I'm Still Here

Nine years ago, I curled into my husband on a tiny pull-out "bed" in our son's room at Mary Bridge Children's Hospital, settling in for a second night (after an entirely sleepless first night) as we waited to understand why he had gone into sudden kidney failure. It was the first week of school, days teachers are strictly not allowed to miss, and suddenly that didn't matter at all.

One year ago, I stood at the shore of Lake Washington and watched my husband and son take flips off the diving board attached to the floating dock on the last day before it would be dismantled and dragged to shore for the season. It was the last weekend before the start of another school year, and I felt okay. I felt good. Because what is more joyful than watching my boys toss themselves into the water, all lanky limbs and unselfconscious energy, again and again? 

Two years ago, as we returned fully to in-person school in a brand-new building after a year-and-a-half apart, I swallowed my own anxiety as much I could to help my children with theirs. I also swallowed my rage, which was close to the surface all the time. How could it not be, as a public school teacher who had been vilified for the past year in the media and among previously supportive folks in my own life? Or as a proud mama of both a new middle schooler whose last day of in-person school was halfway through fourth grade AND a fucking fantastic and openly queer kiddo who braved a brand-new school after COVID cut short her time with the classmates she'd known since kindergarten? As a human navigating a world in which folks who claimed to love her kids actively chose violence with their votes?

Well, I didn't really swallow it. I wrote. Therapy and years of self-interrogation have taught me, among other things, how to understand what I am feeling. Trust, when I melt down over crumbs on the kitchen counter or any other stupid thing, I know what it's really about. (Also, sometimes it really is about the crumbs. Love me or leave me.) 

I wrote my rage after an acquaintance asked me how I was doing, and I was honest because we were friends, kind of. And then she told me I couldn't even begin to understand true anxiety during COVID with a very young child. 

Two years later, I'm not as angry; I also remember when I thought I had invented pregnancy and parenthood, when it was all so much more performative. Because it could be. When your kids are little, you can insert parenting into every conversation, the hilarity and the horror. Even the horror leads to a sense of camaraderie, to shared laughter and a string of "Been there, Mama!" comments. But oh, in that moment, what I wished I could have said (even as I knew the gulf between us was too vast to cross in a meaningful way then). Some things get so much easier, yes. But it can also be so much lonelier. The joy, the pain, the hilarity, the heartbreak, the fear -- it all gets stronger. More, not less. 

Was I resentful? A little. I wanted to share my own depths: joy and heartbreak, love and fear. But it's no longer only my story to share, and it becomes something entirely different to bear. And often alone.

Sometimes, silences in a journal or a blog or any other space speak their own stories.

I document my life because storytelling is a thing I was born to do, though the where and the how shifts. I started writing in my first paper journal shortly before Christmas when I was in first grade, when I wrote passionately about the doll I hoped I would unwrap under the tree. I started my first online journal in college, weeks before graduation, and posted only to a select audience. I started this blog as a more public space to document motherhood, to share stories about my toddler for anyone who might be interested in that sort of thing. I was never really a Mommy Blogger -- at least, that wasn't what I was trying to do -- but I did start writing here when Mommy Blogging took off. I read everything Heather Armstrong posted, even long after she became less relatable, even after she posted her unhinged and anti-trans rant last August. When she took her life this spring, I wasn't surprised -- I don't know how anyone could have been -- but I did feel something I still struggle to explain.

I continue to write here, however sporadically right now, because it's what I do. Because I believe in reading and writing as a point of connection. Because small stories matter.

I guess this is all to say, I'm still here. I haven't ever stopped writing, and maybe more will be revealed. 

2022 in Books

2022 was a tough year, and reading, like everything else, felt harder than it usually does for me. Still, reading also saves me, always. My list isn't as long as I would have liked this year, but here it is.   

All American Boys, by Jason Reynolds and Brandon Kiely 

Every English teacher probably knows about this one, or they should. I used it in literature circles with a social justice focus and my students really loved it. 

