2024 in Books

2024 brought challenges beyond anything I've faced yet. Reading is an escape sometimes, yes, but it's also how I understand the world, and myself. And as one of my best teachers said, "Reading is how we remind ourselves of our humanity." That feels more important than ever. Here's what I read in 2024:

My Monticello, by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson
If you like Colson Whitehead you'll love Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. This was a tightly-written and powerful collection of short stories and one dystopian novella featuring Thomas Jefferson's old plantation and echoes of the very real "Unite the Right" rally in 2017.

Day, by Michael Cunningham
Has it really been more than twenty years since I've read a book by Michael Cunningham? I devoured The Hours in a single day, long before it became a movie I love. Day had a similar impact on me in that I read it straight through, but twenty years later his prose hits differently -- or maybe it's the subject, or the fact that I'm twenty years older, or recovering from COVID myself as I'm reading a book set on a single day (April 5) spread over three years (2019, 2020, and 2021). The structure worked beautifully, but it's a structure Cunningham always does beautifully. He's just an exquisite writer.

The World and All That It Holds, by Hernan Diaz
In an interview with The Guardian Aleksandar Hemon said, "I don’t have to understand everything in a book. It’s not like a car – not everything has to work. If you are constantly puzzled by the world then you read books that puzzle you." I read this before I actually finished reading the novel, and that line resonates. This is a line I will share with my high school students. This puts into words what I have always felt!

I'm still processing this one, but there's no way I can give this novel fewer than five stars. I'm utterly in awe of Aleksandar Hemon and his use of language, which he says is "the only access to other people's consciousness." Beyond that, the characters, the voice, the history, the love story, and the longing for home (a theme that always resonates with me) made this what I feel sure will be one of the most impactful reading experiences of the year for me.

Girlhood, by Melissa Febos
Poignant, relevant, readable, important.

Sun House, by David James Duncan
In the "Acknowledgements in Four Stories" at the end of the book, David James Duncan wrote that "upon learning the manuscript was 360,000 words long, some of [his] friends laughed and asked who had time for what even [his] esteemed editor called 'this beautiful behemoth' in an age of governance by tweets and 'news' shelled out by logarithms." He replied, "Everybody puking sick of tweet governance and ad-prostituted logarithms." I'm not sure that's why I gulped down this enormous book, but I realized my soul was thirsty for exactly this experience. And that's what it felt like, because while I finished it nearly two months after I began it, I didn't read this slowly; I read it by spending a few weekends fully immersed in it. It felt like diving into a waterfall, entirely awake and alive, senses fully engaged.

This is not a writer who will be remembered for his "spare" prose. David Gates of The New York Times certainly didn't love the novel, and maybe it is preachy and self-indulgent. I don't care. If you loved The Brothers K like I did, this might be for you, but this is not a book I will recommend to someone who has never read David James Duncan. It isn't a book for everyone, and I realize how utterly precious this makes me sound, but I don't want it to be. Reading this book felt so deeply personal and I loved it wholeheartedly. I laughed often and cried just as much (I literally cried through the entire last hour of reading it). It made me feel like there is plenty left in the world to love, no matter how broken the world is.

The Nickel Boys, by Colson Whitehead
Reread before I taught it to seniors. What I wrote when I first read it still stands: Colson Whitehead is a literary genius. I really believe this. I thought The Underground Railroad was brilliant, and his new novel reinforces everything I love about his writing even though it's an entirely different novel. This is the fictional portrayal of a real-life horror: the Dozier School in Florida, a reform school for boys that operated for over one hundred years and brutalized thousands of young men. The story centers around two characters, Elwood and Turner, and I will say only that I fell hard for them both and that I don't want to reveal a single thing about the trajectory of their lives. I read this in two sittings. This is a slim novel, but the huge power of Whitehead's writing lies in as much as what he doesn't say, in the way he can evoke an entire scene with only a glimpse: a single terrifying item, a single sound. It's an important story. Don't look away.

Land of Milk and Honey, by C Pam Zhang
C Pam Zhang is a brilliant writer, and this book is gorgeous. I read the first half in one sitting. But it didn't quite hit for me the way her first novel did; I realized I wasn't eager to pick it up again and finished it quickly mostly so I could move on to something else. (I'll still read anything Zhang writes.)

Let Us Descend, by Jesmyn Ward
It's Jesmyn Ward. Read it.

The Hunter, by Tana French
I know there are plenty of people who just want Tana French to go back to the Dublin Murder Squad, but I have enjoyed all of her stand-alones just as much. Only this one is a follow-up to The Searcher, so not so much a standalone; in fact, I think reading The Searcher is important before reading The Hunter. Anyway, this might be my favorite (although I always think that when I'm still feeling that post-reading high). Pay no mind to the folks who call it "slow." This is Tana French's characterization at her finest, and I was all in from the beginning. I don't know if we're in for more stories with Cal and Trey, but if we are, I'm here for those, too.

James, by Percival Everett
I am rarely drawn to retellings of the "classics." Sometimes they work (Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie and The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo come to mind), but often they're not my thing (New Boy by Tracy Chevalier). But I read Everett's The Trees last year and that was all I needed to pick up this one. Gosh, I'm late to this writer -- but better late than never. He is a genius. I really believe this.

I started reading James as our plane took off from DC and finished it twenty minutes before we landed in Seattle. It was a late flight after a long day and I was so tired, but I could not put this down. I suspected this would be the case after I read the very first paragraph. It's brilliant. I mean brilliant. I'm not sure one needs to have read Huck Finn to appreciate what Everett accomplishes with this, but as someone who read Mark Twain's novel for English class in 7th grade, 11th grade, and a college American Lit class and then taught it in my own the year Obama was elected, I was even more blown away. At some point perhaps I'll be able to write more than "This is brilliant and everyone must read it immediately." Hernan Diaz calls it a "canon-shatteringly great book [that] rewrites literary history to let us hear the voices it has long suppressed."I'll be thinking about this for a long time, and I believe this is worth as much shelf space as the "classic" it so beautifully subverts.

Prophet Song, by Paul Lynch
Another dystopian novel I wasn't in the mood for but absolutely hit all the right notes. Nothing about this novel feels unrealistic, and Paul Lynch is a master of language, so here we are.

None of This is True, by Lisa Jewell
I read this in one day at the end of Spring Break, and it was exactly what I wanted -- psychological thriller with unreliable characters, plotty, a little dark and twisty but nothing too gratuitous. The ending was a bit of a mess but whatever, it was a fun read.

The Firekeeper's Daughter, by Angeline Boulley
I honestly don't read a lot of YA these days, but this one was recommended by so many folks I respect (and so many English teachers). I bought it months before I picked it up -- I wasn't sure I wanted to commit to reading such a long YA novel right now. If I'd known how propulsive and well written it was, I would have read it sooner. Once I was in (I wasn't sure I would be in those first few pages), I was all in, and I read the entire thing in two days. And now I'm sure I'll pick up her new novel as well.

Daughter of Mine, by Megan Miranda
I read this as an ARC I "won" on Indie Bookstore Day. It's not my favorite from this author but it delivered what I expected and needed during a really difficult week.

Tracks, by Louise Erdrich
I've had this on my shelf for a long time and was glad to finally pick it up and return to some of the characters in Love Medicine (which will always be one of my favorite books). Nanapush and Pauline Puyat are fascinating narrators, but the story really belongs to Fleur Pillager. I don't know that I'll reread this like I do Love Medicine, but Erdrich's writing always rewards the time I spend with it.

Whiskey Tender, by Deborah Jackson Taffa
Really excellent memoir about growing up caught between Native and White American culture and struggling to find a place in either. I read this book during a time in which it was tough for me to concentrate, so it took a lot longer than it might have. Still, the storytelling reminded me a bit of The Glass Castle (in a good way) and the way Taffa weaves the personal with the political is particularly effective.

Letters to a Young Madman: A Memoir, by Paul Gruchow
Paul Gruchow was a professor at Concordia while I was a student, and I was so excited to take one of his writing courses...and then he showed up on the first day and apologized, telling us that he was not well enough to teach. I don't remember if he told us he would be hospitalized then, but he took his own life just a few years later. This book wasn't published for several years after his death, and it was tough to get my hands on a copy; I can't help but wonder what he would have made this manuscript had he lived. Anyway, it's gutting to me. Worth reading, worth holding, worth having my heart seize over, but utterly impossible to rate.

Then She Was Gone, by Lisa Jewell
I read this in under 24 hours, tried not to guess the twists I knew were coming, and was distracted in the way I sometimes need to be during stressful times of the school year.

The Age of Magical Overthinking: Notes on Irrationality, by Amanda Montell
I really enjoy her voice, first of all.

I read this entire thing over nearly 40 hours in an Emergency Room, and it was exactly what I needed.

Madness: A Bipolar Life, by Marya Hornbacher
I'll be able to review this someday. Absolutely worth reading. Hornbacher's insight into her own psyche is astonishing. This is not a book you read when you want to feel better, but it might help you understand.

