The Significance of the Dunk: Magic in the Air: The Myth, the Mystery, and the Soul of the Slam Dunk

 Magic in the Air: The Myth, the Mystery, and the Soul of the Slam Dunk by Mike Sielski

Magic in the Air book cover

Author and Philly Sports Journalist Mike Sielski

Dr. J, one of the Sixers' all-time greats, features prominently in the book

Michael Jordan's iconic foul-line dunk from the '88 Slam Dunk contest is analyzed in a chapter

Big props to St. Martin’s Press, Macmillan Publishers, and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Mike Sielski’s excellent new book on basketball Magic in the Air: The Myth, the Mystery, and the Soul of the Slam Dunk. I was excited to find this book available to read since I’m familiar with Sielski’s writing from The Inquirer and his weekly show on 94.1. To say this book is simply about basketball really doesn’t approach the full scope and nature of this book. Sielski starts the book in the present, by examining one of the most exciting and entertaining players in the NBA, Ja Morant. Sielski goes much deeper than his on the court interview with Morant before a Sixers game, and actually visited Murray State in Kentucky to learn more about Morant’s journey to the NBA and how he became such an explosive dunker. In fact, Sielski’s deep dive into Morant’s college years is similar to the kind of treatment his other subjects receive. That is, Sielski conducts extensive research, including personal interviews with subjects and their families, whenever possible, to trace the social and cultural history of the dunk. I really appreciated this kind of approach since it allows Sielski’s narrative and thesis about the dunk to expand beyond the hardwood, and look at how the dunk is reflective of changes in society. Beyond Ja Morant’s story, there was a lot that I learned from this book, particularly about the nature and rules about basketball. Each chapter delves into different innovators and individuals who had some hand in pushing the game into different directions, with the dunk being one of the more innovative practices that has helped to change the game. I really enjoyed learning about John McLendon, who ended up studying under Dr. James Naismith at the University of Kansas. This early chapter not only provided some information about the purpose of basketball, but also allowed readers to see how McLendon’s philosophies, especially the idea of the fast break, helped to reshape the game and alter the kinds of coaching strategies for basketball. Furthermore, as one of the few African American students at the University of Kansas in the 1930s, McLendon faced challenges in accessing the facilities that other white Phys Ed majors had access to. This section not only showed how Naismith envisioned basketball as a kind of social tool to teach cooperation, but also showed how progressive and accepting he was, providing McLendon with football players to stand guard while he swam in the pool. Other chapters traced the elusive history of the first dunk, examining some of the potential first dunkers in NCAA games. Interestingly, many coaches did not like the dunk, since it seemed like something only a tall player could execute well. This not only highlighted the kind of height advantage that tall players had, but it also starts to emphasize the kind of differences in philosophies that basketball coaches presented, where the original game was based more on sound fundamentals, including passing, dribbling, and teamwork. The dunk seemed more like an individual expression; yet, Sielski’s research and analysis presents some examples of how teammates, especially KC Jones and Bill Russell developed the alley-oop (or from the French circus term allez hop), to bring in some of the team work and collaboration that this involved.

I have to say that these sections that trace some of the more well-known NBA players (Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain, Julius Erving, Kareem Abdul Jabar) were my favorite parts of the book. Not only does Sielski provide great historical context, but he also analyzes how the dunk moved from like a tall advantage shot to something more skillful and personal- an expression that not only reflected the creativity and talent from players, but also represented a change in the game, moving from the kind of sound fundamentals to bringing in some of the flair and style from the playground. What I didn’t know was that there was a nearly decade long ban on dunking in high schools, colleges, and the NBA. I was shocked to learn this, and Sielski’s research kind of leads to some suggestions that there was a kind of bias that helped to institute the ban. This section was interesting to read, and shows the extent of Sielski’s research, although he was denied access to the archives that could help confirm or deny the ban. I also loved that Sielski’s book has such a strong Philly vibe, although I guess that is to be expected. Nevertheless, reading his book helped remind me of how Philly hoops are often overlooked, especially when considering places like NYC. Sielski pays homage to greats like Wilt and Tom Gola, who was one of the NCAA’s best players in the 50s at La Salle College (now University), and John Edgar Wideman, the esteemed writer, originally from Pittsburgh, but who played at Penn in the 60s.

Other chapters look at some great dunkers whose careers might not have been as well known as some of the greats, for various reasons. I really enjoyed learning about these players since I’ve heard of them, but didn’t really know much about their careers and the factors that may have limited their exposure and opportunities with the NBA (Connie Hawkins, Earl Manigault, and David Thompson). Sielski portrays them with respect and reverence, and helps to explore the context of the NBA/ABA when they were playing, allowing readers to better understand the situation. I was really surprised to learn how unfairly Connie Hawkins was treated, and despite winning a championship for Pittsburgh’s ABA team, he never really reached the same kind of success and recognition that someone like Wilt Chamberlain reached. I also really enjoyed learning more about the ABA, and how innovative that short-lived league was. Not only did they allow dunks, but they also had the first dunk contests. Julius “Dr. J” Erving features prominently in these sections, as he was one of the first stars to transition from the ABA to the NBA. Growing up around the Philly area, Dr. J was probably the first basketball player I remember, and it was great to learn about his life and background. Sielski dedicates more than a chapter to Dr. J, going back to his early childhood on Long Island and his time at UMass. The other chapters that I also really liked were the later chapters that looked at Michael Jordan and the dunk contests from the 80s, which was when I really started to get more into the NBA.

The later chapters are also really interesting in that Sielski explores the demise of the dunk, and how analytics have extended the game beyond the arc, focusing more on the 3 point shot. Some comments from older players like Dominique Wilkins and Vince Carter suggest that current players have too much to lose in both defending and executing dunks, and that the value in outside shots helped to shift the game from an inside, driving style, to a game on the perimeter. I hadn’t thought too much about this shift, and how basketball has really changed over the past 20 years or so, but it is interesting to consider. It’s also cool to see more players like Morant and Anthony Edwards who continue to drive the lane and remain fearless in their pursuit of posterizing opponents. Yet, according to some of the players in Sielski’s book, protecting reputations and brands seem to be more important than helping the team win or taking risks like the kinds of risks that have helped to further the game of basketball.

Overall, I really enjoyed this book, and it was much more in-depth and analytical than I initially expected. However, having read some of Sielski’s columns, I know that he is a skilled writer who can dribble drive his subject and play above the rim, while also passing the ball to others through skilled in-depth interviews, creating a broad perspective of the game and going in-depth with a subject like the dunk. Sielski’s analysis explores not just the historical facts, but also the social, cultural, and strategic significance of the dunk for players and the game. I highly recommend this book, especially if you are a Philly sports fan or a fan of basketball.

