidied up by the conclusion. She also manages to narrate a child’s growing interest in her ethnic background, while entertaining readers at the same time.

Buy the Book Here:

http://www.amazon.com/Vanished-Sheela-Chari/dp/1423131630/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343931666&sr=8-1&keywords=Sheela+Chari