Exploring Racial Identity and a Notorious Word: Something We Said by Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor

 Something We Said: Richard Pryor, a Notorious Word, and Me by Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor

Something We Said book cover

Historian, researcher, and author Dr. Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor

Many thanks to Simon & Schuster and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor’s heartfelt and thoughtful book Something We Said: Richard Pryor, a Notorious Word, and Me. While the book is categorized as a memoir, it’s much more, as Pryor, a professor of US history and race at Smith College, shares her reflections growing up as a multiracial daughter of Richard Pryor and Maxine Silverman in the 1970s and 1980s, navigating her Black and Jewish identities as she forged a deeply loving, but complex relationship with her famous father. Blended between these childhood and adolescent memories are more recent recollections of Professor Pryor’s teaching and research and how she grapples with the notorious n-word, which her father made a staple of his comedy routines during the 1970s, reclaiming a complicated and racist term, and according to her research, shifting the term into another direction, creating a bifurcated meaning and usage. It’s a fascinating look at not only growing up multiracial at a time when racial identities seemed to be either/or, but also examining how Professor Pryor’s racial identity evolved as society and racism shifted and evolved in the 70s and 80s, helped along by her father’s fearless and groundbreaking comedy addressed race head on.

First, I’ve always loved Richard Pryor. Although my introduction to him was in some of his more forgettable 80s films (I wasn’t allowed to see his concert films until I was older), I didn’t appreciate his comedic genius until more recently, especially after reading Becoming Richard Pryor by Scott Saul. This book is more of a critical biography of Pryor’s evolution from his attempts to be the next Bill Cosby to a revolutionary comedian who embraced Black power and challenged racism and inequality through his routines and movies. While the book is excellent, it also details Pryor’s messy personal life, which in the 70s and early 80s included many relationships with women, addiction, and run-ins with police. Although Pryor became tabloid fodder, he also became the highest paid Black actor at the time, and signed studio deals that were unheard of for Black actors and writers, opening the doors for more Black creatives in Hollywood. While Professor Pryor’s book examines a similar time period, it paints a much different picture of Richard Pryor as a loving, doting father, who despite growing up in Illinois with an abusive, brutal father and a stern grandmother who served as his mother, tried his best to be an attentive and engaged father to his many children. I was nervous reading about her initial visits to Pryor, meeting him and staying at his house when she was young, and one story about bringing home the class pet was a little wild, Stordeur Pryor’s experiences show that Richard Pryor was a caring father who made many efforts to take care of Elizabeth, or Dizzy as she was called, and his other children. As their relationship develops and she spends more time with him, I was moved by how Richard involved his daughter (and other children) in his life. There are some great stories about Elizabeth playing around the house with Rain, her sister from another mother, or going to Georgia to be with Richard while he filmed Greased Lightning.

Although Professor Pryor presents a touching and heartfelt view of her father, showing how he cared for his children, she also remains observant about the racial and class differences that she experienced moving between her white Jewish mother in Boston (and later LA) and her father’s extended family and friends who also were in the house. Professor Pryor also notes that at school, her complexion and hair were different from her peers, leading to questions and occasional name calling about her racial identity. One word, whose use in her father’s home among his friends and family and on the playground directed at Professor Pryor, seemed to raise many questions for her. Professor Pryor recounts how her father (and her great-grandmother, Mama) taught her lessons about being Black in America and to be proud of her racial identity.