 

 

Reflections on Blue: Imani Perry's Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People

 Black in Blues: How Color Tells the Story of My People by Imani Perry

Black in Blues book cover

Author Imani Perry at The Anthology of Rap CC BY NC-2.0 by 92YTribeca

Thelonious Monk, at the piano. He is briefly featured in one chapter

“Wonder is a near universal response to deep rivers and vast oceans. But for some, the water also evokes terror. In it, I see God and slave ships both.”

A big thank you to Ecco Publishers, Harper Collins, and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Imani Perry’s new book Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People. Perry’s book explores the color and significance of blue from multiple perspectives, examining its tranquility, as well as its violence, its beauty as well as its decadence. Although to say that this book simply examines different shades of blue is a severe underrepresentation, the book considers how blue is interwoven into the lives of Africans and African Americans throughout different cultures and historical eras. To do this, Perry examines different shades of blue in many different contexts and themes. Several books I’ve recently read have been touching on some of these same recurring themes, and Perry’s book was one of the more inventive that aligned with these. For one, Toni Morrison features prominently in these books, and I really loved how Perry framed part of her inquiry into the color blue by discussing Baby Suggs from Beloved. She refers to Baby Suggs’s desire to take some time and think about colors, noting how Blue “never hurt no body,” yet Perry notes “but it surely did. The word even denotes ‘hurt.’ ‘Blue’ has been a word for melancholy in English for centuries.” Perry’s book looks at all of the different ways that blue has played a role in African American life, examining different areas including art, clothing, jewelry, music, and literature. One of the other themes was books written by interdisciplinary artists—those whose work encompasses different areas, yet finds commonalities and intersections among different fields. Perry’s work was so interesting because the focus on blue would seem so limited, but she expands the topic by exploring history, literature, art, and culture. And while the focus is primarily on African American history, Perry traces preferences to blue and its various shades all over the diaspora, traveling to Liberia, the Kongo, Haiti, and other regions where people were enslaved.

Perry spends time discussing the different shades of blue, and I didn’t realize how indigo was made, nor how precious it was in earlier times. Finding the stories about how these shades were developed and used for clothing was fascinating, yet also sad to see how labor and processes were often exploited to generate wealth that was never shared. She also discusses the idea of Blue Black, and revisiting Curtis Mayfield’s famous proclamation of “We the People Who Are Darker Than Blue,” and its significance in culture and history. I think that my favorite parts of the book were those that dealt with literature and music. One chapter focuses on Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, one of my all-time favorite books, and how the use of Blue features in Hurston’s work. She also discusses the dancer Katherine Dunham, who studied traditional dancing in Haiti around the same time Hurston was there for ethnography for Tell My Horse. It was interesting to see the parallels and differences between these two artists, who were navigating different social and class circles due to the nature of their work and possibly their skin tones as well. Hurston appears in other chapters that focused on Hoodoo and root work, which are often related to the Blues. I was amazed at Perry’s ability to draw all of these topics and artists together under the rubric of blue. It was fascinating to see her analysis and understanding of how blue impacted lives and cultures in different ways. Another section focused on Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison, looking at their works and how blue features in them. For the chapter about Richard Wright, it focused on Mississippi Blues, and Perry brought up a great quote that I wasn’t really familiar with “The most astonishing aspect of the blues is that, though replete with a sense of defeat and down-heartedness, they are not intrinsically pessimistic: their burden of woe and melancholy is dialectically redeemed through the sheer force of sensuality….” It was interesting because I didn’t remember Wright as being kind of musical in his writing, but I can see this kind of resiliency in Black Boy. The following chapter focuses on Ellison’s Invisible Man, another book that I used to teach and was always a favorite. There are so many interesting characters, many of whom are musical, and Perry focuses on the character with the blueprints, who asks the narrator if he’s “got the dog”. I always thought this was such an interesting part, where the chiasmus elicits a kind of reflective questioning—about whether the dog has us, or if we have the dog. Perry then goes on to link this section focusing on the idea of blueprints to Thelonious Monk and his composition of the song “In Walked Bud.” It was so cool how Perry brought these ideas together—blueprints as a map of intention, and as Ellison notes, the need to always improvise and adapt to the situation, which is what Monk experienced in his composition, based on a Berlin tune, that he adapted to a situation with police brutality. You have to read these connections. Other chapters focused on both DuBois and Booker T Washington’s Tuskegee Institute. One of my favorite chapters was focused on George Washington Carver, who studied and did research at Tuskegee. I didn’t realize that he was a painter who used peanuts to create colors, especially blues. Again, just fascinating scholarship and analysis to bring all of these different aspects of African American history, culture, and art into the various shades of blue. I’m looking forward to re-reading different sections, and I think that this would be a great book to either supplement some of the main texts discussed in it (Morrison, Ellison, Wright), or to use as a springboard for further discussion on topics related to race, identity, culture, and art. This is a remarkable book, filled with accessible complexities and considerations, yet solely focused on blue. Truly an amazing book, and I can’t wait to read more of Imani Perry’s work. 

A History of Injustice: Implications for Education in Eve Ewing's Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism

 Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism by Eve Ewing

Original Sins book cover

Author Eve Ewing

Braiding Sweetgrass as a metaphor for teaching and learning

Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida- Originally a prison for Native People

“The concept that schools are complicit in the maintenance of a bad thing is contrary to the most basic idea that supposedly animates education in the United States. We are told that schools are supposed to be places that inculcate fairness, where our life outcomes are tied to our individual efforts. But, on the contrary, schools have been shaped by the same ideas that drove European colonists to stake property claims on faraway Indigenous lands and the ideas that shaped the formation of the Middle Passage. These original sins did not take place in a discrete moment of time; they linger, they fester, they grow and morph and change. They persist and persist and persist. They shape the tenor of our public discourse, the architecture of our buildings and towns and neighborhoods, the stories we are told, and the schools to which we send our children.”- Eve Ewing, from the Introduction to Original Sins. 