Table for Two, by Amor Towles
This was just absolutely so much fun to read. Every time I picked it up I looked forward to being immersed in whatever story Towles was telling.

Alphabetical Diaries, by Sheila Heti
I love absolutely everything about this book. I've never read anything by Sheila Heti before, but the premise hooked me: she took over ten years' of diary entries, arranged the sentences in alphabetical order and kept the ones that worked. It's a fascinating way to approach telling the story of a life, and it works brilliantly. Free from the order of chronology, clear themes emerge: love, work, sex, writing, friendship, travel, self-doubt. I loved sinking into the rhythm of the language every time I picked it up.

Fire Exit, by Morgan Talty
I haven't YET read Night of the Living Rez but after reading Talty's debut novel, I can't wait to go back to it. Fire Exit is a fairly slim novel that covers a lot of territory: belonging, community, identity, family, forgiveness, and the importance of stories, as well as the question of who gets to tell them, and when. I loved it.

There's Always This Year: On Basketball and Ascension, by Hanif Abdurraquib
I am not ever going to pick up a book because it's about basketball, but for someone who cares not much at all for sportsball I've picked up -- and loved -- a surprising number of books about it because they're written in sentences that make me care, and also because they're never really just about basketball. This book is the work of a poet, and I loved it. I couldn't read it without a pen in my hand to underline what resonated.

Home Before Dark, by Riley Sager
Almost two stars because it was fun to read for a day, kind of, clunky writing aside -- but listen, I scare easily, I WANTED to be kind of scared, and all I did was roll my eyes. The ending is what knocked it down to 1.

The Only Survivors, by Megan Miranda
A fun and atmospheric mystery/thriller of the sort I always reach for at the beginning or the end of a school year, consumed in a single weekend. I'll forget the details quickly, probably, but it delivered what I needed. (Recommended if you also understand what I mean!)

Sing a Rhythm, Dance a Blues, by Monique W. Morris
Like I wrote when I read Pushout: The Criminalization of Black Girls in Schools...I wish every educator would read this, but actually, also, everyone who claims to care about what happens in classrooms or everyone with an educator in their life.

A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, by Norman Maclean
It was time I read this. (I highly recommend Kathryn Schulz's article in The New Yorker.)

The Bee Sting, by Paul Murray
Well, it's brilliant and I don't care what anyone says about the ending. I couldn't put this one down and Paul Murray is a genius, the end.

Chain Gang All-Stars, by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah
A lesser author wouldn't have been able to pull this off, but Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah is seriously brilliant. And part of that brilliance is writing a book this bleak that somehow manages to be so entertaining at the same time. And I mean this literally; as a reader and as a human, the premise of this story is horrifying and real, and I can't imagine not feeling a little sick from the beginning. It's a brutal glimpse into the US prison complex, and even though it's a future/alternate reality kind of dystopia, it feels absolutely immediate, requiring little imagination to picture this as a current reality. The entertainment factor is the horror, and it's also the point. Giri Nathan writes in The New York Times, "You cannot applaud his debut novel, 'Chain-Gang All-Stars,' without getting blood on your hands. To enjoy the action is to share in the guilt of the bloodthirsty fans sitting ringside at the live-broadcast death matches between prison inmates. Adjei-Brenyah is so good at writing fight scenes that our moral disgust never definitively stamps out the primitive thrill of reading them." I couldn't stop reading once I'd started, I wept at the end, and I thought about my own complicity in the systems that made this book possible all along.

The Last Fire Season, by Manjula Martin
It seems fitting that I read this gorgeously written memoir on a summer road trip from Washington through Idaho and Montana, where smoke hung in the air every day and haze settled over the mountains and lakes. This has become an expected part of our summers, but it seems to happen earlier every year, and linger longer.

The God of the Woods, by Liz Moore
I enjoyed Long Bright River a few years ago, so when I saw her latest was a mystery set at a summer camp in 1975 I was all in. Perfect summer reading. Liz Moore reminds me quite a bit of Tana French; she delivers a compelling and character-driven story I want to read straight through, and I genuinely enjoy her writing (which is not something I expect or need from most mysteries I check out from the library when I need something to distract my brain for a couple of days).

Headshot, by Rita Bullwinkel
I never would have picked this up had it not been longlisted for the Booker, and I simply loved this story about women's youth boxing. (This weird thing seems to happen to me often, where I fall in love with books about some sport I don't care about at all, or even think I actively dislike, but of course it's always about so much more.) I loved the writing and it reminded me a lot of Lorrie Moore, which makes sense since Bullwinkel thanked her in the acknowledgements.

Everyone Here is Lying, by Shari Lapina
It's probably not fair for me to review this ridiculous mess of a book so soon after reading a mystery like The God of the Woods. I thought it was trying to be a combination of We Need to Talk About Kevin and The Push and Gone Girl. Two stars because it was entertaining and only took me a day to read.

Same as it Ever Was, by Claire Lombardo
I really enjoyed Lombardo's The Most Fun We Ever Had, and this book began with that same promise -- I do love a sprawling family saga with great characterization. But this one kind of went off the rails for me a little over halfway through and it became a bit of a slog to finish. I also wish Lombardo would have hit a little harder on the protagonist's background instead of making this such a story of suburban white privilege. Still, I wept at the ending, and Lombardo is a fun writer to read, and I read all 500 pages in five days.

Things We Lost in the Fire, by Mariana Enriquez
Really excellent collection, really unsettling. Megan McDowell writes in her Translator's Note, "What there is of gothic horror in [these stories] mingles with and is intensified by their sharp social criticism." Indeed, this book addresses issues such as mental illness, pollution, poverty, toxic marital relationships, and what it's like to move through the world as a woman or a teenage girl. It's gritty and visceral and so many of the stories leave the reader wondering whether something "really" happened or whether darker supernatural elements are at play.

Shae, by Mesha Maren
I love Mesha Maren's prose, I love her characters and the way she amplifies voices that are often overlooked, and I love Shae's voice.

Tell Me Everything, by Elizabeth Strout
"Love comes in so many different forms, but it is always love. If it is love, then it is love."

If you've loved Olive Kitteridge (who continues to be fabulously cantankerous at ninety-one), Lucy Barton, or the Burgess brothers, you're in for a treat. This is a quiet story until you realize it really is just everything. It was the perfect -- and I really do mean the perfect -- book for me to read right now, at this point in my life, and I think it will be a perfect book to return to for years to come.

Without Exception: Reclaiming Abortion, Personhood, and Freedom, by Pam Houston
"The freedom to control what happens to one's own body is not only the foundation for gender equality, it's the foundation upon which all other human rights are built...therefore, bodily autonomy is always a thing worth talking about."

Pam Houston is a writer I love and respect on so many levels and this one is worth purchasing and reading immediately.

Warrior Girl Unearthed, by Angeline Boulley
Really loved the story, maybe even more than The Firekeeper's Daughter, but it sort of spiraled into a "what is even happening so fast and wait how are we now at the end" situation. (If you liked The Firekeeper's Daughter I absolutely recommend it, though.)

One Perfect Couple, by Ruth Ware
Temptation Island meets Lord of the Flies.

Orbital, by Samantha Harvey
I loved this in a way I didn't expect, and I don't know if I'd have picked it up if Harvey hadn't made the Booker shortlist (and then the longlist). It reminds me of reading Virginia Woolf and I loved every single sentence.

All Friends are Necessary, by Tomas Moniz
This is a hug in the form of a novel. A book that seems so largely about grief could have broken my heart, but it expanded it instead, and it shows how joy and grief and love and loss coexist. I needed to read this at precisely this moment in my life, but I also can't imagine a moment in my life when this wouldn't be true.

If Beale Street Could Talk, by James Baldwin
The thing about Baldwin is -- oh, who am I to actually say what it is? He's everything. But this is everything I love about the best literature, about the authors and works I teach. When students ask, "Why do we have to read about____" all the time, I might say, because we read to understand ourselves, what motivates us, what drives human behavior. Because all art is political. Because if all you take away from a deeply human story is the trauma, you miss the redemption, the hope. Baldwin writes straight to the heart of injustice, but also community and love. I'm not sure I've ever read a writer who understands love like he does.

The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett
November 2024 was a perfect month to read some classic noir. Great distraction from the dumpster fire that is our country, and also -- the cinematic writing is pretty fabulous. (And then, yes, I watched the movie.)

The Next Mrs Parrish, by Liv Constantine
I mean, this was ridiculous. I hated the ending of The Last Mrs. Parrish SO MUCH -- I mean, it actually made me angry -- that I can't tell you what prompted me to pick up this one, EXCEPT that someone I love mentioned it and I was like, fine. And it was kind of terrible in a fun way (which is what I sometimes want in a weekend library book). AND it was pretty satisfying, and removed some of the bad taste leftover from the first book.

