When I was growing up, the chances of finding any young adult literature with gay or lesbian characters was pretty much zero. And trans characters? Not a chance. Thankfully, in the last 10-15 years, we have seen an explosion of books by and about queer folks written for the YA audience, and they aren't just from tiny independent publishers that you can only find at bookstores in large urban centers. (Dear Middle-Grade Authors-please follow the lead of your YA fellows. Kthnx.)

While books like Rainbow Boys, Luna, and Sparks: The Epic and Completely True, (Almost Holy) Quest of Debbie  (find a complete booklist of queer YA I love here) describe the challenges of being young and queer in America, Moon at Nine, by Deborah Ellis, takes us away from the present day and the familiar American landscape we know, and drops us into the post-revolution Iran of the 1980s. The main character, Farrin, is the daughter of wealthy aristocrats, which in the days after the fall of the Shah of Iran was actually not a point in her favor. While she was accepted into a special school for gifted girls, she is intensely lonely. None of the other students will dare to be her friend, because under the new regime, being wealthy is seen as stealing from the more deserving working poor. One day, a new girl, Sadira, comes to the school, and Farrin finally has a friend, someone who will stand up to the head girl, who bullies Farrin daily. When their friendship turns into something else, their lives are changed forever. It is not safe in 1980s Iran for a girl to love another girl, and when their love is discovered, they are put in more danger than they ever imagined.

This book is so well-written and well-researched. I learned things about post-revolution Iran that I didn't know before. While Farrin and I share nothing culturally or religiously, I immediately understood her; her disdain for her parents, her feeling of being trapped, her desire for love and friendship. I recognized in her the restlessness I remember feeling as a young person; the desire to start living, already! I think most young people feel that at some point. But for queer young people, especially ones like Farrin and Sadira who have to hide that part of themselves away like a dirty secret, there is the added urgency of trying to find a safe place just to exist. Ellis portrays the tenderness of new love, the terror of being found out, the angst of being an adolescent, and the pain of separation in such a way that you can't help but be drawn in emotionally to Farrin and Sadira's story. Which makes the end that much more powerful, and hopefully leaves a lasting mark on the reader; one that urges them to act on the side of love and support justice for all people.

Teachers, this book would be great to pair with the graphic novel Persepolis in an English or world history class. Readability-wise it has a low Lexile (high-interest, low reading level 700L), but the ideas present in the text make it a much more complex read than that would suggest, and you'd need to build some background knowledge about the time period, the fall of the Shah, and Iranian culture in general. Starting with Persepolis, a memoir, would help students have a full picture of the events directly preceding the events in Moon at Nine. If I can figure out a way, I'm going to do exactly that at the school where I am a literacy coach.

When the Emperor was Divine, by Julie Otsuka

When the Emperor was Divine is a little gem of a book.  A slim 160 pages, Otsuka's debut novel tells the story of a Japanese family forced into an internment camp in 1942.  Each of the five chapters is narrated by a different member of the family-the mother, who packs away the house and their old life after the relocation order came down; the daughter, who tells of the journey on the train to the Utah desert; the son, who describes life in the camp; and the father, who was arrested and held in a separate facility for the duration of the war and returns to his family a different man.  The characters are nameless, which I assume is a purposeful attempt to portray the family as representatives of the 127,000 Japanese Americans who were "relocated" during World War II. 

Otsuka's writing is spare, but conveys such emotion.  This family lived in an America where their neighbors turned against them, or, worse, pretended they no longer existed.  Their ties to the community where they lived and worked and went to school are suddenly severed, and it is apparent that everyone was too afraid of being seen as disloyal to stand up for anyone-themselves or their neighbors.  There were two parts of the novel that stood out for me.  The first was when the mother was packing up their house in order to evacuate.  From my place in the 21st century I knew there was a good chance that no matter what she did to safeguard her family's things, they would not be there when and if she returned.  But the most painful part was when she killed the family dog, because he was old and sick and there was no one to take care of him.  The second part that struck me was the son's description of his mother's slow slide into depression and hopelessness.  They say that children are adaptable, and in fact the boy never seemed to lose hope that they wold eventually go home.  But even his youthful innocence could not spare him from watching his mother wither and lose interest in the world and what would happen to them.