Nevertheless, Pryor recounts the confusion in understanding the difference between the n-words usage among her father’s friends and family and when it was directed at her on the playground or in one unfortunate recollection, from her mother. While the n-word continues to remain a complicated word with a fraught history, it wasn’t until Professor Pryor was teaching and a white student deployed the n-word in class quoting a line from Blazing Saddles that her father wrote that rekindled the complicated feelings and questions about the word. As a teacher, I loved reading these challenging classroom moments when we may have to challenge students’ misconceptions, biases, or attitudes, and show solidarity and support for students’ whose voices may be misrepresented or misunderstood. Professor Pryor not only shares this incident, but also the challenges she grapples with in trying to call attention to the word, support the Black students in her class, and establish rules and procedures for the word’s usage in class. The incident seemed to not only serve as the catalyst for Professor Pryor’s research into the history of the n-word but also reconnects her to her relationship with her father (who had passed away at this point) and listen to some of his groundbreaking comedy from the 1970s that directly confronted racism with humor and satire. Furthermore, Professor Pryor includes these interludes that trace the impact of the n-word in US history, society and popular culture. These range from examples of Frederick Douglass and Booker T. Washington to the Harlem Renaissance, Gone With the Wind, and NWA. It’s fascinating to see how this word’s use evolved and split, largely because of Richard Pryor’s comedy. Interestingly though, Professor Pryor notes that her father eventually disavowed the word in the 1980s, refusing to use the n-word in his comedy anymore. As Professor Pryor notes, it was Richard Pryor’s visit to Kenya that brought about this epiphany realizing that the word was no longer necessary to define Black people. Her recollections and memories of her father also show the evolution of a Black man and his complexities and interests that were often hidden or shoved aside for more of the tabloid fodder that the public craved from Richard Pryor’s life. I loved learning how interested Richard Pryor was in African and African American history and culture, and how his racial pride as a Black man never wavered but gradually evolved to a different kind of appreciation and insight about his identity. Professor Pryor similarly experiences her own kind of evolution of her own racial identity, as the later chapters chart her journey through college, questioning her belonging to different friend groups and navigating relationships. While the later chapters move quickly through the 80s and 90s, it’s still fascinating to read her experiences about developing her racial identity in her late adolescence and early adulthood. While this book is not necessarily an academic treatise on the n-word and racial identity, it is written by an academic, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Professor Pryor had encountered researchers like Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Clark, whose research was used in Brown vs. The Board of Education, or Beverly Tatum, whose book Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? addresses similar issues of society and racial identity development among Black children and adolescents. Nevertheless, Professor Pryor also recounts the challenges of young adults leaving college and searching for their professional identities, and it was exciting to read about her challenges and how she eventually ended up as an academic studying African American History.

While I wasn’t sure what to expect with this book, it’s more than just a straightforward memoir. Professor Pryor fearlessly recounts her search for love and acceptance from her famous father but also details her own questions and quests to define her racial identity, recognizing that it’s not always an either/or, but it can be an and/also. I also didn’t expect to be so emotionally moved by this book, especially the sections that present a more tender and loving side of Richard Pryor that rarely is discussed. It’s a beautiful book about parenting as well, showing how important that kind of interest and attention can be, especially as Elizabeth sought to learn more about and connect with her famous father. However, what makes this book stand out as a unique memoir is Professor Pryor’s research and insight into the history of America’s most notorious word, which her father helped to reshape and popularize, breaking the word off from its racist connotations and injecting it into mainstream Black and popular culture. Her experiences in the classroom only further add to the complexities of this word and highlight her own complicated relationship with her father. Something We Said is the best “memoir” I’ve read this year, and it is one of the best books I’ve read so far this year. I was unable to put this down not just because it’s about Richard Pryor, but because it’s about a Black and Jewish daughter’s experience connecting with her father and navigating her racial identity in an America that is still wrestling with the color line. Highly recommended! 