(Is there going to be a Mrs. Parrish #3? I think the door might be open for one, but with one of the most horrible characters kind of out of the picture ("kind of" is intentional here, like, this person isn't DEAD but might as well be), I'm not sure how well it would work. Then again, I never expected a Mrs. Parrish #2, either.

Intermezzo, by Sally Rooney
This took me longer to read than I planned, but I think it's because of when I read it (chaotic weeks in December leading up to break) and not because of the book itself, which I ultimately loved.

Darkly, by Marisha Pessl
Three stars because nothing Marisha Pessl has written has lived up to Special Topics in Calamity Physics for me, but it was an awfully fun book to bring on vacation.

*

Here are my audiobooks for 2024--not a lot because I'm mostly a podcast girl in the car, which is where I listen to things these days:

Counting the Cost, by Jill Duggar
I listened to this on a road trip and found it compelling, though Jill Duggar still has some (or a lot of) deconstructing to do. Jim Bob is as horrible as I imagined, and this is a pretty solid companion to the Shiny Happy People documentary.

Becoming Free Indeed: My Story of Disentangling Faith From Fear, by Jinger Duggar
Nope.

Come and Get It, by Kiley Reid
I don't normally enjoy literary fiction on audio, but Kiley Reid is an exception. She has an impeccable ear for dialogue that works well in the audio version, and her pacing is perfect.

The Exvangelicals: Loving, Living, and Leaving the White Evangelical Church, by Sarah McCammon
I was raised in a pretty mainstream Christian church in the 90s and much of this is still intensely relatable.

They Came for the Schools: One Town's Fight Over Race and Identity, and the New War for America's Classrooms, by Mike Hixenbaugh
Obviously I want everyone who's NOT a teacher to listen to this, but also...I want teachers to listen as well, especially teachers in blue states where we can too easily become complacent. Oh, hey! I'm dealing with my first parent challenge to my curriculum in a long time, by the way. I'm lucky to have my district's support. I'd be fired six ways from Sunday in many other states if I didn't comply.

There's a podcast about this worth listening to as well -- check out Southlake.

The Quiet Damage: Q-Anon and the Destruction of the American Family, by Jessalyn Cook
Powerful, poignant, sad -- but not without hope. (I have to believe that.)

*

I'm starting 2025 with Safiya Sinclair's brilliant memoir How to Say Babylon, and my reading list is long already. How about you?

Gratitude and Grief

My son turned fifteen today. 

I've told his birth story so many times, even in this space. Today in the car, driving home from bowling, I reminded the kids that fifteen years ago I spent the day cuddling Isaac on the couch in our family room. I was blessed with an intense but mercifully quick and uncomplicated labor, and two hours after he was born we bundled him into his carseat and drove home from the birth center. The winter morning was frosty and still dark, but I felt nothing but buoyant joy.

I was also starving, so Matt bought me a breakfast burrito in the McDonald's drive-thru on the way home. Orange juice too, I think. Like the grilled cheese I devoured immediately after Suzannah's birth, it was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

We arrived home just after Suzannah's auntie Morgan had fed her waffles for breakfast. We'd planned to introduce her to her new brother but take her to daycare for a few hours to let us settle in and keep a normal routine for her for a little longer. She only had two more weeks of daycare before she'd be home full-time with me until the following September. But as luck would have it, Matt wound up taking her to the pediatrician around lunchtime; she'd spiked a fever and had a runny nose and cough. Today we laughed about Matt announcing to our pediatrician that oh, by the way, we'd also had a baby that morning.

I asked Matt to bring home a quarter pounder for lunch, so back to McDonald's he went. This might not be such a grand memory, except that it makes all of us laugh.

I was a more seasoned mama the second time around, and I had my own bed, my own couch. Isaac had no trouble nursing from birth, and my memories of that day are cozy despite the sleep deprivation. My doula called later that afternoon to gently encourage me to nap, but I couldn't take my eyes off my son. I didn't sleep until that night, with my baby nestled next to me in bed. It was a perfect day.

*

This morning Isaac and I walked the dog together in light drizzle, and then we all went to lunch at the Spar before heading to Tower Lanes. We didn't check the schedule ahead of time, so when we learned that bowling wouldn't open until 2:30 due to a tournament, we booked a reservation at a much smaller bowling alley in a neighborhood we love. The kids played in the arcade for awhile first, gleefully redeemed their tickets for handfuls of trash, and then we headed to our next destination. All four Winslows were on our game. I mean, by our third, we were on fire. Each one of us bowled strikes and spares like nobody's business. Listen, I broke 100. That doesn't happen a lot.

After bowling, we stopped for coffee -- well, a cortado for me and an espresso for Matt, and baked goods for the kids. Without any prompting, they both shared theirs with each other and then offered us bites as well. Back home, Matt diced an onion for me -- he likes to help with dinner prep -- and Isaac asked if I wanted to play Blokus, the game we played nearly every morning back in 2020 when schools shut down and which he almost always refuses to play with me now because apparently I "overdid it." (Please.)

Isaac takes after me in that he is a total homebody; he'd almost always rather stay home than go out. It made sense, then, that he requested a night in for his birthday rather than a favorite restaurant meal, even though Saturday night is our usual family dinner night out. He wanted tater tot casserole and homemade cake, and this little thing is so endearing to me. So Matt baked the cake and made the ganache frosting, and I made the tater tot casserole. (Not Tim Walz's recipe, though; I made that on election night and I can never eat it again. It was delicious in the moment, though very heavy -- he uses bratwursts instead of ground beef -- and when I understood how the night was going to go it was all I could do not to throw up. All night long, I regretted the Election Casserole. For Isaac, I chose a simpler version -- ground beef and green beans, plus the cheesy goodness of freshly shredded cheddar topped with tater tots. We served it with a green salad.) He opened his gifts after dinner but before cake, and he was sweetly appreciative of everything, as he always is.

*

Here is a thing that is always part of Isaac's birth story: His name means "He laughs." I couldn't have known then how much my second-born child would make me laugh every single day of his life, no matter how dark the day.

*

Here is a thing that is impossible to untangle from my son's birthday: on the day he turned three, my lunch break was interrupted by the sound of a colleague's screams.

"They killed all the kids," she cried.

On the day my son turned three, twenty first graders were slaughtered in their classroom in a public elementary school in the United States of America. On the day I was excited to celebrate my son, I swallowed back my terror and tears for my last class of the day, and as soon as the bell rang I rushed to pick up my own first grader from her classroom in a public elementary school in the United States of America.

I have written about this and written about this and written about this and it feels like screaming in a locked, empty room. Parkland: 17 dead in 2018.  Uvalde: 19 children killed in 2022. And all the others, too many for me to remember by name on demand, even though I've tried to write about them, tried to donate money every time another one happens. This is shameful, that there are too many to recall, to name. The fact that my country excels in mass shootings is a shame that should be named.

The year my son turned three, the year twenty children were slaughtered in their school, President Obama wept and Republicans openly mocked his tears. This year my son turns fifteen, and we have elected people into the highest offices who shrug their shoulders and say that school shootings are merely a "fact of life."

I think of those twenty children from Sandy Hook every year on this day. I think about how they should be home from their first quarter of college right now, or working at their first post high-school jobs. They should be hauling home laundry bags, sleeping in, catching up with high school friends.

Their parents should be able to hug them hard after missing them for months.

The blood of these babies coated the floor and it continues to coat our hands.

*

It's hard to have hope in this country, in a country that reelected an unapologetic racist, a misogynist, a rapist, a monster. In a country where folks think they deserve absolution if they didn't vote for him but voted for those in their cities and states who will uphold his monstrous agenda. We are a spectacle and a shame. But as Rebecca Solnit often reminds us, hope is not the same thing as optimism. Hope requires work, not complacency. Hope means we acknowledge that things are very, very bad and they will get worse. But Solnit also reminds us that we can build paradises and sanctuaries in hell. For that is where we are.

*

I write all of this from a place of relative safety and extreme privilege. I know this. And I write from a place of hope, because my children deserve this. My daughter deserves our protection and my son deserves our accountability. My son has been granted every privilege, and I know that raising him to understand this requires work beyond raising him to be "good." Because "good" white straight Christian men have caused immeasurable harm when they haven't been taught to interrogate that privilege. Even the progressive ones, even the kind ones. And we've devoted too much energy to their hurt feelings at the expense of people's lives.

*

I am aware, every day, of the darkness. But do not underestimate my capacity to embrace joy.

It has been a dark, hard year. Personally, professionally, locally, globally.

I am aware, every day, of my privilege. This year has knocked my sideways in ways experienced by lots of folks with fewer supports and resources. What I know I need to do is channel that privilege into action, with the energy I am privileged to have because I've had supports and resources. It's the most important work we can do, and I'm still learning it. I believe this is our collective responsibility. To interrogate this privilege and act on it. And to listen. To listen.

My children's birthdays make me contemplative, I guess. The personal becomes political. 

*

We can build paradises and sanctuaries in hell.

*

I wrote this five years ago: Every year, and especially every December, the darkest month of the year, I look at my son, at both of my children, and remember the light.