 Big thanks to Random House Publishers and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Eve Ewing’s incredible and necessary book Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism. I’ve had Ewing’s other book about school closings in Chicago on my to-read list for a long time, so I was really glad to be able to read this book prior to publication. Ewing’s book is brimming with ideas and insights about education in America—some of them are new, many of them are challenging, while others take some previous concepts and thinking about the purpose of American schools and challenge them to view schooling and education from a colonial perspective, with a particular emphasis on eliminating the culture of Native and Black children and families. That is, education is used as a technology to “civilize” non-white minorities, but with the further intent on capitalizing (or making money) on their land and bodies. Ewing’s thesis is based on extensive history, finding examples and citing them through footnotes. As an educator, I was familiar with some of the arguments Ewing makes about the purpose of school. Is our educational system a ways to socialize new immigrants and have them assimilate into white, European behaviors and ideas? Are our schools merely factories that replicate the work expectations of 20^th century industrial America? Do schools merely reproduce inequality and social capital, providing advantages to those families with greater social capital? However, what is novel about Ewing’s perspective is how schooling is tied into the kind of colonial capitalism that was furthered by land displacement in the 18^th and 19^th centuries and slavery, both original sins of America. She argues that rather than thinking of American education as the great equalizer that provides opportunities for upliftment, schools are a site of replication of a the inequalities and used a technology to control (or “civilize”) Native and Black children. Thus, it’s probably safe to say that this book will not be a part of Moms for Liberty’s book club, nor will Florida makes this required reading for incoming teachers, which is really a shame because Ewing’s arguments and critiques come at an important time for education and teachers in general. As she documents from her own experiences as science teacher in Chicago, sometimes teachers with good intentions often further the kinds of inequalities or messages about control and inadequacy that has been a part of most American education since its start.

Although Ewing’s book is replete with scholarly sources and research, she also makes it accessible by looking for modern equivalents and making the examples and ideas relevant to today’s teachers. I also appreciated her historical perspective that moves in a chronological timeline, but also tackles issues in education from the different, yet related experiences of Native and Black students. Her chapters start with the founding of America, and how historical figures like Thomas Jefferson promoted ideas about racial inferiority to develop and maintain the system of chattel slavery. Furthermore by promoting an exclusive idea of education that focused primarily on classical education, mathematics, and history, American schools also became sites of exclusivity and elitism, where education was mainly offered to rich, white families, and the occasional top white student from a regional area. I really appreciated learning more about the evolution of American education, and in particular the views and ideas that Jefferson promoted. Furthermore Ewing notes how Indian boarding schools developed, mainly from a prison in Florida that relocated some Indigenous People who rebelled against their forced relocation. This was interesting to me because I just read about Fort Marion in Tommy Orange’s book Wandering Stars. As Ewing notes, the attempts to “civilize” Indigenous People began in a prison where the philosophy was “kill the Indian, save the man”, as well as other sentiments like “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” American schools have continued to perpetuate this ideas in various ways, both intentionally and unintentionally. Ewing’s organization, moving from the history of slavery and dispossession to the segregated schools and Indian boarding schools, eventually leads to modern applications of control and attempts to “civilize” through education. As someone who has worked in education for my entire career, I’m familiar with some of the attempts to “control” that Ewing describes in her chapters about school. She recounts a personal experience about her school’s attempts to “scare students straight” by taking a field trip to the local jail, not considering the experiences of students whose parents and relatives have been incarcerated. Whether justly or not, this kind of experience, confronting the loss of a family member, is sure to hit students hard, especially those who might not have the emotional vocabulary to grapple with this kind of loss and confrontation. I know that my former students who had relatives who were incarcerated didn’t really talk about it, and often struggled to really articulate their feelings, which were most likely complicated and deep. I also didn’t know much of what to say, not always aware of their experiences. Nevertheless, Ewing’s alternative field trip to view a documentary provided a better alternative for her students, and one that didn’t necessarily come with a emotional toll. She also explores the school to prison pipeline, noting how this unjust phenomenon has become more and more a part of the discourse on education of minority students, especially as we learn how they are more likely to face time out of school due to suspensions and other disciplinary actions that white students typically do not face at similar rates. As I read these sections, I was reminded of Monique Morris’s excellent and important book Pushout that examines the unfair treatment of Black girls in schools. Ewing explores similar injustices and biases in schools, especially how Black children often face adultification, where whites typically view behaviors and actions of Black children as older. These kinds of biases lead to different treatment, not only in schools, but also in the justice system. I was unfamiliar with this term, but I can see how it happens in many schools, and how it leads to a lack of second chances or opportunities when Black children make mistakes. Ewing also explores how often programs and teaching methods are implemented for Black children that do not allow for any kind of autonomy or free expression. Rather, methods like SLANT (sit up, listen/lean forward, ask questions, nod your head, track the speaker) are reinforced in many schools to promote an attention control for many minority students. I was so glad to see pushback on Doug Lemov’s Teach Like a Champion, which was a popular book at a school where I taught. While there are some useful strategies and suggestions, much of the book operates on a deficit approach of students, assuming that they lack any kind of willingness or initiative to learn, and as a result, they need to be trained to follow these behavioristic methods. Ewing’s critique was validation of those who believe that all students have the right to autonomy and how important that kind of autonomy and creativity will be in their future careers. Even though this critique was brief and succinct, I really appreciated reading it.

Other instances of control focused on more choices of personal expression, especially around important characteristics like hair, where I feel like there is always a story about a student being forced to cut their locks or afro. As Ewing noted in earlier chapters, this was often one of the first steps taken at Indian boarding schools, where children were shorn like animals, with little regard for the cultural significance of their hair or for their own feelings or personal autonomy. Ewing references Foucault’s theory of discipline and punishment to explore how the control of the body seeks to also alter the soul. As sad as it is, I agree with her analysis in many of the instances of school where the emphasis is on discipline and “no excuses” that largely seek to control behavior or shape behavior into what is the expected learning standards, at least from a white perspective. There’s no real consideration for learning styles that might vary or be different, that emphasize a sense of the collective group as opposed to individual responses. While there have been some shifts away from these no excuse schools and incorporation of more culturally relevant pedagogy, that need to control students’ bodies still exists and plays a significant role in shaping their education.