Twin Lotuses: A Sci-Fi Historical Horror Story with Incredible Artwork

 Twin Lotuses by Zhang Xiaoyu

Twin Lotuses book cover

Author and artist Zhang Xiaoyu

Big thanks to Oni Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Twin Lotuses, an epic historical horror-sci-fi story that takes place during the Japanese occupation of China in the late 1930s. I wasn’t sure what to expect with this comic, but it has a lot to offer for fans of different genres. The story follows two plotlines that are interconnected. There is a group of war orphans who are struggling with survival in war torn China. These kids are faced with trying to navigate the traditional and superstitions of old China, while also seeking out food and avoiding territorial and gang battles with other groups of marauding kids. Zhang Xiaoyu’s establishes a few characters who are known primarily by their appearances—for example, there’s Snot Nose, who seems to have a perpetually runny nose, and Hair lip, whose got a cleft in his lip. The scenes with these kids are earthy and brutal, filled with fluids, waste, and often violence, as the kids seek to find protection and food by aligning themselves with or against other groups. I loved how Xiaoyu used close-up drawings to draw our attention to these kids’ hard-scrabble existence. The kids are contrasted with Fan, an educated, upper-class man who presents reason and science as a counter to the superstitions and traditions of these kids. Fan has designed an early robot, a kind of automaton, that performs in the opera while he controls this robot offstage. We learn that Fan’s wife, Mingfeng, was a well-known opera performer who was killed by the Japanese bombing of China. Fan’s insistence in science is not only an indication of his education and knowledge, but also serves as a way for him to call for more education to counter the destructive engineering of the Japanese. He claims that Japan’s success in dominating China in the 1930s is due to their engineering and scientific know-how while China maintains its traditional and superstitious ways. Although this wasn’t the main conflict presented in the story, I loved how subtly Xiaoyu presents this argument and seems to seek out a way to find balance between science and tradition.

As Fan’s automaton performer gains greater recognition and popularity, we learn that Mingfeng survived the bombing but was separated from Fan. She sent letters to him, hoping to reconnect and eventually finds him with her doppelganger robot who has seemingly replaced her in performances of traditional Chinese opera. Fan is elated to reconnect with his lost love, but Mingfeng wants him to abandon his robotic creation since she finds it unsettling and upsetting. Fan faces a conflict as he is proud of his ultimate creation, and he struggles with sending his creation away. Will he abide by his wife’s desire to replace her replacement? Or will he find a way to accommodate both his human wife and her robotic double? Xiaoyu sets up a compelling dynamic for a fantastic finish of the story. There’s double-crossing and back-stabbing throughout the second half of the story, and it helps to show the kind of chaos that endured during and after the Japanese occupation. Both Xiaoyu’s story and artwork create two different worlds that are inhabited by different groups of people. It’s both evocative and morbidly fascinating, and it highlights the kind of challenges and struggles that different people have with surviving amid chaos and tragedy. I really enjoyed this book not only for its story, but also for the creative and detailed artwork. Highly recommended! 

Examining Identity and Disability in 19th Century Performers: Currencies of Cruelty

 Currencies of Cruelty: Slavery, Freak Shows, and the Performance Archive by Danielle Bainbridge