So this is my prayer, every December: Let me never take such ordinary gifts for granted. Let me find a way to use my gratitude, and my grief. Let me not drop anchor at despair.

Five Days Later

"We have arrived in hell. You can build paradises and sanctuaries there too." - Rebecca Solnit

On Friday afternoon, I decided that after three straight days of anxiety and grief I needed to get out of my house and breathe and be in the world without having to talk to people. I'd been talking to people nonstop; on the first morning we woke up in hell, I had to go to school and teach, and then I had to drag my chair and my laptop down to the Commons and have conferences with students and their parents for five hours. I hadn't slept more than a couple of hours since Sunday. To say I was exhausted is an understatement, but I knew I wouldn't do anything as sensible as take a nap if I stayed home. I couldn't yet.

So I hopped on the light rail, intending to take myself to lunch, walk around a bit, and head to my favorite bookstore where I'd drink coffee and then a glass of wine, and write. I just wanted to be an anonymous person out in the world for awhile, with the space to eat and read and write without having to manage my emotions or needs for anyone else. I wanted space to breathe.

But when you're in a city and you pay attention, when you're on public transit or sitting in a cafe or coffee shop, you can hear a lot. And all day, I heard snippets. Two men and a woman wearing football jerseys and making crass jokes about Kamala on the light rail. Two women hunched over their salads at lunch, voicing their fears. Two baristas reliving election night, how nerves gave way to dread, and here we fucking are. Again.

I wrote this eight years ago:

It's been one week. One week ago, I spent the entire day in a state of horror, pasting on a smile when I had to interact with kids and their parents, dissolving in tears in the bathroom (where I encountered other teachers doing the same) or in my car. Since then, I've been despondent, and I've been angry, and I've tried to take care of myself and my family and ground myself in the beautiful present. And then I wake up and say, "Nope, I'm still angry." Last night I could not fall asleep, which is becoming my new normal, unless I take Tylenol PM. I swung between fury and terror. I've had horrible dreams about keeping my children safe. And my children will be among the "safe"; they are white, raised by two white, straight, "Christian" parents. (Is it any wonder that I put "Christian" in quotes? I'm really struggling with that one.) No one has threatened to come after them, although I absolutely worry about raising a daughter in a world in which our Commander-in-Chief objectifies women ("Not a 10!") and normalizes tearing them down and assaulting them. Again, this isn't new, and women know this, but when a man can scream about a woman's pussy as she's out for a jog or taking her kids through a drive-thru and happens to have an "I'm With Her" bumper sticker on her car, he's not just being vulgar; he's quoting our elected leader.

What's wild is that all the things that should have been deal-breakers in 2016 seem almost laughably mild now. Eight years after "You can grab them by the pussy," he won the popular vote after threatening vengeance against anyone he considers an enemy, after openly fantasizing about shooting Liz Cheney, after going on and on about Arnold Palmer's penis size, after simulating oral sex onstage, after swaying nonsensically to music instead of speaking for like forty minutes at a rally, after repeating bizarre and grotesque lies about immigrants (lies our future VP admits were lies but like, if you have to lie to get what you want, whatever). Now it's "Your body, my choice." I could go on, but clearly, I don't need to. Because it doesn't matter. There is no bottom.

But. You do not get to vote for him or for his supporters in your local elections (looking at you, Montana, 'cause you broke my heart, even though I saw it coming) and claim your love for individuals this will harm, individuals who will be less safe. Those individuals include my daughter (who I am so, so thankful to raise in Washington) and all of my students. Of course it includes far more, but I am so tired of folks thinking that they can love specific people, congratulate themselves for that, pray for them in church, and then vote for what will harm them.

Please, tell me I'm "too angry."

At the bookstore, I ordered a pumpkin spice cold brew and later a glass of wine from those baristas and I appreciated that they didn't try to make small talk. They didn't say, "How's your day going? Any fun plans for the weekend?" When I bought an Americano on my way to work on Thursday, the barista said, "How's it going today?" Totally chipper, no meaningful tone. And I replied automatically, "Oh, I'm good."

How absurd. The day wasn't "good." I wasn't "good." It's just that automatic, that we're so conditioned to prioritize comfort over truth. It's wild to me that some folks are so comfortable just moving on, posting chatty little updates without ever acknowledging what has happened. Again. And sure, sometimes we need flashes of normalcy and self-care, but as a friend of mine said, it's pretty clear who was never all that stressed out by this. I guess that's the wild part. 

It's wild to me that folks can talk about "respect" and "agreeing to disagree" and say, "Of course, there should be no place for bullying in schools!" And some of them are the same folks who helped elect the biggest bully we've seen in office in our lifetime. And to those who would say we shouldn't have to share who we voted for, that it's a private decision -- sure. And I don't actually care who you voted for or even if you voted, frankly, as long as you didn't vote FOR Trump or FOR people and policies who will elevate the hateful MAGA agenda. I care a great deal about whether or not your beliefs align with what's coming for my own family and my students and anyone who can't just go merrily about their day and not consider the harm to folks who are not white, or straight, or Christian, or men. If you're one of these folks and you're still reading, please consider this: if you can largely go about your day, business as usual, if you can happily carry on in your life without having to think about misogyny and racism and sexism and its direct impact on real people, then this is our mess to clean up. Watching the mental gymnastics some Christian folks are doing to convince themselves otherwise is exhausting.

I've lost some friends in the last few years. Some Facebook friends, some high school friends, and two formerly close friends whose loss I genuinely mourn. I write their names privately, on paper, and I grieve. But when I was tempted to reconnect after three years of silence, I went to their social media profiles and realize that I cannot open the door for those relationships again, because while they "loved" me, that love is hollow. If your vote will harm my child, or my students, that door is closed. I want to know who I need to protect my loved ones from, and this is not hyperbole. Sometimes this realization breaks my heart, but also, I don't have time to sit around in my feelings about that. America is the same country it was last week; we've just shown ourselves so much more clearly. And while my heart might be broken, it's still beating, and so I'm not quite ready to surrender yet.

The Complicated Love of Home

We visited Suzannah for Fall Family Weekend, and it was wonderful. It's only been a month, but I have missed her so much. I'm still not used to walking past her empty (and strangely tidy) room. I'm not used to not hugging her every day, or before bed. Hugging her again -- she gives great hugs -- was my favorite part of the weekend.

"You're doing great," I whispered as I hugged her good-bye last Sunday. 

"I'm doing okay," she replied.

And I told her that one month into her first year of college, especially considering everything she's fought through to arrive at this place, okay is more than enough. When I think about the last couple of years, those terrible post-Covid years layered with additional trauma -- some of which I recognized and some of which I didn't at the time -- my gratitude for what we have now brings me to my knees. We did the best we could with what we knew at the time, and some of it was good enough and some of it wasn't but it brought us to this moment, where my firstborn baby adult wants to spend time with us, where she checks in every day, where she misses our hugs and can't wait to come home.

I'll take that. Every time.

*

I've written about home a lot, both in this space and in many others. It's a loaded word for me. I was born into senseless privilege, really; my childhood bedroom still exists in pretty much the same state I left it an entire adulthood ago. I have always loved the way my parents' house in Bozeman smells when I walk through the door, even decades after I left. I love everything about it: the sound of the creek through the open window in my old bedroom (where my children now sleep when we visit), the light over the kitchen sink at night, the sound of the water singing through the pipes when the shower starts, the way I still know where to reach for cereal or crackers or peanut butter. The deer that strut across the lawn at twilight. The shadows that spill over the Hyalite foothills.

I didn't interrogate this privilege for a long time. I've always had a home base: somewhere to return to. And I took it entirely for granted.

*

How many homes can a person have?

I have never once regretted moving to Washington. I've lived here for my entire adult life; we've chosen to raise our family here, and I can't imagine choosing to leave. I have the water and the mountains, and a short drive to the plains I still love as well. I have creative autonomy in my professional life that I absolutely do not take for granted these days. And I live in a state where basic human rights still -- mostly, for now -- remain protected. As a woman and as a mother of a fabulously queer kid and as a human being, this matters.

I love my home state and I always will; it's in my blood. But I also understand that I'm an outsider now. I understood that the day someone from my hometown posted a picture of a car with an out-of-state license place just...driving down Main Street. The message was clear: You're not wanted.

It was a running joke when I lived there in the 90s: No Californians! 

The license plate was from a state in the Midwest, though, not California. And I understand that this isn't a joke.

I have an out-of-state license plate and I have since 2001. 

Is this a silly thing to pick on? Maybe. But this person happened to post this picture the same summer Ijeoma Oluo -- a writer I think we should all be reading -- faced an intense wave of racist vitriol (death threats, rape threats, vile names I will not type here) when she dared to make the comment "Will they let my Black ass walk out of here?" after visiting a Cracker Barrel in Montana during a road trip with her children. (I've never eaten at a Cracker Barrel, but I do know they had to pay...a lot, for racially discriminatory practices.)

Which brings me to the conversation I had with a student last week.