The conclusion of the book presents some ways to move forward and heal, presenting ideas of solidarity and acknowledgement of the hurt and harm both Native and Black people have endured and possibly inflicted upon one another. I loved this section, as Ewing presents a theory of not only unity, but also resilience. She also affirms the idea of thriving and how building on that kind of solidarity helps to facilitate thriving, rather than looking at blame or victimhood as a kind of zero sum game. In particular, she emphasizes an ethic of care, which I have always tried to make a part of my pedagogy. I loved that she brings this idea to addressing the kind of injustices that Native and Black students have faced in order to move forward and thrive. She couples this ethic of care with the collective struggle, in that we work together towards a common end, recognizing our similarities over our differences. Again, I loved this idea, and I think it is important to look towards commonalities as opposed to differences. Ewing’s ideas reminded me of the kind of collective struggle that the Brazilian educator Paulo Freire advocated when he likened education to a road that we make by walking. The idea was that our experience and knowledge help to create the path, and that we collective make our way on a shared journey. This is really important because it seems like education is too often viewed as a precious commodity or a finite resource, allowing others with the means to take more than is needed. It’s important to recognize that education is a right, and that all people should have this right. In other sections, Ewing’s ideas about the kind of revolutionary changes needed for school reminded me of Davidson’s ideas about institutional unlearning, even making the case for abolishing school in order to create a new educational institution that meets the needs of all learners and operates under more fair and just precepts. Ewing’s final metaphor is to liken teaching and learning to braiding, which is an important practice to both Native and Black cultures. Furthermore, the idea of braiding is seen as a kind of communal act that brings us together, strengthening our bonds. I thought that this was such a great metaphor or symbol to use. I kept thinking about a recent visit to the Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii where we learned about the different cultures of the islands in Polynesia. In Tahiti, we learned about braiding grass fronds, and my kids were so interested in the process. It seemed so natural and common to the Tahitians working there, but it took us some time to learn the process of hooking the two pieces together to create a kind of strong bond. Ewing uses a great quote from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, which is the third time I’ve come across this book in the past 2 months. I can see how Kimmerer’s idea of braiding, not just the product, but the process and the community involved, would be a great way to consider teaching and learning, and how these two ends can be tied closer together when we focus more on commonalities and communities. Eve Ewing’s book Original Sins is a very important book that is necessary for new teachers to read, but also important for others involved in caring and education, especially parents and other stewards of communities. She not only raises awareness about the unjust history of how capitalism stole bodies and land, and how schools and education were complicit in furthering this kind of theft, but she also explores how current practices in schools have been influenced by these injustices. This book is rich with details and explores research and ideas from Native and Black scholars, adding an integral perspective that is not always given the kind of amplification it needs. I loved how Ewing challenges popular perceptions of schools as the great equalizer, bringing history, statistics, and anecdotes to challenge this myth of meritocracy, and to share how not everyone shares the same kind of educational experiences. I highly recommend this book as an important text for anyone involved in education or community work. 

The Beauty and Terror of Reading: Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya

 Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya

Bibliophobia book cover

Author Sarah Chihaya

Chihaya's "Life Ruiner" book- Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye

Thank you Random House and Netgalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Sarah Chihaya’s Bibliophobia. When I received the invitation to read this book, I wasn’t sure what to think. The title intrigued me, and when I read the description from the invitation, it described the book as brave and daring. This book most certainly is, and although it is listed as a memoir, Chihaya’s book transcends this kind of classification. It is also a collection of essays focused on books, reading, writing, and criticism, and Chihaya uses her own experiences in reading to question and explore why we read (or at least why she reads). I also appreciated the kind of philosophical approach to reading and literature that Chihaya explores in this book as well. However, as a memoir, the book is centered around her emotional breakdown and her battle with debilitating depression. Trigger warnings abound as the Chihaya recounts in great detail suicide attempts, starting at an early age, self-harm, and the kind of paralyzing depression that eventually led to her breakdown. I found myself wincing at some parts—wondering how she was able to recall these feelings or the description of the hospital that she ended up in after her breakdown. Although this might not be appropriate for some readers, I felt like it was important to confront these moments and emotions as a way to explore them and see how we can learn to live with them. Chihaya does not delude herself in thinking that her depression will ever go away—more like it will be in remission. However, what sets her book apart from other books and memoirs about mental illness and depression is how books factor into her struggles with depression. This was a unique perspective, and I loved how she explored the various roles that books have played in her life. In fact, upon starting the book, you’ll see a list of works (both books and films) that she refers to throughout her book. I loved seeing this list at the outset, wondering which ones I’ve read, adding some to my to read list.

Her book starts out with her breakdown, and I was really surprised with her level of recall and detail on being in the hospital. Beyond the descriptions of the floors and ceilings, she seems to capture feelings and what she did, especially how she tried to persuade staff to let her out early. I was also surprised at the kind of humor she had about her breakdown “One thing I was pretty sure about ‘nervous breakdown’ was that it was not for people like me. Nervous breakdown was not for the children of immigrants. It  was something that happened to white people in independent films or in middlebrow realist novels. Breakdown was what happened when their gorgeous shell became so brittle and delicate they could be shattered with the slightest tap of the back of a spoon-- Tenderly set and ready to ooze out of their gelid whites with a hot, vividly compelling, golden violence.” It seems like this kind of experience is never something we expect or anticipate, or that we fail to really notice the problem, which is why I think Chihaya book is so important. As a successful scholar, she seemed like she had her life together, and even though someone might display outward signs of success, there may be underlying feelings and emotions that they might not know how to address or share with others. Her book and experiences are an important reminder about being empathetic towards others, as well as taking a look at our own experiences.

I loved reading about her experiences with books throughout her life, and how they served many different functions throughout her life. It seems like she started with a sense of bibliophilia, that eventually brought about bibliophobia. Reading her early literacy experiences and reflections on reading made me think about my own reasons for reading and some of the books, especially from school, that were memorable. Books have always been important in my life, and I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t reading. Even when I was younger, my parents would leave me in the library to just read and explore. As Chihaya notes, “Reading was escapism of a kind, but not in the conventional sense. It was a way to get far away from my life, and to feel—not better, but simply different.” Although Chihaya stresses the problems with trying to identify with books and writers, that was definitely a reason for my reading, especially in middle school. As a “husky” kid, books were a way for me to escape bullying. For me, there was definitely a way to feel better. I also think that when I started reading Stephen King books, his world just really appealed to me. I didn’t realize it until later on, but I loved these stories where the world was wrong, something was not right, and many times in his books, the kids were the ones who were struggling to make sense of the evil in the world and trying to battle evil to bring a sense of order back to the world. I think when I was in college and picked up a Stephen King book after not reading one for a while, it made sense that this kind of story arc, where evil is has a kind of explanation helped me better make sense of the problems I faced. But Chihaya’s experience with books changed when she read Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, which she describes as a completely terrifying book, yet one that she couldn’t escape. She refers to it as a “life ruiner”. I didn’t read this until later, when I was teaching, but I also remember being devasted by the book. Beloved is the book that always shakes me, and when I would teach it, it was such a wrenching experience. I was usually the only white person in the room, and trying to answer students’ questions about what was happening to Sethe, Denver, and Paul D. was always difficult. Although I do think that Morrison’s writing is filled with emotion, both dark and hopeful, I like to think of how Sethe reminds Paul D. that thin love ain’t no love at all. Love is thick, and part of that love is the kind of re-memory that Chihaya’s book engages in. 