The Sentence, by Louise Erdrich 

I loved this book so much. I can't say that I think it's Erdrich's absolute best (I wouldn't suggest this as an introduction to her work), but the story was so timely and weird and poignant and warmly funny and heartbreaking all at once. Tookie is such a fabulous character. And it's a book-lover's book, to be sure. I also know that part of my love is that this story is set in a real place I hold dear to my heart. All the stars for this one.

These Precious Day, by Ann Patchett 

This is everything I absolutely love about Ann Patchett -- talk about a book to hug. I always enjoy her fiction, but I LOVE her essays. I started it on the way to Portland on a February Saturday and finished it when we returned home the next night. It sparked something in me that had felt a bit dull lately -- maybe the desire to write things, a hunger to read great sentences. Not just to finish a book because I set some arbitrary reading goal.

 

Still Life, by Sarah Winman 

I loved everything about this book, and it's one of the best of 2022. Absolutely worth owning in hardcover. 

"So, time heals. Mostly. Sometimes careless. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that's been missing. the fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into spring and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfill and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotting fruit, Passing time. But still life in all its beauty and complexity." 

The Visit, by Friedrich Dürrenmatt 

I taught this play to my seniors in the spring, when their focus was at an all-time low. They had fun with it. 

 

The Forgotten Girls, by Sara Blaedel 

A difficult student recommended it to me and I mostly read it because it gave us something to talk about.

American Street, by Ibi Zoboi 

Another one I read because I used it in lit circles with my sophomores. I enjoyed it, loved the main character's voice, and I'd read more from this author. 

The Kind of Brave You Wanted to Be, by Brian Doyle 

I read this during Lent and passed it on to one of the most important people in my life. Brian Doyle remains the writer I turn to when I need to breathe and read beautiful sentences. 

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois, by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers 

One of the most immersive books I have ever read. I'm in awe of what Jeffers manages to do here; it's both expansive and intimate, and the narrative voice is pitch-perfect through every moment, every historical shift. I let this sit on myself for a few months before I picked it up; at nearly 800 pages, I felt I had to read it at "the perfect time." That time, for me, fell over Spring Break and COVID in my house, but I was hooked from the first page, and I think it would have kept its hold on me in any season. 

Sea of Tranquility, by Emily St. John Mandel 

If you haven't read The Glass Hotel, read that one first -- I like it even better than Station Eleven -- and some of the characters in that novel appear in this one. Sea of Tranquility works as a standalone novel, but the experience was richer for me because I had that context. And this novel is a beautiful work of storytelling. The thing I can't quite shake is that the structure is very similar to Cloud Atlas without the same level of care. I loved the time travel, and the concept works well in this book, but there was no change in "voice" moving back and forth through time. David Mitchell did amazing things with language in his novel, and I wish Emily St. John Mandel would have given some attention to the way language changes and evolves when her characters are separated by centuries. But that's a tricky thing to do well, and maybe she was playing it safe. It's just a thing I noticed that took me out of the story itself -- but just a bit. This is a writer who excels at world building, and I still wholeheartedly recommend this one. 

Very Cold People, by Sarah Manguso 

Sarah Manguso is a gorgeous writer and I loved nearly every sentence of her debut novel. It won't work for everyone -- it's a fragmented storytelling style, a life revealed in a series of moments -- but I think that's what life is anyway. Very nearly five stars, but the ending was a bit too abrupt for me. I don't mean unresolved, it just felt like a sudden transition that didn't quite work. (I still loved it, absolutely still recommend it.) 

I'm Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, by Austin Channing Brown 

This belongs on the shelf next to Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, So You Want To Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo, and Trouble I've Seen: Changing the Way the Church Views Racism by Drew G.I. Hart. I read it in one day. 

Dog Years, by Mark Doty 

I love Mark Doty's poetry, but I can't even be objective about how much I loved this book. I love dogs and I love beautiful sentences and deep meditations on love and grief with moments of sheer delight and gentle humor and joy and tenderness. I set aside my copy for one of my closest friends, but if he doesn't return it, I might need to buy another copy, because it's the kind of book I would pick up before bed for a bit when I need to immerse myself in this kind of love when the world feels terrible. 