*

My juniors were working through one of James Baldwin's essays, and I was walking around the room begging them to please just fall in love with the texture and cadence of his perfectly brilliant sentences. They were doing their best to derail my teaching, as teenagers do. But sometimes the derailing leads to conversations that take us where we need to go anyway.

"Winslow, what's your favorite place in the world to visit?" 

I was tempted to ask this child what in the world that had to do with the work she wasn't doing, but it was Friday, and I like her a lot, and I didn't really feel like working either. 

"Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park," I said. "This has been true for my whole life. If I could only ever go one place again, it would be the shore of that lake. Or swimming in it."

"Where is that exactly?"

"That's in Montana, where I grew up. I love some places in Washington just as much now, so this isn't a fair question, but that's always my first answer."

"I'm not about to set foot in Montana," she said. And she explained in no uncertain terms why.

*

The first time someone I worked with told me about the time they were met with unabashed racism at a restaurant while traveling through my home state, my first response was something along the lines of, "I'm so sorry that happened! That's not Montana!" As a white person in America, I was taught to believe that racism was a reflection of horrible individuals. Horrible individuals are everywhere! An unfortunate reality that doesn't ask anything of us. Because we are not like that.

It's exactly the response I saw from well-meaning Montanans in response to Ijeoma Oluo's experience. How desperately we want to prove we're not like that. 

I responded in more or less the same way the second time a friend told me a similar story. A different town, a different circumstance -- but the same story I didn't really want to hear. I wanted to believe in the friendliness and hospitality of my home state. And I do believe in the friendliness, hospitality, and goodwill of individuals in my home state. But it took me some time (the time I had the privilege of taking) to understand that my response -- I'm sorry you encountered terrible people, but that was a reflection of individuals, not a systemic issue -- is exactly how white supremacy sustains itself, how it grows and flourishes, even in our homes, even in our well-meaning hearts.

I remember the first time a student asked me, "Are there any Black people in Montana?" and it led to a conversation similar to the one I had with my student last week. She understood the call towards home; she felt it too, towards a home she hadn't visited in a long time. But she also wondered, rightly so, how I could love a place that wouldn't welcome her too.

I don't love Montana any less than I did the day I left at eighteen, and the day I left for good when I moved to Washington twenty-three years ago. Sometimes I think that the grand sum of my writing, all of it, has always been a love letter to home, whatever that means. It means it's complicated, like any love. It means I think a great deal about home. How privileged I am to have been raised where I was, to love it freely and to feel welcome while I lived there. How privileged I still am to be able to return when I want, to hope my children understand that while they are Washingtonians through and through, Montana and Minnesota pulse through them as well; their roots are deep in all those places. How privileged I am to claim these roots, and to be able to return.

*

Suzannah was always fairly certain she wanted to attend college in-state, though she considered a few Oregon schools; she was quite firm on this from the beginning. She never wanted to go to a red state, for what (I would hope) are obvious reasons. But also, she doesn't want to be too cold or too hot, so no weeks of subzero or intensely hot weather. 

"The Pacific Northwest it is, then," I said happily. Because what parent wants her kid to go far away? She had plenty of excellent options and I trusted her to choose what was right for her. But when we visited Western the summer before her senior year, I had a feeling.

Mostly, I want her to know our home will always be home, regardless of where she chooses to put down other roots. I hope it always feels like it.

*

My kid voted in her first election last weekend. Her ballot was delivered to our address, and we took it to her for Family Weekend. After we'd had lunch and made our Target run, we hunkered down in a cafe I've grown to love over the past year. Rain streamed down the windows; Mazzy Star played inside while Suzannah and I sipped coffees in a cozy booth. I wrote in my journal and she spent a long time with her ballot. I've drilled into my children to an irritating degree that local elections matter a great deal; if I've done my job, neither of them will ever say, "I'm not political" or "I'm not into politics," which is, of course, a political statement in itself. 

*

I can't see myself living in Montana again; I don't think there's a place for me or my family there anymore. But Montana runs through me, and I still love it fiercely. I love my family there with my whole heart. It's complicated, and it's not. 

I've donated to Jon Tester's senate campaign more than once because I still have this wild hope that that a dirt farmer who works the same farm in north-central Montana near my family's farm in north-central Montana (who still uses the same meat grinder that took three of his fingers in an accident when he was only nine) can hang on to the senate seat he's held for so many years in a deep red state, even though he is a Democrat, which is something of a miracle. I've donated because even though Washington is my home now, my heart still claims Montana too, even if it won't claim me back. Because even though Tester and I part ways on some issues, he represents more wild hope that there might still be space for people like me and my family in the place that raised me, even if it's not actually me and my family. Because he works the same land his grandfather homesteaded, because he was a teacher, because he has a gay son, because if I want to ever believe that there is a place for my family in any capacity then I have to believe that some folks in unlikely places will still fight for basic safety and dignity for everyone. Because his opponent is absolutely repugnant and you don't need the news to tell you that; you can hear it straight from the candidate's own mouth. I've donated because people contain multitudes and even though Tester has never been on the ballot with Trump before, which will do him no favors this time, I have to believe it is possible that safety and dignity and decency and empathy can win, even against the odds.

I'm not sure donating to a senate campaign in a state I don't live and can't vote in counts as local politics, but it feels personal.

*

In the meantime, here we are. We're a mess. But also, even when we're a mess, our daily lives are still so full of beauty and love and I hope to never take a second of that for granted, even as I sit with the understanding that I have, in this beautiful life of mine, taken so much for granted.

In the meantime, here I sit, thinking of home. Of the people I love in every home I've ever known. Of all the ways a human heart can break and mend. Of my daughter's hugs and how I miss them, of how lucky I am to know she misses them too. Of the way my son can make me laugh on the darkest days of the year. Of my students and everything they've taught me. Of the friends I've lost and the friends I count as family. Of everything we stand to lose. Of privilege and shortcomings and shortsightedness, of trying to be better, of giving grace, of accountability. Of not knowing where to start, but clumsily trying.

Grief and Hope and Joy

I moved my firstborn into her college dorm this week.

I keep trying to write the sentence that comes after that. I keep trying to choose the sentence that comes after that. The right one. I keep typing and deleting.

There are so many sentences and I haven't found the one that fits, but if I wait to find the one that fits, I won't ever write this.

I keep thinking about taking her to her first day of kindergarten, which I wrote about at length in this space so many years ago. So many years in the blink of an eye. (It's wild, really -- I've been writing here for sixteen years, and I keep thinking I should start a Substack because that's where so many folks I'm reading are writing these days, and this space has been pretty quiet for me in the last couple of years but that's not because I don't have things to say, and it's not because I'm not writing; it's just that writing about parenting older children -- older teens and baby adults -- is very different territory. All that to say, I guess, is that I'm still writing, that I'll always be writing, and right now I guess this is still my little corner of the Internet to share a fraction of that.)

I felt all the feelings when we took our baby to kindergarten, and I wrote about that day like I'd invented parenthood -- forgive me, but it's so easy to put on our MomPants when our babies are small in an age where we share everything with an immediate audience in some way. The solidarity ("Hang in there, Mama!" and all those likes and heart-reacts) can get us through some tough moments, long days of drudgery, crushing self-doubt, and often help us laugh about it later. But as my kids grew older, I found myself drawing different boundaries around what I would share, imagining them reading it later, and I realized the importance of being transparent about my writing with them. It can be more complicated to write my story when it tangles with someone else's, whose stories are not for public consumption.

Lonelier, too. So, so much lonelier.

Kindergarten drop-off was hard -- is hard, I imagine, for so many parents -- because at its core is the realization that our babies will continue to grow up and grow away from us. That feels particularly cruel when our babies are five years old.

I wrote this back in 2011:

She hung up her new pink backpack. She already had a cubby, one she'd chosen the day before when she met her teacher. She gave us each a big hug, and then she walked over to the large rainbow carpet and joined all the other kids. Her cheeks were pink and I could tell she was nervous, but she was holding it together so well...she turned and waved at us, gave a little smile. We waved back, smiled as hard as we could, and left. And we sort of staggered across the playground, holding hands and leaning heavily into each other. I must have looked awfully shaky, because we attracted lots of sympathetic smiles from other parents milling around. I really thought I might throw up. And then, it was so ridiculous, Matt and I kissed each other good-bye and went off to our respective jobs. I was all, what? I have to go to school and teach classes? How?

I would like to tell you that dropping my child off at college was like that. It was, in some ways. But taking a child who hasn't been traumatized to kindergarten is a different kind of hard (for a mama who is equally and also senselessly privileged) than taking a child to college who has experienced trauma her mama couldn't protect her from. The spaces and silences in a journal can speak as loudly as words.

My child has her own story to tell, and it's a powerful one. I have my own story to tell, too, but I'm still trying to figure out where it fits, and how to tell it.