 Each chapter focuses on different texts and her experiences with reading them at various points in her life. Again, I loved how Chihaya thinks about the process of reading in different ways. One of my favorite quotes was when she explains how she wants to reconceptualize reading  “I want to think of reading not as productivity but as a kind of produce: something that grows in whatever unpredictable way it will, sometimes smooth and beautiful  and delicious, sometimes bitter and gnarled and thorny.” She goes on to explain that this kind of produce can be both nutritious and poisonous, and that sometimes it might nourish us, but other times can send us down the wrong path. “You may have bibliophobia if you frequently experience intense reactions to books that somehow act on you, or activate you, in ways that you suspect are unhealthy or hurtful—or at times, simply bad for you. And yet, they are necessary; you would not be you without them.” I can definitely relate to this, and I think that, for me, this feeling started in college, reading books like Crime and Punishment and Madame Bovary. Probably one of the first “life ruiners” for me was Yerzy Kozinsky’s The Painted Bird, which I read in my first ever college semester. It utterly devasted me with its brutality, and I struggled to recognize that this was a book that took place in the 20^th century. While I’ve scaled back on some of these strong reactions to books, I still do experience an emotional reaction to some books, and I agree that I wouldn’t be me without these books and experiences.

Beyond books, Chihaya discusses her family, and in particular the challenges of navigating the kind of high demand and high expectations of her father. As a child of immigrants who was often one of the only people of color in her classes, she often encountered racism and bullying, and her father’s constant stress on performance created a kind of tension and anxiety in Chihaya that eventually results in her first suicide attempt and self-harm. These are some of the most harrowing passages in the book. I’m usually not squeamish, but just her writing about how the self-harm brought relief, and a dream that reoccurring dream she experienced at the time, were graphic and a little hard to take at times. Nevertheless, it is a powerful and brave section of the book. Just be warned. Another chapter, towards the end, talks about Yiyun Li’s Dear Friend, from My Life I write to you in Your Life, which I have not read yet. Li is another writer who I have strong emotions from, ever since reading The Vagrants. It’s really weird because I was recently thinking about the experience of reading that book in a warm park in the spring, and yet the book took me to this brutal winter village in China. It was a book that I felt strongly about—I wouldn’t say I loved it, although I couldn’t put it down; rather, it moved me and took me somewhere new. Dear Friend is a book I’ve avoided since it talks about suicide and depression, and about Li’s own struggles with them. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for it, but I did read Where Reasons End, and it was another devastating book. I’m pushing down tears as I write about it. For Chihaya, Li’s writing presents suicide in a stark, unfiltered light, where it is plainly discussed, which is not often the case. This was another reason why I think Bibliophobia is important because Chihaya raises awareness of mental illness, depression, and suicide, and in her writing, destigmatizes it. She doesn’t really talk about this, but I think her experiences and candor in sharing them make readers recognize that these are a part of many people’s lives, and often shape their decisions and behavior, whether they are aware of it or not. Bibliophobia fosters a further understanding of these emotions, but also presents how books both help and harm them in different ways.

While this was not always an easy read (i.e. it’s not a life ruiner), Chihaya’s candor and honesty are challenging at times. I appreciated it, but I don’t think that everyone will. Like in the first chapter, Chihaya also brings occasional humor in recalling her experiences, now recognizing the obvious signs of depression. It lightens the mood for an important subject. What was also great to see is how Chiahya’s friends and colleagues supported her throughout her career, hospitalization, and recovery. It was beautiful to see that she has that kind of support—people reaching out to check in on her and make pledges with her. Bibliophobia is an important book that challenges many of our assumptions about reading, writing and creativity, books, and depression. It also made me reflect on my own experiences of reading and writing, not only what I read, but also why I read. I really enjoyed this aspect of the book. However, like all bibliophobics, I’ve added to my ever-expanding “to be read” list—something that keeps me going. 

Exploring the Rise, Fall, and Resurrection of Women in Rock in the '90's

Pretend We're Dead: The Rise, Fall, and Resurrection of Women in Rock in the '90s by Tanya Pearson 

Author Tanya Pearson (with a throwback 80s/90s school photo background)

Pretend We're Dead book cover

Babes inToyland

L7

Hole

The Breeders

Liz Phair

Big thanks to Hachette Book Group and NetGalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Tanya Pearson’s excellent book Pretend We’re Dead: The Rise, Fall, and Resurrection of Women in Rock in the ’90s, documenting the rise, fall, and re-emergence of women in alternative rock. I really enjoyed this book because I not only remember listening to a lot of the artists and bands that Pearson interviews for the Women of Rock Oral History Project, but Pearson’s analysis of the trajectory of Women in Rock really challenged my thinking about music, the music industry, and how styles and trends in music emerge and go away. Furthermore, she intersperses her interviews and analysis with her own experiences as a fan, musician and scholar who seeks to document and champion the many influential women in rock (especially from the 90s) who have somewhat been forgotten or pushed away as music trends have changed.

Pearson’s book is divided into two parts- one documenting the rise of women in alternative music, and looks at some specific artists and bands, including Liz Phair, L7, Babes in Toyland, Hole, Veruca Salt and Throwing Muses. Her introduction outlines her own experiences with 90s alternative music and her reasons for championing the women of this often misrepresented and undocumented time period that has proven to be incredibly influential to many current musical artists, styles and trends. She also clearly defines grunge/alternative music, which is great because I feel like there is no real consistent definition, and while many of the artists and bands who participated in the book are often lumped into this amorphous category, Pearson makes it clear that the bands and artists are very different. It’s especially important when Pearson raises concerns about why women were shut out of radio play in the late 90s and post 9/11. The second part of the book details that period of decline, which Pearson attributes to various factors like the backlash against feminism, the development of a more corporate type of feminism that has been marketed and sold as an ideal, changes in the music industry with promotion of pop music and boy bands, and the promotion of masculine, jingoistic music after 9/11.