A Constellation of Ghosts: A Speculative Memoir With Ravens, by Laraine Herring 

I haven't stopped thinking about this since I read it. The story is about so many layered things -- grief, illness, loss, healing, reckoning with the past -- and the language and structure work so beautifully. I don't want to try to explain much more than that, but this was a powerful, immersive reading experience and I can't recommend it highly enough. 

The Girl From Widow Hills, by Megan Miranda 

Pretty fun First Day of Summer read (especially because our first day of summer was cold and rainy). 

Bewilderment, by Richard Powers 

I bought this because I loved The Overstory so much a few years ago, but I let it sit for a long time after reading a few decidely lukewarm reviews. I should have ignored them. This novel is more personal than The Overstory, but it has the same reverently beautiful writing and "sorrowful awe" (I don't remember where I read that phrase but it's exactly right) that I love about Richard Powers's work. Set in a time parallel to ours or in a frighteningly familiar world not far into our future, this reads a little like science fiction but captures the beauty of the natural world more tenderly and eloquently than almost any writer I've read. It also broke my heart. I almost think Powers went for the easy ending, but it might have been the only ending. 

Companion Piece, by Ali Smith 

How could I not love this? Like the Seasonal Quartet, this is brilliant and inventive, playful and pointed. Can any other writer speak to our present time so immediately while also transcending it? 

Trust, by Hernan Diaz 

This is one of those special novels that pulls me in so completely -- in this case, it's the language and the inventive, intricately structured plot -- even though the subject, on its surface, isn't one that grabs me. (A rich investor in the early 1900s? Meh.) The storytelling is utterly sublime, though. If you find it a slow burn at first (I didn't; I actually loved this immediately), stick with it. What a wonderful reading experience. 

We Are the Baby-Sitters Club: Essays and Artwork from Grown-Up Readers, edited by Marisa Crawford and Megan Milks 

This is required reading for anyone who grew up reading the Baby-Sitters Club, especially in the 80s or early 90s. 

The Anti-Racist Writers Workshop, by Felicia Rose Chavez 

This is geared towards folks who lead creative writing workshops, but as a high school English teacher, a reader, and a writer, I found SO MUCH value in this. My copy is heavily annotated and underlined and I want everyone who teaches writing in any capacity to read this. 

Heavy, by Kiese Laymon 

Stunning writing on a sentence level, powerful story, and required reading for all of us on so many levels. It's a book about everything and we all need it. 

A Flicker in the Dark, by Stacy Willingham

This is the kind of book I want to read when I need to clear my head and be entertained for a day, and it delivered. Note: I never try terribly hard to figure out WHO DID IT because this is just pure fun for me, and I like to just roll with it. That said, I had opinions about this one from early on, and I was wrong. However, it still wasn't surprising. Whatever. It was fun, and I'd read her books again over a weekend or on an airplane for sure. 

Unmask Alice: LSD, Satanic Panic, and the Imposter Behind the World's Most Notorious Diaries, by Rick Emerson 

This is required reading for anyone who read Go Ask Alice, Jay's Journal, or any other of the diaries Beatrice Sparks "discovered." (I would add It Happened to Nancy. I read all three of those books many times between the ages of, oh, 12 and 15.) Rick Emerson was also a guest on the podcast "You're Wrong About" and that episode prompted me to cancel my hold at the library and just BUY the book. No regrets. 

Crying in the Bathroom, by Erika Sánchez 

I loved I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter, and I love teaching that book so much. I also love Sánchez's poetry. But her style doesn't quite work for me as a memoir. That said, there's a lot to appreciate here, and I still recommend it. I read it in two sittings and handed it right to my daughter. 

To Paradise, by Hanya Yanagihara 

I think Hanya Yanagihara is brilliant, but both The People in the Trees and A Little Life were traumatic reading experiences (for very different reasons), so I wasn't sure I was up for another one. This book is unlike both of those, and I loved it for its structure -- it's really three separate stories that "speak" to each other across time -- and the stunning prose I expect from this writer. I admit I became a big bogged down in the middle, and I needed to take a break for a bit; it's a heavy book, literally and figuratively, but I loved the first and last sections. (The ending was a bit too much like the ending of The Handmaid's Tale for me, though, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's not that I mind ambiguity, I just felt like Margaret Atwood already wrote this scene.) 