Here's what I can say: I am so proud of her. My heart is constantly seized by terror and love, but mostly love. Grief and hope and joy can coexist in a strange and beautiful space. I am lucky beyond measure. It's unthinkable, when they're five, to imagine them growing up and growing away from us. But it's also the point, isn't it? To raise them to be able to do exactly this: to find their way. 

Here's what I didn't understand about raising teenagers and young adults, when she was five:

That they need us more, not less.

That we have to figure out an entirely different way to parent them.

That when our babies are born we think we understand how much a heart can hold, and we haven't the faintest idea. We learn that quickly, but I'm still amazed and shattered by it as my baby becomes an adult.

That this is what it's for. We don't have babies to have babies forever, or preschoolers, or second graders. I may melt with nostalgia when Facebook and photo memories remind me of the delights, absurdities, and challenges of my children's childhoods, but what's really incredible to me is how these babies of mine have become humans I just really love getting to know. Learning who they actually are in the world, who they are becoming, and continuing to navigate a relationship with them both -- that is the greatest gift of my life.

But it's also just so hard. I'm still so scared. The last few years are still so raw, and there is no clear road map for navigating our way forward. I'm beyond grateful for the connections I have with friends who have traveled this road already, for the connections I've made in writing groups where we can share from our most vulnerable places, and for the privilege of access to support and resources.

Weeping as your baby goes to kindergarten is a thing. And for most of us, it's okay to share that as publicly as we want. And make no mistake: I believe in honoring and remembering those moments.

Weeping as you walk across a college campus, away from your baby, walking toward your car as she walks towards the dining hall -- it hits differently, and for me, at this moment, harder.

I know I'm not really alone, that I am experiencing a privileged grief shared by many, many other parents -- to be able to send my girl to a school that suits her, where, God willing, she will thrive. She will find her people and continue to discover and become the fabulous human she is. But I also have to grapple with this: I can't really protect her anymore, not like I used to. I can always provide a soft place to land, I can spread my whole soul out on the ground, but this really is her path.

Thirteen years ago, as my baby started kindergarten, I wrote this: All I really need is for her to be okay, and I'm okay.

There are layers in that sentence now. My okayness should never be her burden to carry, and she is not responsible for it, ever. I read those lines and thought, yes! That, exactly! But as I think about it, my okayness isn't the point. So I revert to the prayer I've prayed every first day of school for her whole life: Lord, let them love her like I do.

Just let her know she is loved beyond measure.

 

Enchiladas and Gratitude and the Absurd State of Things

Black bean and sweet potato enchiladas sounded good tonight. 

It's hot, and we don't love using the oven when it's hot, but I was out of other ideas. Black bean and sweet potato enchiladas come together so easily, and while I thought for a moment about making this delicious and giant summer salad that involves noodles and colorful sliced peppers and cabbage and cucumbers and this divine sesame dressing, making that beautiful and cool salad actually takes a lot more work than putting together these enchiladas. Even when I make the enchilada sauce myself. So enchiladas it was, because it was supposed to just be a chill Friday evening in July. I'm a big fan of "whatever we have, man" for dinner. I'm a big fan of boredom. I have actually never in my life been bored, but I believe heartily that kids should learn to cope with it and so we have wonderful "I don't care what you do, let me read" days in my household.

If I look back over everything I've written during the summers, especially since I had kids (so like 18 years), if I read all my journals and all my social media posts, a theme emerges: gratitude for the moment. I don't need -- or want -- more than I have. Slowness, stillness. My backyard patio. The freedom to read, to delight in simple things like swimming lessons (I read many books in the bleachers at my kids' lessons over the years, to the background of shouts and the slap of wet feet on concrete), or music lessons (this summer Isaac is taking lessons in both flute and saxophone, one for wind ensemble and one for jazz, and the smell of the music store takes me back to the summer of 1994 when I was trying out different trumpets before settling on the Bach Stradivarius, the same one my daughter plays now. There is something about the scent of valve oil and cork grease or the distant sound of a horn in a practice room that tugs at a deep nostalgia for me). These moments every summer are grounding, lovely, and necessary.

And I am grateful for exactly what I had today: hours to read in the backyard, my skin glistening with sunscreen because I am trying to prove Matt wrong -- he believes I will always sail into summer with a terrible sunburn because I missed a spot, and so far, this summer, I haven't. Endless glasses of iced green tea from Trader Joe's. A dog who loves to sunbathe on the crispy grass next to me. My quiet neighborhood. The view of Puget Sound, shimmering in the morning sunlight when Isaac and I walk that lazy dog. My daughter, home with us, puffy and sore from the removal of her wisdom teeth two days ago but home. With us. Recovering and resting and returned to us after five weeks in the hospital at the end of her senior year.

I've written a lot about gratitude, really. And I believe in this as a practice. But also, sometimes things are terrible and I think it's okay to just let that be real. 

Sometimes the terrible things are really minor: say, my enchilada sauce forgotten and boiled over on a burner. It spilled across the stovetop and made a huge mess. The spill sizzled and burned, the rag useless, the bottle of olive oil and jars of cumin and chili powder coated and sticky.

Often -- every day, it seems -- the terrible things are major: say, the state of the country? The folks who literally want to erase the existence of human beings? I saw the signs held high by all these smiling white folks at the RNC: MASS DEPORTATIONS NOW. They were probably all in church last week and they'll probably be there again on Sunday. 

I keep thinking of my first (but not my last) student to be deported after Trump took office in 2017. I've written about this kiddo more than once, but possibly not where everyone will see it. And deportations happen under ever president, but there's a monster gunning for the White House (again, WTF) whose followers hold up these signs and smile about it. Women's rights are also on the chopping block; Trump literally strolled out to "It's a Man's World." Obviously, LGBTQ protections are, too. This IS the Republican party now; none of this "I'll vote for the right individual for this particular job after careful consideration." 

Marlon James posted today: If you think Trump was the scariest part of that Convention you weren't paying attention. Make no mistake, this is the youth who will burn crosses, tell date raped undergrads that they asked for it, send women back to the alley with a clothes hanger and erase every single protection gay marriage had brought, and they will outlive you. You might be scared about what's happening to America. But you might be scared at the wrong thing. I once took some relief in the idea that at least Trumpism wouldn't survive Trump. I've never been so wrong in my entire life.

So I was in a funk about all that today, to put it mildly.

I checked all my gratitude boxes: time spent reading in my backyard. My daughter, home with us. My son, walking the dog with me. My husband, dicing the sweet potatoes for me because he likes to help with dinner. The sunlight shimmering over Puget Sound. I will never not be grateful for the moments that make up my life. 

But dammit, don't condescend. Don't give me platitudes. Don't REMIND me of what I already know, which is that I am lucky beyond measure.

I'm grateful, and I'm pissed. I'm grateful, and I'm baffled. I'm grateful, and I'm terrified. We can contain multitudes. My normally neat kitchen is a mess, and so is my heart. I'm seriously, stupidly cranky about the spilled enchilada sauce. I'm furiously heartbroken for the folks who feel rightfully terrified by what lies ahead. I'm grateful for my own senseless, stupid privilege, but I'm in a demographic that has caused a great deal of harm and I have to interrogate that. I'm also the proud mother of a fabulously queer kiddo, and fuck every single person who will vote for a monster who seeks to harm or erase any of us. I am a public school teacher in a state that hasn't yet outlawed my curriculum. I have to interrogate that, too -- how can I use what I love while I can?

It's all a lot for a hot July afternoon when I should just be relaxing with my book, but life intervenes, and the enchilada sauce might boil over and my kids might fight with each other over who gets what end of the couch for their viewing of Deadpool and I recognize that this ordinary fight is everything I actually missed and hoped for again two months ago, precisely because of its ordinariness. I'm so grateful for all of it. I'm so angry and so terrified pretty much all the time. But the world happens to all of us. We can have good days with terrible moments. We can have terrible days without trying too hard to find some superficial good in them. We can contain multitudes.

2023 in Books

I realize my writing here has tapered off after fifteen very active years; it's been a tricky space to navigate as my kids get older and the nature of how I write about us has changed. I guess that's my way of saying it's been a tough time. I've also been working on a few other projects -- but I'm still writing, just not here as much. Still! I'm not ready to abandon this space, even if Judy Blunt claims that blogging is "lazy writing." Who asked her?

Anyway, this is one of my favorite entries to post. 2023 may have been difficult, but the reading was rich, and reading is still how I survive, try to understand, and sometimes escape this strange world.

The Trees, by Percival Everett 

Ron Charles at the Washington Post described this book as "a shocking and shockingly funny story about lynching in America...presented as a contemporary crime story slathered with a thick gravy of absurdist comedy." And it is that. I couldn't put it down and it left my head spinning. It's dark, to be sure, but it is also "shockingly funny" and sharp and brilliant. 

Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative, by Melissa Febos 

An excellent book for both writers and readers: accessible and important. Our stories matter. 

In the Distance, by Hernan Diaz 

I'm not sure I would have read this if I hadn't read and loved Trust, but I'm so glad I did, because it might have made my list of Favorite Books. And I know that's probably a long list, but this book will sit quietly on my heart for a very long time. I kept going back and underlining passages, even days after finishing. It is simply that good, that soul-stirring. 