I loved learning about the background of these bands and artists because it is so interesting to see how many of them turned to music in difficult times, either to escape or as an outlet for emotions, or that some of them, like Tracy Bonham, came from musical families. Furthermore, Pearson also discussed how the “grunge” trend helped to usher in a new kind of feminism that wasn’t necessarily part of the mainstream music nor part of its industry. She largely credits this with bands like Nirvana (especially Kurt Cobain) and Sonic Youth (especially Kim Gordon); although the book doesn’t focus on the Riot Girl scene, Pearson does connect this musical scene with the increased focus on feminism and inclusion of women. Other chapters discuss some of the challenges that women in rock faced. I found this fascinating since I didn’t necessarily question the press’s portrayal of women in rock. However, hearing their words and experiences made me realize the kind of double standard they faced, and if they challenged perceptions or tried to correct the narrative, they were often labeled. In fact, no matter what they did, it seemed like the press had labels already for these artists to fit into, whether it was Liz Phair, L7, or Courtney Love. They all seemed to fit stereotypes and categories of different types of women, even though they were trying to be authentic or possibly challenge these stereotypes. Furthermore, because these artists did not fit into the more conventional (or conservative) roles for women, they were often criticized or faced unfair accusations; some like Kristin Hersh or Courtney Love even lost custody of their children due to interviews they conducted. I forgot about that incident with Courtney Love, and it was pretty shocking to look back and realize this kind of double standard. Other chapters in the first half of the book detail the rise of women in rock in the ’90s, and tie their increasing popularity to upliftment of women from that year and the kind of advocacy and awareness that women brought to rock music. It’s really interesting to read these chapters as we approach another presidency that seems regressive to women’s rights and ideals, and the kind of culture war that seems to reignite around conservative handwringing as differences emerge and progress is made. I forgot how much happened in the 90s to advance women’s rights and prominence in areas like music and politics, but it is also kind of depressing to see that there’s just this continued need to raise awareness and challenge the changes brought about by the Dobbs’ decision. However, it’s good to know that there are artists who continue to push boundaries and challenge assumptions, and that music, even though it may not always be welcoming to women, does provide an outlet and a voice for many women artists. Furthermore, it seems like many of the women in rock from the ’90s have influenced today’s artists who have more opportunities to record and self-release or share their music with others.

The second half of the book was both disheartening and interesting to read—I actually can’t think of another word, but I do want to mention that many of Pearson’s hypotheses about the reduced role that women in rock had in the early 2000s really challenged my assumptions about music and society, and many of the factors that can potentially influence their participation in popular music. And like most events, there’s no one clear event or factor that led to this reduction, but rather many different events in society ranging from changing tastes in music to the attacks of 9/11 that all altered women’s roles in rock music. Even though I continued to listen to artists like Liz Phair and Hole, I didn’t actively seek them out, and I also didn’t listen to the radio as much at this point, especially as the iPod made its way into my life. Regardless, I can see how many of these events probably did lead to the gradual decline of women in rock, to the point where some artists complained about labels just telling them to stay low. Liz Phair’s experience of being moved from label to label, despite having a critical success with whitechocolatespacegg kind of shows the level of disrespect and disregard that female artists faced. Other events like Woodstock ’99 were representative of the sad shift towards rap-rock and the kind of influence this had on music. I really don’t remember hearing much about Woodstock ’99, and I haven’t seen the recent documentaries, but it was pretty crazy to read about what happened. As Pearson notes, only a few women were asked to participate. While there’s not really a direct correlation, this kind of event and the participants involved mirrored a lot of what was happening on the radio and in the industry, moving from a slightly more egalitarian music genre like grunge, towards more of a hegemonic cockrock that was popular in the 70s and 80s. This also forced artists like Liz Phair to recalculate their approach, and with pressure from their labels, find other genres and sounds that their fans might retaliate against. I think Pearson helps to promote empathy for these artists, showing that those who didn’t really conform to the popular styles were often dropped from their labels, and those who did often faced backlash from their fans. It’s a kind of dilemma that all artists face, especially those who might try to find a different style or approach to their art. For me, the biggest revelation was the idea that after 9/11, there was this need for masculinity in music. I definitely remember the post 9/11 patriotism, and I found much of my escape in CDs and iTunes, as well as searching out indie and punk rock in Kazaa and Limewire. While I wasn’t paying much attention to what was on the radio, I can totally see how this was the case. It was just shocking to hear execs and others mention that there were too many female artists being played or on a label. Despite presenting some sour notes, Pearson does end with some hope, sharing how there’s been a resurgence of ’90s music, and especially with women in music. She cites artists like Miley Cyrus and Olivia Rodrigo, who had the Breeders open for her, who have covered or incorporated ’90s female artists into their work. I’ve noticed the influence in other artists like Soccer Mommy, Japanese Breakfast, and Beabadoobee who have this kind of really great rock and pop sound that takes me back. I also loved learning more about the Women of Rock Oral History Project, and the continuing effort to reshape the narrative of women in rock.

Some of the more powerful writing in this last section was saved for the critiques of capitalism, corporations, and the kind of limited choices we have in politics. This was especially true in the ’90s, when there wasn’t too much of a difference between Democrats and Republicans. Pearson emphasized how some bills that Clinton signed led to deregulation in the media, allowing corporations like Clear Channel to buy up radio stations and concert venues, pretty much eliminating choice for many people. She also explores how this kind of corporatization and limited choice selection has created a kind of watered down version of feminism that really is more like surface level advocacy than anything that might affect change. It reminded me of Jia Tolentino’s writing in Trick Mirror and how the ideal woman is really like a corporate/media creation. This last section is really powerful and critical, and it was some of my favorite parts of the book. Not necessarily because it was uplifting, but rather because it is a reminder of the need to continue to fight and challenge, and how music can be a force and art to convey those messages.

While this was an exciting and fun read, one thing I noticed was that some of the quotes were reused in certain parts. It wasn’t a big deal, but I came across this a few times and was wondering if I had re-read a certain part. The other part that I wish this book had was more analysis between the quotes. It was great to hear from the artists for extended periods, and the sections were organized according to themes in music, but I felt like this book would have benefitted from some additional analysis of the points that the artists made and the concerns they raised. There is some analysis in many of the chapters, and some chapters were mainly analytical or reflective based on Pearson’s experiences (which were also cool to learn about—she has a really amazing and empowering story). However, I would have liked to see more of that analysis evenly distributed. Maybe that will be in her dissertation. One final point about Pearson’s experience in higher education, I hope that after she finishes her dissertation and continues on with research, she considers developing a kind of book of pedagogy or some kind of teaching guide about using feminist music in the classroom. I’m not sure that there are many books about this topic, but it would be a really cool book to read and use for teaching. In any event, this is a great book, and if you are a fan of music, especially ’90s music, this is a must read.