Currencies of Cruelty book cover

Author and scholar Danielle Bainbridge

Many thanks to NYU Press and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Danielle Bainbridge’s critical and thoughtful examination of the intersection of slavery, disability, and performance in Currencies of Cruelty: Slavery, Freak Shows, and the Performance Archive. This was a challenging yet rewarding read for the insight and voice it provides to several performers during the period of enslavement and the antebellum period that followed, with most of the focus centered on an amazing woman, Mille-Christine McKoy, whose conjoined body was promoted as one individual, who was two different people, or as Bainbridge notes their tombstone reads “a soul with two thoughts. Two hearts that beat as one.” This was a fascinating book that explored the extraordinary life of Mille-Christine McKoy and raised questions about her life where she was born into slavery, and how her disability afforded her status and opportunities to develop a voice. However, Bainbridge’s research and analysis into Mille-Christine’s life identifies that this wasn’t always as straightforward as historical archives might suggest, which raises further lines of inquiry into the nature and subjectivity of the recorded history and artifacts that researchers like Dr. Bainbridge encounter. I wasn’t expecting this line of questioning in the book, and it’s something that I will need to revisit and grapple with, especially since the last chapter that deals with texts and performances that descend from these archives and voices, both aural and silenced. Nevertheless, Dr. Bainbridge identifies gaps and areas in the archives where Mille-Christine’s voice(s) are mostly absent, and questions whether her performances are celebrations of her talent or exploitation of her enfreakment. Dr. Brainbridge’s research explores how earlier exploitation of Mille-Christine on stage as a girl led to her ability to reset the parameters of her performance, and to develop further skills including singing, dancing, and talking simultaneously in different languages, to further her individuality and humanity. Nevertheless, these performances were conducted under ownership, and despite her status as free after the Emancipation Proclamation, her prior enslavers as well as others sought to control Mille-Christine’s personhood. Dr. Bainbridge presents court cases and other letters from the Freedman’s Bureau sent on behalf of Mille-Christine’s parents that argued for her return to her family. Furthermore, Dr. Bainbridge compares Mille-Christine’s challenges to her autonomy and performances to other individuals who were often exhibited and exploited during the 19^th century before and after slavery including Chang and Eng Bunker, probably the most well-known conjoined twins, Joice Heth, the supposed nurse of George Washington, and Blind Tom Wiggins, a pianist and composer who possessed an incredible gift for music. In all of these cases, we see how exhibitors often exploited these individuals due to their uniqueness. I also found it interesting that Dr. Bainbridge notes how many of them served as symbolic representations for America as the question of slavery gradually ripped the country apart. Both the McKoys and the Bunkers conjoined status was often mentioned in the context of uniting the country together while Joice Heth, who was not nearly as old as PT Barnum claimed, served as a reminder of the beginning of the country. Furthermore, we see that this kind of exploitation and misrepresentation not only occurred in their lives, but often after death as well when Heth was publicly autopsied for paying customers and the Bunkers were cast after death, with their bodies, organs, and casts on display at Philadelphia’s Mütter Museum. Throughout Dr. Bainbridge’s book, there is a call for the respect and humanity these individuals deserved and often did not receive in life and after their deaths.

I also appreciated Dr. Bainbridge’s reflections on visiting the Mütter Museum, a museum I’ve been to a few times and actually took students on a field trip there (our school was a few blocks from the museum) to see an exhibit on presidential health. While I find the museum fascinating, I also find it to be a deeply disturbing place. Dr. Bainbridge’s reflection on her reflection was a great point to consider our own interests and fascination with difference, disability, and death, and it’s something that has stuck with me since reading the book. Overall this was a fascinating and thought-provoking book. Dr. Bainbridge’s questioning of historical archives and positing that they are future perfect, or rather always looking to shape the future by describing the past, kind of reminded me of School Teacher’s admission about the definitions belonging to definers in Morrison’s Beloved. Dr. Bainbridge’s deep and detailed questioning of the archives not only raise questions about the nature of power and voice in historical analysis, but they also led her to create her own performance and short film about Mille-Christine’s life, and compare her own production to other works that use archival material as a means to elevate new voices to the historical record. This is especially important since performers like Mille-Christine, the Bunkers, Blind Tom, and Joice Heth mostly were denied a voice being both people of color and people with disabilities, identities that intersected and provided them unique public exposure, yet also predetermined their identities. The last chapter on aural fugivity in these works was also interesting and left me wanting to read these poems (Olio and Zong!) and watch Dr. Bainbridge’s short film Curio, which was adapted from her stage production. I enjoyed reading about her process and ideas for creating the stage performance and then adapting it into a short film and consider the kinds of production changes she needed to make. Furthermore, I liked reading about how her work was inspired by and connected to the poems Olio and Zong!, inspiring me to seek out these texts.  While this chapter differed from the other more historical-based chapters that analyzed the archival materials related to Mille-Christine’s life, I think it showed how artists and scholars can use archival work to provide voice and humanity to the forgotten and misunderstood. Furthermore, it emphasizes the importance of not just aurality, but also silence, and how meaningful silence and the absence of voice can be when examining texts and archival materials. In fact, Dr. Bainbridge’s work will make me listen closer for the silences and pay more attention to the absences, since it’s not always what is written, but often times what is missing or hidden that adds additional meaning. Although this is a challenging read and a scholarly text that not only analyzes history but also theorizes about voice and identity in archives, it is a rewarding read that will challenge our thinking about history, archival materials, and identities, especially the identities of those with disabilities. Highly recommended!