We, by Yevgeny Zamyatin 

This came onto my radar as a possible work in translation to teach in my IB Literature course, but I had never heard of it until a few years ago -- and not only did it inspire Orwell to write 1984, but Ursula K. Le Guin called it the finest science fiction novel that had yet been written. Science fiction isn't, as a rule, my favorite genre, but when Ursula K. Le Guin speaks, I listen. I found this story to be wholly immersive and engaging, possibly because it seemed to walk a fine line between brilliance and "could imagine this as a super hokey movie." Which is to say, I enjoyed it quite a lot. The bits about poetry and music resonated in particular, as well as the humanity of our narrator known only as D-503. 

All This Could Be Different, by Sarah Thankam Mathews 

I loved this book more and more with every page. It's just so deeply human. Sad, funny, lonely, poignant -- and all in absolutely crackling prose. This book feels alive; there's no other way to say it. 

Lost & Found, by Kathryn Schulz 

I can already tell you this will be at the top of my favorites for the year; Schulz delivers some of the most beautiful writing about love and grief and wonder that I have ever read. I'm not sure I've ever read something--other than, perhaps, by Brian Doyle--that makes me feel so deeply grateful to just be alive to experience, to want to notice and hold each moment. 

Migrations, by Charlotte McConaghy 

Set in a near future where the planet has seen the extinction of most of its wildlife, this story follows Franny Stone, an intriguing narrator with a mysterious past who sets out to track what she believes is the last migration of the few remaining Arctic terns. It's a quiet book, and a melancholy one, but even though the subject is so dark, it's also, always, a love story, a story about how grief and love are always entwined. Somehow it's the love that lingers for me. 

Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World, by Barry Lopez 

I began reading these essays on the shore of Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park, and after a long break, finished them on a gray Sunday morning in Washington. I think both were the right places and times to be reading Barry Lopez, who calls us to pay attention and "not to give in to the temptation to despair." So much heart, beauty, and wisdom in this book, so much care, and ultimately a call for each of us to pay attention to who we are in community with each other and with this planet. 

Barracoon: The Story of the Last Black Cargo, by Zora Neale Hurston 

I enjoyed this book more when I stopped expecting it to be like Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora Neale Hurston was a brilliant writer, but she was also an anthropologist and collector of folklore, and this story belongs to Cudjo Lewis, one of the last survivors of the Clotilda--the last known slave ship to arrive in the United States. Hurston interviewed him in 1927, though this book wasn't published until 2018. It's a powerful narrative, and I read it in a day. 

Maps of our Spectacular Bodies, by Maddie Mortimer 

I wasn't sure this was the right time for me to read this book, but as it turns out, it went straight to my soul in a way I very much needed. The novel is poetic and innovative in a way that feels brilliant and brave (rather than precious and too aware of itself), and although this won't be everyone's cup of tea, I absolutely loved it. I will think about these characters and this story for a long time. 

Solar Bones, by Mike McCormack 

Marcus Conway is dead, although he doesn't seem to realize it, and so we meet him at his breakfast table on All Soul's Day and fall into his thoughts as he reflects on his life: his grown children's lives, his marriage, family and work and politics, and the gratitude to be found in the simplest moments. A turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, the feel of one's hand on a beloved's fevered brow. As soon as I read the jacket I knew this was a book I wanted to read, but I put it off for so long; I think I thought it would require more work than it actually did. And anyway, this specific time in this specific month is exactly when I needed to read it. For a book written in a single sentence, it was surprisingly easy to read; I fell into the rhythms of the narrator's thoughts and found the story easier to follow than I might have expected. I was willing to work at this book when I picked it up, but as it turns out, it was lovely just to be carried by it. 

Wholehearted Faith, by Rachel Held Evans 

This book feels impossible to rate - or it doesn't seem fair to rate it. This was very much a work in progress when Rachel Held Evans died. I put off reading this because I didn't want to read the last words she will leave to us; however, it was the right time, and those searching for her spirit will find it here. I miss her. 

Boys and Oil: Growing Up Gay in a Fractured Land, by Taylor Brorby 

It's difficult for me to be objective about this book because it resonates so deeply -- all of Brorby's evocations of the North Dakota prairie and all the landscapes I loved when I was growing up in Montana or driving home from Concordia College. The way he writes about home, and his need to leave it for his own survival. His family, and the way he still manages to write about them with such tender sorrow when he rightfully could have chosen rage. As a proud mama of an openly queer child, and as someone who will likely never again live in my home state, my heart broke again and again to read about the way his parents responded to the simple fact that their son was gay. And at lines like this: Television shows provide a comforting illusion that life progresses, that we no longer need to live in fear. But we do. We do live in fear. 

I Have Some Questions For You, by Rebecca Makkai 

This book was absolutely everything I wanted over Spring Break! A well-written literary mystery that includes podcasts, true crime tropes, our problematic fascination with murdered women, and a boarding school in the woods. I loved it. 

The Speckled Beauty: A Dog and His People, by Rick Bragg 

Warm, humorous, poignant -- as a memoir about a terrible dog should be. Bonus: The dog is still alive at the end of the book. 

The Faraway World: Stories, by Patricia Engel 

I loved Patricia Engel's novel Infinite Country, so I picked up her collection of stories about the Latin American Diaspora as soon as I could, and they delivered what I love about her writing -- a hook every time (every chapter, every story has such a great beginning), characters that reveal so much about what it means to connect with other people (whether they are family or lovers or strangers), and the ability to convey such complex stories so smoothly in a few pages. 

Manifesto: On Never Giving Up, by Bernardine Evaristo 

I loved Girl, Woman, Other, so I was eager to read Evaristo's memoir -- though it really does read more like a manifesto than a memoir (and is stylistically much different than her poetic prose fiction). I especially appreciated the section on her writing process. 

Writer in a Life Vest: Essays From the Salish Sea, by Iris Granville 

Spending a year as a Writer-in-Residence on the Interisland route of the Washington State Ferry System sounds like my ultimate dream. I loved these essays for their reminder to stay present, to stay hopeful (because hopelessness leads to inaction, and we can't afford that), and to remember the interconnectedness of everything. 

This is Happiness, by Niall Williams 

This is one of the loveliest, most immersive novels I have ever read. If you're looking for a fast-paced plot, you won't find it here - but the characters are so warmly drawn in all their ordinary humanity, and I kept reaching for my pen to underline and bracket lines I loved. When I settled into the music of the prose, I wanted to stay there until I turned the last page. 

The Teachers: A Year Inside America's Most Vulnerable, Important Profession, by Alexandra Robbins 

This was a tough one for me to read, because it felt that raw. Especially in this post-pandemic but increasingly frightening era of teacher blaming while the demands keep piling on. If you aren't a teacher but someone you care about is, or if you have kids, or if you believe that education matters, or you want to know how you can actually support the folks working with our kids in a system that makes this increasingly difficult and demoralizing, I want you to read this. 

Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo 

My first introduction to Joy Harjo was in the poetry section of Tattered Cover in Denver at the tender age of 16. Until then, I hadn't been in a bookstore bigger than B. Dalton in the mall. A woman with long silver hair and a long skirt was reading aloud to her friend, and I'll never forget the poem: "She Had Some Horses." Decades later, I've introduced Harjo to my seniors. Read her poetry, read her memoirs, follow her on social media. 

Nightbitch, by Rachel Yoder 

Weird and brilliant and PERFECT to read around Mother's Day. Yoder took a risk with this one and it worked so well. 

Floppy: Tales of a Genetic Freak of Nature at the End of the World, by Alyssa Graybeal 

I loved every word of this. It's a memoir about a very specific chronic illness, but it's also a story about so many other things: navigating the sometimes tricky territory of family, place, relationships, and identity. It does what all good stories do: it holds up a mirror to our own experiences and asks us to grapple what it means to be human. 

Ongoingness: The End of a Diary, by Sarah Manguso 

Manguso's writing is gorgeous, and I love the concept of this book, but I should have read it in one sitting instead of in bits and pieces over weeks. 

Little Earthquakes, by Sarah Mandel 

This memoir of a woman diagnosed with cancer while she is pregnant with her second baby is difficult to rate but deserves a readership. 

The Only Survivors, by Megan Miranda 

A fun and atmospheric mystery/thriller of the sort I always reach for at the beginning or the end of a school year, consumed in a single weekend. I'll forget the details quickly, probably, but it delivered what I needed. (Recommended if you also understand what I mean!) 

You Could Make This Place Beautiful, by Maggie Smith 

A memoir-in-vignettes that works beautifully. I didn't think a memoir about divorce would speak so beautifully to my soul, but here we are. 

Once There Were Wolves, by Charlotte McConaghy 

I read this in twenty-four hours and it made me feel absolutely everything. Charlotte McConaghy is a wonder. 