 

 Set My Heart on Fire by Izumi Suzuki

Author Izumi Suzuki by Nobuyoshi Araki

Author Izumi Suzuki (from Polyester Zine)

Set My Hear On Fire book cover

Big thanks to Verso and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Izumi Suzuki’s first translated novel Set My Heart on Fire. I was so excited to learn that some of Suzuki’s books had been translated into English a few years back, and I was able to read Terminal Boredom a few years ago, and I really loved her inventive style and metaphoric use of sci-fi to explore gender inequality and sexism in 1970s Japan. I actually learned about Suzuki through her husband’s music career as an experimental Jazz saxophonist. Kaoru Abe was a kind of wild avant garde jazz saxophonist who played occasionally with guitarist Masayuki Takayangi, who I absolutely love. Abe died of a drug overdose in the 1970s, leaving Suzuki a widow who had to care for the couple’s young child. Suzuki did modeling (especially for Nabuyoshi Araki) and wrote her science fiction stories to support herself and her daughter. Although there was not much available on either Suzuki or Abe’s life and marriage in English, this translation seems to provide some insight into Izumi Suzuki’s life and marriage. Although listed as a novel, the book chronicles a young woman’s (also named Izumi) experiences in the Japanese music scene of the 1970s. Suzuki presents Izumi as both beautiful and distant, someone who both seeks pleasure and wants to become somewhat numb and anesthetized. Izumi (the character) only seeks out musicians since she claims they have more passion than anyone else, and the book’s timeline coincides with the start of the heavy psych period of Japan’s rock music (also chronicled by Julian Cope in his excellent book JapRock Sampler).  The book is narrated by Izumi, at times alternating between her conversations with friends and lovers and her inner monologue. During one monologue, Izumi explains how she was trying to quit pills, and that she didn’t like alcohol, but she craved the kind of blank state and cool detachment that the pills bring on. As she explains “I preferred drugs because they were chemical. I wanted their world of artificial, phoney intoxication.”  Other descriptions about her interactions with others and the music scene often use music metaphors, making comparisons to guitar sounds and the use of reverb and echo pedals. “As if an echo-chamber effect pedal had been plugged into time. Like the one The Happenings Four use in their ‘Alligator Boogaloo’ cover: Boogaloo-loo-loo-loo… It leaves a trembling, trailing tail and sound comes back, bit by bit. The reverb of this night in this time within this portioned space continues endlessly.” I loved this aspect of her writing, as it was apt to the scene she was documenting, yet also novel and unique. I can see how some of these events might have been amplified or heightened to make them seem clearer, more distorted, or even somewhat repetitive, especially as the nights, the bands, and the people all seem to have nothing really to offer Izumi except a brief feeling of pleasure.

Izumi’s pursuit of pleasure with musicians eventually leads her to meeting Jun, a clear stand in for Abe. Izumi’s relationship with Jun is hard to understand, and it wasn’t clear why they even got married in the first place. Izumi just seemed to agree to the marriage after only being with Jun for a short time. As Izumi described him, Jun seems completely dependent on Izumi, even having her shave him, feed him, and take care of him while he plays gigs, seeks to find new heights on his instrument, and engages in further self-destructive behavior, including drug and physical abuse. I didn’t know much about Suzuki’s own relationship with Abe, especially since he died in the late 70s, but from doing a little research, it sounded like it was not a good relationship. While Abe is recognized as an important Jazz artist who tried to play faster and louder than everyone, it also seemed like this kind of aesthetic approach to music was also his approach to life in general. I wondered if Suzuki’s candid writing in this section of the book, detailing the physical abuse and cheating that Izumi endured, was a way of not only documenting her experiences with Abe, but also trying to reclaim her own artistry from the man. Set My Heart on Fire seems to emphasize that women took a back seat to the male musicians and artists of the day, and yet Izumi (the character) has her own thoughts, emotions, and even aesthetic, that many of the other characters, especially the male characters, recognize. Although she’s not always given opportunities to grow as an artist, it’s her unique style and dress that set her apart from others. Sadly though, Izumi’s relationship with Jun takes a physical toll on her, and she becomes increasingly thin and worn out by Jun’s destructive and baby like ways. While I’m not sure this is complete auto-fiction, Suzuki’s life has a lot of parallels with Izumi the character’s.

Jun eventually dies, leaving Izumi to care for their daughter. The last few chapters detail her life after Jun’s death, and her attempts to reconnect with Joel, a band member she slept with when they were younger. “He embodied my youth. He was the symbol of a vanished time. I couldn’t let it go. The more terrifying life became, the stronger he shone within me.” It was really interesting to see Izumi in these last chapters, trying to establish herself, but also not completely letting go of the past. Joel, like a lot of the other men in the book, is pretty shallow, and only asks Izumi to come over because of their past. “Attachment to the idea that my life could’ve been different. Meeting him again only stirred up that regret. Turns out he hadn’t rejected me at all. But something else struck me, seeing how he lives now. We shouldn’t grieve over what regret can’t change.” I really liked this line at the end. It’s not necessarily a happy ending, and I wouldn’t have expected that from this book. But it does seem like Izumi walks away from her experiences and life with some insight and ideas. The book showed how challenging it was for women in Japan to become involved in these music and arts scenes, and how they often had to take a secondary place besides the men. Yet, Izumi’s own narration, thoughts, and experiences challenge this, and present a kind of struggle or fight to establish herself. Set My Heart On Fire wasn’t as exciting and innovative as Terminal Boredom’s stories, but it provided me with some more insight about the Japanese music scene of the 1970s, and Suzuki’s own life. I also really appreciated the translation. There were the descriptions of drugs and music, but also Suzuki frequently mentioned how “thick” the nights were, and I thought this was a really great word choice. I’m not sure if the translation always relied on the same word in Japanese, but it seemed to be fitting for the scene. I hope that more of Suzuki’s books are translated to English in the ensuing years.

 

Art Rescuing Us From Past Trauma- Han Kang's We Do Not Part

 We Do Not Part by Han Kang

Han Kang 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature  by John Sears, CC BY-SA 4.0  via Wikimedia Commons

We Do Not Part book cover

Jeju citizens awaiting execution in 1948 (public domain)

Massacre of Daranshi Cave in Jeju by 지구벌레, CC BY 2.0 KR , via Wikimedia Commons

Thank you to Random House and NetGalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Nobel Laureate Han Kang’s latest book We Do Not Part. I was both looking forward to and somewhat steeling myself to prepare to read Kang’s latest book. After reading The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons, I’ve come to realize that Kang’s books tend to dive deep into dark feelings, exploring emotions and issues below the surface. We Do Not Part goes even deeper and mines new territory. Where The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons both examined families, marriage, motherhood, and relationships, how society sets conventions and roles and what happens when people challenge or question them, We Do Not Part explores history and trauma as well as the artist’s role and pain in delving into the past. I also wasn’t sure what to expect based on the narrative—the story of a writer Kyungha who seeks to help her friend Inseon rescue her bird from the island of Jeju during a snowstorm sounded both heartwarming and different from Kang’s other books. However, when we first encounter Kyungha, who is the narrator of the novel, she seems utterly defeated, resigning herself to death. Like her other books, this aspect is bleak, and Kyungha is unable to handle many basic interactions or daily tasks. She describes the overwhelming heat in her apartment and is separated from her family. I got the sense that after working on her last project, Kyungha was seriously affected by it. The research and writing took a lot out of her, and eventually moved her away from her family. Kyungha is so resigned to death that she begins to get her affairs in order, leaving instructions for her body, and laying down to waste away. She exists in like a suspended kind of state, not willing to live, but also not taking action to die.