Providing Context And Complexity to 80s Slasher Classic: Sleepaway Camp: The Novelization by B. R. Flynn

 Sleepaway Camp: The Novelization by B. R. Flynn

Sleepaway Camp book cover

Many thanks to Encyclopocalypse Publications and Book Sirens for allowing me to read an advanced copy of their newest novelization Sleepaway Camp by B. R. Flynn. First, the film version of Sleepaway Camp is one of the most brutal and nasty 80s slashers. I always remember seeing the VHS case at video stores, but never really getting to watch this film until a few years ago. I wasn’t really prepared for how vicious and complex the film is. First, the killings in the film are brutal and nasty, but they also rise to the level of brutality that the campers inflict on one another through their bullying and name calling. There’s also the underlying themes of sexuality, identity, shame and acceptance running throughout the film, which aren’t exactly subtle, but also raise complicated questions. I can see how this film was possibly underestimated at the time of its release in the early 80s, but has since received another critical perspective over the past few years. B. R. Flynn’s novelization also helps to provide a new and important perspective on these issues and reframe the film in these important themes that may have been hacked away in the 80s with the desire for inventive kills and quirky twists for slashers following the success of Halloween and Friday the 13^th.

I’ve read a few of the novelizations from Encyclopocalypse Publications (Chopping Mall, Plan 9 From Outer Space), and Sleepaway Camp ranks up there with the best of them. What I enjoyed most about this novelization was that it is not just a retelling of the film, but rather a complementary adaptation where we learn more about Angela’s perspectives and motivations. Flynn has made a few changes in this novelization, but they work well to provide a new perspective for the story and delve into the themes that the movie doesn’t exactly spend much time with. The biggest change is that the reveal at the end of the film happens earlier on in the book; however, this allows us to understand why Angela is more withdrawn and reserved at the camp, and how her lack of interactions with other campers are a result of her identity and confusion. Flynn also includes a kind of serpent symbolism throughout the novel that serves as an apt metaphor for Angela’s transition and change. It works well as both a myth for the camp, and a way to understand Angela. I loved how the snake shows up at certain parts, and I wondered whether it was real or imagined. Furthermore, in this novelization, we are able to read Angela’s thoughts and struggles with accepting who she is, while also seeing how the words and actions of other campers, especially the other female campers and counselors, affect her. Flynn adds a second Angela, one who is full of anger and rage and emerges at these challenging moments, to explain Angela’s behavior and reactions to her bullying. I appreciated this kind of perspective in understanding Angela since the film doesn’t allow for that kind of interiority and complexity in Angela’s character. We may feel sympathetic towards her, but we don’t always understand her motivations and struggles. Nevertheless, Flynn’s novelization retains much of the brutality of the campers as they regularly name-call and pick on one another. I forgot how mean-spirited they are to one another in the film and how shocking it was to see such young kids be so brutal and vicious. Furthermore, Flynn’s descriptions of the kills and bloody and gory, yet never overly done. We often see or read the last views and thoughts of each victim as their lives gradually expire. Flynn provides vivid and gory details that left me gasping and gagging, a great way to complement the vividness of this slasher classic. The only downside about reading this book was that I didn’t get to read it during the summer. Nevertheless, this is a great quick read that is appealing at any time of the year. Furthermore, the book comes with a great set of stills and promotional posters from the film. Once again, Encyclopocalypse Publications has created an excellent tribute and complement to a great 80s slasher classic. Highly recommended!