Mercury Pictures Presents, by Anthony Marra 

Everything about Anthony Marra's writing delights me. It's just brilliant: his characterization, his sentences, his poignancy and wit. He reminds me a bit of Amor Towles in that way; no matter what story he's telling, I'll follow it anywhere. 

Wolfish: Wolf, Self, and the Stories We Tell About Fear, by Erica Berry 

This was so much more immersive than I expected it to be, and also so different than I expected, which I think was a deep-dive into learning about wolves. It wasn't that. It was a braided memoir (a format I love when it works, and I think it works here), different threads weaving together to form a whole I found more compelling than the one I thought I was looking for. 

I Am Homeless If This Is Not My Home, by Lorrie Moore 

This has Lincoln in the Bardo vibes, but it's also distinctly Lorrie Moore. I'm not sure how to describe it; a love story? A story about grief and loss? A road trip? A story of a man's dying brother and his (probably?) dead girlfriend? It's a strange one, but I love Lorrie Moore, and she can make strange work. 

Razorblade Tears, by S.A. Cosby 

Didn't fall in love with the writing and it felt a bit too didactic at times, but! The plot was compelling and it was so fast-paced I devoured it in a day. I can absolutely see it working well as a movie (apparently it's going to become one) and I will absolutely watch it. 

Open Throat, by Henry Hoke 

I loved this beyond what I can express: the poetry and wit and deep grief and loneliness and longing. I physically didn't want to put it down when I finished; I just sat with it for awhile. (I know.) So many lines caught in my heart that I keep reaching for it just to find them and feel the ache again. 

The Death of Vivek Oji, by Akwaeke Emezi 

Akwaeke Emezi is brilliant. I was completely captivated by their first novel, Freshwater, but this one just pierced straight to my core. I think it's structurally a more traditional novel, but their prose just soars; it hits all the right notes of beauty and devastation. And even though the devastation is foretold from the first page -- from the title, even -- there was so much warmth and tenderness in this story, even inside so much misunderstanding and separation, and that's the heartbreak of it. 

Not So Perfect Strangers, by L.S. Stratton 

When a particularly challenging student finds this book on her own and buys a copy for you because she enjoyed it and she wants you to read it too, you just...do. It's okay if you skip this one. 

A Room With a View, by E.M. Forster 

I had to pick this up after reading Sarah Winman's Still Life, which was one of my favorite books last year. I enjoyed it as much as I hoped. 

In the Dream House, by Carmen Maria Machado 

I cannot overstate both the brilliance and the importance of this book. 

Tom Lake, by Ann Patchett 

My very favorite Patchett novel so far. That's all. 

Walk the Darkness Down, by Daniel Magariel 

As bleak as I expected, as brilliant as I hoped. 

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, by Gabrielle Zevin 

This is not a book I thought I would read; my to-read list is long and always growing, and I've barely ever played video games in my life besides Super Mario Bros, DuckTales, and, yes, Oregon Trail. But I had a bunch of credit at my favorite new and used bookstore and for some reason, on this particular Sunday morning when I stopped in after brunch, I gave this book another look and walked out with it for, like, four dollars. Had I known how much I would love it, I would have gladly paid full price; this is one of my "Buy it in hardcover so I can literally hug it" books. I wasn't expecting to fall so hard for the characters, or to be so immersed in the story. And while I may not have thought I cared about the gaming, I cared a lot about the way Zevin wrote about it as creative work. It's a book about everything, really. Too much? Imperfect? Maybe. But it was pretty near perfect to me. 

Old God's Time, by Sebastian Barry 

I mean, this book is why we read. (Plus, it's a crime novel with beautiful sentences and an unreliable narrator. I'm all in.) 

Wellness, by Nathan Hill 

This didn't quite reach the soaring heights of The Nix for me, but it was still awfully fun to read. 

North Woods, by Daniel Mason 

This rather haphazard novel of different voices follows the inhabitants of a little house in the woods of western Massachussetts throughout centuries, beginning with a couple fleeing their Puritan colony  and it is Perfection. One of my favorites of 2023.

All the Sinners Bleed, by S.A. Cosby 

His books are perfect for those weekends when I want something plotty, a little thrilling, and provocative. I liked Razorblade Tears better, but this was close. 

 

Happiness Falls, by Angie Kim 

I read this in a weekend, hooked after the first line: "We didn't call the police right away." We learn immediately that the husband and father of the family at the center of this story has gone missing, and the only witness is the Eugene, the youngest child in the family, who has Angelman's Syndrome and cannot speak to tell anyone what happened. What follows is a mystery, but this is no formulaic psychological thriller. There are many threads to this story -- the pandemic, the impact of having a child with special needs, the secrets we choose to share and the secrets we choose to withhold -- and I enjoyed becoming so fully immersed in this story of family, love, race, and the power of language to connect us. 

The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls 

I waited far too long to read this. I'm using it as part of a memoir choice unit with my seniors and I can't wait to talk about it with them.

If I Survive You, by Jonathan Escoffery 

I loved this collection of interconnected short stories, described by NPR as "an intensively granular, yet panoramic depiction of what it's like to try to make it — or not — in this kaleidoscopic madhouse of a country." 

Democracy Awakening: Notes on the State of America, by Heather Cox Richardson 

This is required reading. I actually listened to this AND bought the hardcover. Do yourself a favor and subscribe to her Substack or follow her on Facebook for her daily newsletter. It's so much better than doom-scrolling, I promise, and I deeply appreciate how she puts today's current events in a historical context -- one my high school education certainly left out in any meaningful way. 

Here are my audiobooks for 2023: 

Trust the Plan: The Rise of QAnon and the Conspiracy that Unhinged America, by Will Summer

Unhinged America is right. 

  

I'm Glad My Mom Died, by Jennette McCurdy 

This was better than I expected it to be, especially considering I'd never watched iCarly. McCurdy's story is poignant and well told, and I appreciated hearing it in her voice. 

You Just Need To Lose Weight and 19 Other Myths About Fat People, by Aubrey Gordon 

If I haven't recommended the podcast Maintenance Phase to you, are we even friends? I'll read anything with Aubrey Gordon's name on it. The audio is great for this one because I already love her voice. 

Hey, Hun: Sales, Sisterhood, Supremacy, and the Other Lies Behind Multi-Level Marketing, by Emily Lynn Paulson 

I didn't want to wait for the library book, so I listened to this one even though I don't usually enjoy audiobooks...well, I couldn't stop listening to this one. I have a lot of thoughts, but I want to tread carefully, because when I started counting how many folks I know personally who are or have been (almost entirely past tense now) involved in MLMs, I listed over 20 when I stopped. I deeply care about many of those people still. I'm still pretty cranky about the FIRST hun to pretend to want to get coffee and catch up (it was totally the stereotype of the high school acquaintance I never really hung out with while we were actually in high school). In the last few years, though, I've watched some friends fall in deep with everything Emily Lynn Paulson writes about here, and she hits it all. White supremacy, conspiracy theories, purity culture, diet culture, toxic positivity, SO much shaming...an endless list of harm. She uses a fake name for the company she was with, and I think the takeaway is that it doesn't matter which one she was with, because they are all the same: predatory and toxic. 

Remarkably Bright Creatures, by Shelby Van Pelt 

I normally don't listen to "literary" fiction that I'd rather read in a physical copy, but I had hours on the road last summer and this one just called to me. It's wonderful, and it brought me to tears somewhere around Lookout Pass as we left Montana. If you enjoyed A Man Called Ove, you'll appreciate this one. 

Poverty, by America, by Michael Desmond 

After reading Evicted I'll read anything Michael Desmond writes. I might have enjoyed the physical book more than the audio in this case. 

Sensitive: The Hidden Power of the Highly Sensitive Person in a Loud, Fast, Too-Much World, by America, by Jenn Granneman and Andre Sólo 

This didn't teach me much I didn't know about myself, but it was a validating read. I'm perfectly okay with being a Highly Sensitive Person. 

The Woman in Me, by Britney Spears

Literary this ghostwritten memoir is not, but I listened on a road trip to Idaho and it reaffirmed my stance that Britney has been grievously wronged for pretty much her whole life. I'm glad she's finally getting the chance to have her say -- she deserves that and more. And for the record, I really like her. 

Class: A Memoir of Motherhood, Hunger, and Higher Education, by Stephanie Land 

I think this book could have benefited from a bit more editing, but I appreciate Land's honest portrayal of how difficult it is to survive as a poor single mother, especially when every choice you make is scrutinized. The comments under reviews of her book prove my point. If you enjoyed her first memoir I'd recommend this one as well. (She definitely has her say here, especially in calling out a few professors at the University of Montana. I kinda want to high-five her, though. Oof! Judy Blunt! I loved your book, but the judgmental gatekeeping isn't a good look.) 

My reading list for 2024 is in full bloom already, beginning with My Monticello by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson and Sun House by David James Duncan. As always, I believe reading matters beyond entertainment (though reading for entertainment is also valid and wonderful), and I'd love to see your lists too.