Finally, after more than three years of imprisonment, the internment camp inmates were given $25, put on buses, and taken back to their hometowns.  Many had no actual homes to return to, and no family or friends to help them.  The opportunistic lawyers and businessmen who promised to collect rents from the people living in their houses or running their businesses had disappeared, along with the money they had promised to keep safe.  No on apologized, or offered any compensation for their losses-but really, how can you compensate someone for their quality of life, for the loss of feeling safe and secure in your own home?  And their neighbors, out of shame or anger, shunned them, which must have felt like a different kind of imprisonment.  Otsuka does a wonderful job bringing her readers into this shameful era of American history.

Kindred, by Octavia Butler

Any long time readers of this blog know my deep respect for Octavia Butler.  She takes the genre of science fiction and turns it into literature that not even the most pernicious lit snob can say is anything other than high quality.  Kindred, Butler's best known work, is perhaps the clearest example I've yet read of the way that she combines issues of race, gender, and class into her work.

Kindred is the story of Dana, a black woman living in California in the 1970s.  Through some process never fully explained, Dana is transported back to the early 1800s whenever Rufus, her white great-great-great-great (you get the idea) grandfather is on the verge of getting himself killed.  Unfortunately for Dana, this unknown ancestor is also the son of a slave-owner in Maryland.  This means that once she is back in time with him, she must adjust her life to the customs of the time, acting the part of a slave.  As Dana travels back and forth between the past and the present, she learns more about what it meant to be black and powerless in the United States than she ever wanted to.  What was abstract to her and her white husband in 1976 becomes terrifyingly concrete in the world of 1830s Maryland.

Kindred is a bit of a cross-over novel, as the science fiction aspect of it is not nearly as important as the story itself.   Perhaps that's why it is her most popular novel, because you don't have to be a science fiction fan to enjoy it.  But I suspect it has more to do with the examination of race and slavery than with a genre preference.  Through Dana's experiences, Butler shows the brutality and cruelty of slavery.  Dana, with her 20th century moral superiority, begins by "acting" as a slave, but after being whipped, beaten, forced into the fields, and nearly raped, she comes to realize how easily people can be made slaves.  Take away a person's humanity, and they will believe they are less than human.  Value a person only because of the work that they can do or the price that they will fetch, and they will start to define themselves that way, even contribute to their own captivity.

It is this idea that is perhaps the most striking in Butler's work, especially given the 1979 release date.  That close to the heyday of the civil rights movement, it must have been a risk for Butler to create the characters of Rufus, who while not likeable does at least become understandable as the slave owner's son, and eventual slave owner himself.  Even though Dana hates what he does, she can't quite bring herself to hate him, though he certainly gives her ample reasons to do so.  But Dana's relationship with Rufus, and the various attitudes of other slaves on the plantation, demonstrate that slavery and people's attitudes towards it were not as clear-cut as history books would make them out to be.  To be sure, the institution of slavery is abhorrent, but those living within it sometimes had to do things that should not necessarily be judged by 20th (or 21st) century standards.  Butler clearly shows how insidious the effects of living under such a brutal system can be, from the need to run away again and again, even after the most horrific beatings, to the need to try and secure your place by serving up another slave's transgressions to your masters, even though you know what the consequences for them will be.  In the end, Dana is able to retain enough of her 20th century self to free herself from the bondage imposed on her by the involuntary time travel, but not without scars, both physical and emotional, that will leave a permanent impression on her, and on the reader.

The Literary Blog Hop: To Like or Dislike the Hype

The Literary Blog Hop is hosted by the brilliant bloggers at The Blue Bookcase.  This week's question is:

Do you find yourself predisposed to like (or dislike) books that are generally accepted as great books and have been incorporated into the literary canon? Discuss the affect you believe a book’s “status” has on your opinion of it. 