Candid, Bold Collection of Essays about Horror, Trauma, and Identity: Uncanny Valley Girls by Zefyr Lisowski

 Uncanny Valley Girls: Essays on Horror, Survival, and Love by Zefyr Lisowski

Uncanny Valley Girls book cover

Author and horror enthusiast Zefyr Lisowski

Many thanks to Harper Perennial and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Zefyr Lisowski’s collection of essays Uncanny Valley Girls: Essays on Horror, Survival, and Love. The title of this collection instantly intrigued me—I loved the play on Uncanny Valley and that the book is about horror and survival. As Lisowski mentions in her postlude, “horror is a love language, but maybe that’s because for me everything is a love language. Horror at its most intimate is a way to share the secret parts of yourself with others: what frightens you, what comforts you, what you’re repulsed by.” Lisowski’s collection is more of a personal reaction to horror- not only her own experiences sharing horror viewing with others, but also how these films related to events in her life. This collection is a deeply personal and at times traumatic exploration and reflection on what events shaped Lisowski’s life and identity, with horror films factoring into these events. Although these essays do not follow in the traditional film analysis, Lisowski does provide some context for the creation of some of these films and how films from the early 2000s reflected much of the violence that was happening around the world. In the second section of the book, the essay “War on Terror” focuses on the era of films like Final Destination and Hostel, and how Lisowski’s relationship with a boy unfolded and deteriorated through their shared interest in horror. One of the many themes that runs throughout these essays are how women in these films are both objectified- represented as vectors of violence that reflect the kinds of misogyny and hatred towards difference in society- and seen as survivors- the final girl trope whose smarts and morality are often rewarded with survival. While this aspect of horror films is something that many people can relate to, it seems like Lisowski’s experience as a trans woman whose identity was frequently questioned and challenged by peers and parents made her especially sensitive and receptive to these messages from horror films. While her friend enjoyed the violence, Lisowski relates more to the final girls in these films—those whose identities are sometimes questioned or challenged by the more popular and dominant cultures, yet ultimately are able to use this to their advantage to survive. It’s possibly one of the reasons Sally Hardesty of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre appealed to her more than other characters and also possibly why the remakes and sequels in this franchise were less appealing.

I appreciated Lisowski’s candor and bravery in many of these essays, baring her emotions and vulnerability. She does include a list of triggering subjects in each essay at the end of the book. I recommend using this to at least be aware of the subjects that she discusses in each of the essays since they can be fraught with topics like self-harm and sexual assault. While I noted Lisowski’s disclaimer at the beginning of the book, I don’t think it quire prepared me for how much brutality and self-hatred she experienced as a trans woman. However, I think that through reading about her experience and seeing how horror movies provided her with a kind of insight into the brutality of society and the strength of survivors, it helped me learn a little more about a frequently misunderstood group that receives a lot of undue scorn and violence. Other essays focus on Lisowski’s personal connections to films like The Ring and Dark Water, Black Swan, and Scream. I found the essay about Ginger Snaps “Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Werewolf Girl” really interesting, especially since I recently read another essay about how werewolves provided Jennifer McMahon with more insight about her own sexuality and differences in the amazing collection of essays Why I Love Horror (edited by Becky Siegel Spratford). I hadn’t previously thought about this connection between werewolves and queerness, but it is interesting to consider about how changes, especially in puberty, can often make us feel so different and out of control. As Lisowski explains, these changes are often unwelcome and more often misunderstood by others who feel threatened and in danger. Yet, it’s ultimately the werewolves who suffer the most through their transformation and death. The other essay that I really enjoyed was “Uncanny Valley of the Dolls” which examines the life and work of Greer Lankton, a trailblazing artist who made dolls. I recently read Harron Walker’s great collection Aggregated Discontent, which is where I first learned about Greer Lankton. Lisowski’s essay is different, focusing more on her life than Walker’s essay, which focused on her transition to a female. Lisowski’s essay also focused on her work with dolls, described their likenesses to Lankton’s own struggles and challenges, including her eating disorders and drug addiction. Throughout the essay, Lisowski identifies with these struggles with mental health as a connection to Lankton’s life and work. I found this essay to be a great addition to Walker’s essay—although both writers focus on Lankton’s life and work, I felt like I learned even more about Lankton’s later life and her struggles and challenges and how these aspects of her life impacted her work.