 

The Sympathizer, by Viet Thanh Nguyen 

This took me a long, long time to read -- but only because I took a long break. Which, in hindsight, wasn't the worst thing. For me, this wasn't a book to rush through, even though it held my interest (indeed, I read the last half in a single weekend). It's brilliant and important and I honestly have no idea how to review it beyond five awe-struck stars. (If you've ever read anything about the Vietnam War, you need to read this. If you've read nothing about it, you need to read this.) 

The It Girl, by Ruth Ware 

This is the type of book I like reading at the beginning of the school year, over that first weekend when my brain can't handle much besides a cozy suspense novel and a glass of wine. This sort of scratched that itch, but I admit this one was a bit of a slog for me until close to the end, and it took me a bit longer than I would have liked to read. 

Lucy By The Sea, by Elizabeth Strout 

I love Lucy more with each book, and this one was so tender. And so unmooring. Elizabeth Strout perfectly recalls the uncertainty and upheaval of the early days of the pandemic, and reading about it only two years later was nothing short of surreal. She also captures so poignantly the human need for connection in a country becoming increasingly divided. 

All Good People Here, by Ashley Flowers I'm a devoted Crime Junkie, so I had to read this one, and it was fun. 

 

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver I love Barbara Kingsolver, a lot, but her books are really all over the place for me. This one might be her best, though, and at the top of my list for 2022. It deserves every accolade. Read it. 

The Rabbit Hutch, by Tess Gunty 

I'm not sure the ending quite held together for me, and the main character was a bit too much Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but that wasn't enough reason to knock it down a star because this book was such an absorbing, propulsive read. Fantastic way to kick off winter break. (There are plenty of reviews out there if you're interested, but I think this is a book best enjoyed without knowing too much about it.) 

 

Lean Fall Stand, by Jon McGregor 

This book opened on the ice in Antarctica, during a storm. But where it led after that was an unexpectedly tender story about the importance of communication and how we share ourselves with each other. McGregor's prose delivers everything I love about his writing, and this was a perfect way to end 2022. 

Begin Again: James Baldwin's America and Its Urgent Lessons For Our Own, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr. 

I included this in my 2021 list because I started it in 2021, but I finished it in 2022, and this is the year I taught Baldwin in my IB lit classes again. I came to James Baldwin rather late in my life and I'm still discovering him -- but teaching his essays to my juniors requires that I think beyond what personally resonates for me, too, and this book sets his work in the context of our own. I have so much more of Baldwin to read. 

Note from last year, which still applies: I don't usually include audiobooks, because they're not my favorite. It's not that I don't consider them "real" reading (I absolutely do!) but they don't work for me in the same way; I can't fully appreciate the language and craft of stories I really love when I can't see the sentences. But that's not to say that I don't enjoy audiobooks in my own particular context: extended time on the road, and occasionally, on my daily walks (though I prefer podcasts for those). Here are my audiobooks for 2022 (only four, as I usually listen to podcasts instead of books): 

The School for Good Mothers, by Jessica Chan 

Everyone loved this, and it's a worthy read, but I felt like it was trying to be like The Handmaid's Tale without providing context I really wanted. (What happened leading up to the world being like this? I'd believe it wholeheartedly if the novel just recounted the last few years or whatever, but I wanted to see it a little more clearly.) 

Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free, by Linda Kay Klein 

Pretty compelling for any of us who grew up with 90s Purity Culture in our churches. Even more mainstream and even progressive denominations (ELCA, anyone?) were subject to this sort of brainwashing, not just what we see as the ultra-conservative Christians. 

Mercy Street, by Jennifer Haigh 

A timely and compelling story with abortion rights at the center. Yes, I think you should read it. 

Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing, by Matthew Perry 

I canceled my hold on the library book in favor of the audiobook (read by Perry himself) on a road trip. Oof. I'm glad I listened to it instead of read it. 

 

As always, I've already started a list for 2023, and I'm looking forward to the Most Anticipated Books of 2023 from Lithub and The Millions in the coming days. If you've made your way through my list, I assume you're reading your way through your own. And I believe reading matters, so: love and solidarity, Friends.