We also learn about Kyungha’s relationship with Inseon, who was a photographer she worked with as a young writer. They eventually worked together on other projects, and later planned to collaborate on an art project to memorialize a massacre. They planned to use logs painted black to represent the people who died. While Inseon wanted to go ahead with the project, Kyungha eventually backs out. At some point, Kyungha receives a text message from Inseon asking Kyungha to come to her with ID. We learn that Inseon was injured working on the project, and severed her fingers in the process, losing a lot of blood. Kang’s description of the procedure Inseon endures to restore her fingers is brutal. I found myself wincing, and the level of pain and discomfort I imagined was probably greater than anything I’ve read in a horror novel. However, I also got the sense that with Kang’s vivid and grotesque details, she’s possibly making a point about both the nature of art and also about the pain of memory, since Inseon was working on a project about a civilian massacre at the hands of soldiers in Jeju.  Inseon’s other work, as a documentarian, also mines similar territory, interviewing survivors of the Vietnam War’s atrocities. Despite not speaking Vietnamese, Inseon seems to understand the pain and suffering these women have faced, and we also see how she suffered as a result.

Inseon then asks Kyungha to go to her home in Jeju to rescue her bird, Ama. However, Kyungha must go during an epic snowstorm on Jeju, and find her way to Inseon’s home, as a promise to her dear friend. Although the set up seems a little incredulous, Kang’s writing and the emotional connection between Inseon and Kyungha makes this quest for Kyungha more believable. Furthermore, it gives Kyungha some purpose in her seemingly bleak life. The journey to Jeju and through the storm comprises the first of three parts of the book. It is a harrowing journey to the home, and throughout the journey, Kyungha seems to plunge deeper into the white nothingness of the storm, moving further and further away from people. She encounters an elderly woman who seems to be unable to communicate and a bus driver who doesn’t seem to provide clear directions or understand Kyungha’s desire to travel to her friend’s home. Furthermore, not being from Jeju also puts Kyungha at a disadvantage, and she seems concerned that people will be able to tell she’s from the mainland due to her language and lack of familiarity with the cultural practices. The snow storm is blinding and painful. Kyungha’s eyes become sore. Snow gets into her shows and pants. Kyungha nearly dies due to the snow, but somehow manages to burry herself in the snow to emerge in the morning near Inseon’s home.

At Inseon’s home, Kyungha discovers more than the birds and also reminisces about Inseon’s mother, who apparently suffered from dementia, a disease that affects memory and the processing of reality. Kyungha’s journey to Inseon’s house also seems to have altered her perceptions, as she looks to find Ama, the bird. However, Kyungha discovers Inseon’s project and what kind of research she was conducting for her latest project. We also learn about Inseon’s personal connection to this massacre, as her father and mother both had personal connections to the massacre. I wasn’t familiar with this event and still need to learn more about it, but it sounds like it was suppressed from the public for many years, and Inseon’s research (and Kyungha’s reading/learning) is a way to unearth the injustice and violence, the death and destruction that happened. We can see how both women’s work, writing and documenting, lead to both physical and emotional trauma, yet, both women are willing to endure and persist, if not for themselves, then for others. Kyungha risks her life for a favor for her friend. Inseon endures a brutal treatment to regain the use of her fingers, so important for her work as a photographer and the woodworking that initially caused her injury.

The book’s title comes from the collaborative project that Kyungha abandoned but Inseon continued to work on. Interestingly, they both seem to have different interpretations of the project’s meaning, and whether it means that they are never separated, or whether they refuse to say goodbye. Their friendship proves that both are true, and that despite distances caused both by geography and the responsibilities of family and professional life, they maintained a kind of bond that is never really severed. Furthermore, even when Kyungha is on her quest to save Inseon’s bird, Inseon (and her research) guide her through the challenges of being alone in Jeju. One of the lines I highlighted kind of emphasizes some of the surreal qualities of this story: “Dreams are terrifying things. No—they’re humiliating. They reveal things about you that you weren’t aware”. In many ways, Kyungha’s journey is dreamlike. She travels into a blizzard losing a sense of sight and even her body’s feelings, unsure if she is alive or dead. Similarly, what she learns from Inseon’s project, the massacre at Jeju and the lack of closure that many of the Jeju survivors experienced, seems to awaken something in her. Her prior numbness abates and is replaced by a kind of anger and sadness. Like other Kang books, this is not an easy journey, but this kind of self-realization, especially on such an epic, historical scale, is never easy.

The other aspect of the book I wanted to mention was Kang’s use of birds. Inseon had two birds, but the other bird, Ami, died and only Ama is left. During her time at Inseon’s, Kyungha remembers first meeting the birds and experiencing them. She also shares how she learns that “Birds will pretend like nothing’s wrong, no matter how much pain they’re in. They instinctively endure and hide pain to avoid being targeted by predators”. The birds serve as meaningful symbols, and Kyungha’s attempts to rescue Ama both show a burial and a revival. Although the birds come out of their cage for Inseon, it takes time for Kyungha to bond with them, and readers can see how similar they are to the Jeju survivors, trying to just endure without questioning much about what happened to their loved ones, afraid of further repercussions. However, we learn that Inseon’s mother, who initially seemed childlike, was actually one of the citizens of Jeju who really pushed for action to find out more about her brother, who was likely murdered and dumped in a mine. Kang’s use of birds as symbols of both vulnerability and a kind of endurance and survival, masking their pain, was beautifully wrought. She uses birds in such a surreal way, I kept thinking that this book was kind of like Kafka’s writing—that there’s a kind of allegorical symbolism to it, and that she takes both beauty and degradation to explore the range of experiences and emotions. Furthermore, like Kafka, this isn’t an easy read, but it is a rewarding read. It’s haunting and powerful, and something I will need to revisit at another time.