Although some readers who are looking for more traditional essays analyzing horror films may feel a little bereft from this essay collection, there are plenty of personal horrors and trauma that Lisowski plumbs to better understand our often complicated relationship with violence and abjection we watch on the screen. This is a brave and bold collection where Lisowski fearlessly shares her experience and struggles with mental health, and uses horror as a way to both reflect and escape, to better understand her own trauma and to see pathways to survival. It’s not quite what I expected, but at the same time I feel like I learned a lot about different perspectives. However, I recommend checking out the trigger warnings at the end of the book as there are parts of the book that were challenging for even this horror fan to read. Nevertheless, this was a powerful collection of essays that I will revisit at some point.

 

Local Philly Horror Novel: Werewolf Movie

 Werewolf Movie by Stephen St. Francis Decky

Werewolf Movie book cover

Author and Artist Stephen St. Francis Decky

Many thanks to Books Go Social, Frayed Edge Press, and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced reader copy of Werewolf Movie by Stephen St. Francis Decky. I requested this book because it was listed as a horror novella set in South Jersey and Philly in the late 80s. Plus the title sounded really cool, and the cover is somewhat haunting a sparse, so this book had me intrigued. Werewolf Movie may have been the strangest book I’ve read this year, but it was also a fascinating book that appealed to me on some different levels. Although there were a few scenes of horror, the story is more of an existential horror, questioning one’s path and wondering about one’s identity- who are we? What drives us to create and reach our maximum potential? How do we let people, jobs, and social expectations keep us from reaching this potential? This brief book has left me with many questions to think about, and how we may let social expectations and acceptability compromise our vision and goals.

The thing I enjoyed most about this book was the setting- the late 80s in Philly and South Jersey. Although I was expecting more of a horror story, the book didn’t really start to introduce the more traditional horror elements until about 60% into the story. There is a great deal of exposition, and as someone who has seen lots of shows with my friends’ bands at the Khyber, Upstairs at Nick’s (RIP), and The Pontiac Grill (formerly Dobbs), it was fun to read about the Bee Plasm, Rick Owen Band, and Crank Top shows at these music venues. I also loved the band names and songs St. Francis Decky created for this story. It was fun reminiscing about not just the diverse Philly music scene, but also a time of youth and disposable time—when I could go to shows regularly, see my friends play in all kinds of places, and witness the creativity in making music and art. This book really took me back to that period in my life during and after college. I liked reading about the different characters lives outside of the music scene as well. They all faced different, and somewhat humorous challenges in their lives, yet seemed to decide to live simply in order to accommodate their lives around music. They all worked jobs that allowed them play in shows at night and record music in their off days, until Rick loses his job due to his boss’s death, or as the author writes in one of my favorite lines “He lived, at the hospital, until eight o’clock last night.” I had to read that one a few times to understand that the boss was dead. The characters seem to eat simple foods like toast and eggs, grilled cheese or cheese sandwiches, until a mysterious record company executive promises Rick Owens that he will be large if Rick decides to work with him. Once Rick begins meeting with Donnie, the record exec, things take a dark turn, and Rick and his friends begin to witness things outside of their selves. It’s a creative way of looking at the werewolf myth, and I loved that St. Francis Decky brought in the Chatterbox from Ocean City as well, a place I’ve spent some late nights also questioning how I arrived there, just like Dale.