 I think that my feelings on this topic have changed over time.  When I was in high school and college I was much more likely to assume that whatever classic literature they were asking us to read must be of great value, because otherwise why would we be asked to read it.  So I searched for nuggets even in things I hated, like The Scarlet Letter or The Old Man and the Sea.  But as I've gotten older, and I've learned more about the history of teaching reading and literature in our schools, I've come to realize the many, many, many voices that were never heard.  Women, people of color, gays and lesbians-all, with the notable exceptions of the Brontes and Jane Austen, were either left out of the literary conversation all together or had their stories told by others (most often not very authentically).  So, as the years have gone on, I've been less likely to read something that is strictly from the cannon and choose other, more diverse voices instead.  I suppose if I'm not careful I'll swing too far the other way, but for now I'm content to stay away from some of the capital A authors in favor of looking at life through the eyes of a more diverse group of small a authors.

Capital A Authors:

 Small a authors:

 

Life in the Rooster Coop

I have openly admitted my Goodreads bookswap addicition.  While they say admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery, I can't seem to take step number two.  At any rate, I was browsing one day when I came upon The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga.  I've recently grown more interested in south Asian literature, and this one sounded interesting.  I made my request and eagerly awaited its arrival.  Well it arrived alright-in CD form.  Apparently in my mindless bookswapping high I had requested an audiobook.  Arrggghhh...I am not a fan.  I realize that many people love the audiobook, but to me it feels like cheating.  Like if someone asked me, "Have you read The White Tiger?", I would be lying if I said yes.  But, with a couple of long drives coming up, I decided to get over myself and listen to it in the car.  Lucky for me I did, because The White Tiger is one of those rare titles that shows life exactly how it is, with all of its warts and ugliness exposed, and still manages to make it into something beautiful.

The White Tiger is the story of  Balram Halway, a rickshaw driver's son from "the darkness"-the small, poor, rural villages in the north of India.  He manages to escape his own small village by becoming a driver for a wealthy family in Delhi.  Balram is constantly aware of the wide gulf separating him from his wealthy employers, despite the mere inches of space that separates them in the car.  Through letters to the Premier of China, who is slated to come to India for a visit, Balram shares his life story, as well as his thoughts in class, caste, Eastern vs. Western values, and entrepreneurship.  Balram believes that the poor in India are caged in a rooster coop, and that every time one of the roosters tries to break free, he is pushed back in by the masters, even as the other roosters try to peck him to death.

Balram is the perfect narrator for this tale.  Smart, though uneducated, he brings to life the inequities that continue to exist in modern Indian society.  We watch as he becomes more and more dissatisfied with his lot in life.  As a child he seemed to believe the lie that the poor are told-that they are not as smart/talented/good as the rich, and that they should not seek to rise above their predetermined station.  But as he spends time with his wealthy employers, he begins to see the petty, ruthless way in which they treat the poor as something ugly and unfair.  While he starts out admiring his master, Ashok, he comes to despise him for having the same weaknesses and flaws that plague all humans.  As his rage grows, he is led to dramatic action-an action that will change not just his life, but the lives of his entire family. 

Adiga's portrayal of Balram, his employers, and the dual nature of Indian culture could be a metaphor for just about any family or society.  One the one hand, India at the beginning of the 21st century is a place of corporate offices, call centers, luxury apartments, and glittering shopping malls.  But leave the walled compounds of the rich and successful behind, and you enter the India of the slums.  Dirty, full of people scraping whatever living they can out of the underbelly of the city-a place where dreams and hope go to die.  Beggars living on the streets, entire families living in tents beside rivers of sewage.  At times Adiga's descriptions of the living conditions literally make you hold your breath to hold off the stench that you can imagine must exist in these poor neighborhoods.  What Balram calls "entrepreneurship" seems to me to describe not a knack for business, but a knack for survival, a knack for finding a way to be a "man" in a society that wants you to remain an animal.  As Balram says, for 10,000 years the rich and the poor have been at war, each trying to bring down the other.  If only all poor Indians had the "entrepreneurial" spirit, they could smash the rooster coop.  But Balram doesn't really believe that this is possible.  Only once in a generation will someone (a white tiger) be born that has the ability and strength to break free.