Although this book was a great dose of nostalgia and made me reflect on my own life choices, there were some elements of the book that I didn’t enjoy as much. For one, the characters all kind of talked and thought in the same way. St. Francis Decky provides clear annotations about whose perspective is represented, but they didn’t have too much in their dialogue or thoughts to really make them seem completely different from one another. There wasn’t much voice given to each character, and maybe that was part of the choice, especially considering that Dale notes at the end of the book that he needs to listen to his own voice now. Other characters like Rick bemoan how much other’s music sounds derivative and poppy, like everything else on the radio. Gia was like the only character who really seemed to have a somewhat different perspective, and seemed to deeply care about Rick. Frankie, who disposed of his grandma’s body when he finds her dead, also had a more unique voice since he was somewhat fearful and apprehensive, but somehow once he dumps his grandma’s corpse, overcomes that fear. However, I felt like many of the characters had the same voice. Also, the characters mainly spoke their thoughts, but didn’t really add too much description or detail to the surroundings. Whether it was the music or maybe the artwork, I would have loved to learn more about the scene that these people were a part of. Even offering more descriptions of the characters would have been interesting. There were some descriptions of Donnie, the devilish record executive who offers Rick a deal he cannot refuse, but other than that, the characters seemed to start each sentence with “I…” Nevertheless, I enjoyed this book and it made me think. Since Donnie offered Rick a contract and a way to promote his music (or at least that is what I assumed, we never learn exactly what is in the contract) in return for Rick’s creativity and songwriting, I kept thinking about the old Beck song “Satan Gave Me A Taco,” where Beck ends up tempted by Satan’s food, and somehow ends up as a drug addicted rock star. Maybe this was part of the message of the book that the kind of popularity and acclaim from art often comes at a cost- whether it is one’s voice or their true self. However, the book seemed more like Faustian/Robert Johnson kind of story than a werewolf story. This is quick and interesting read, and if you are from the Philly area and love music, then this is a great book to read to reminisce about some of the old music venues that are no longer around. I loved, too, that he referenced WPRB and the 3^rd Street Record shop, two influences on my own musical development and interests. However, I did want to note that the Pontiac Grill was mentioned a few times, but the Pontiac was Dobbs until the early/mid 90s, so there wouldn’t have been a Pontiac during this book. Nevertheless, I loved the reference since some of my favorite bands played there, and it was always a fun time. Highly recommended!

Navigating Grief, Racism, and Identity in Catherine Dang's What Hunger

What Hunger by Catherine Dang 

What Hunger's book cover

Author Catherine Dang

Many thanks to Simon & Schuster and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Catherine Dang’s new coming of age novel What Hunger. I was initially attracted to the cover of the novel, featuring a close-up of a bleeding raspberry being squeezed by fingers. While there isn’t much fruit in the book, the image does reflect Ronny Nguyen’s (the protagonists) sudden craving for meat after experiencing an assault and other trauma. I was also interested in the description of the book that deals with an adolescent girl’s challenges navigating her identity as a first-generation Vietnamese high school student. What Hunger is both shocking and entertaining, showing how Ronny tries to overcome not only her own personal trauma and the racism she experiences, but also the generational trauma and distrust that her immigrant parents have in midwestern America after they fled Vietnam following the fall of Saigon. Ronny’s observations and interactions with her parents demonstrate that while they are protective and considerate of their children, they also may be somewhat distrustful and sheltered, limiting Ronny and her brother Tommy from finding their own identities and assimilating into American culture.

Dang’s novel reminded me of some other novels about first-generation adolescents battling against racism and parental expectations as they struggle to develop their own unique identities in America. It’s interesting, too, that many of these novels, like Monika Kim’s The Eyes are the Best Part, Suzy Yang’s White Ivy, and Kylie Lee Baker’s Bat Eater and Other Names for Cora Zeng present racism as horror, yet also allow their protagonists to become empowered and reclaim their identities with force in standing up to racism and cultural stereotypes. Dang’s novel follows these themes as Ronny’s summer takes a sudden, traumatic turn before it ends and she begins her first year of high school. I won’t reveal the exact details, but this event coupled with her parents’ laconic responses put her in an uncertain position of how to navigate the grief while also beginning a new chapter in her life, education, and search for an identity in high school. Ronny’s aunt, her father’s sister, comes to visit the family from California, and enables Ronny to not only learn more about both her mother and father and what their lives were like in Vietnam before they immigrated, but also to provide Ronny with advice and life lessons that her parents never seem to impart to Ronny. In fact, Cô Mỹ, Ronny’s aunt, is an interesting counterpoint to her parents, who seem to have been beaten down both by their experiences as Vietnamese refugees and by the racism in America. Having limited visits with Cô Mỹ, Ronny’s not sure exactly how to take her aunt, but as Cô Mỹ eventually brings out a different personality from her father, Ronny begins to realize how multifaceted and dynamic her parents actually are. It’s something that all readers can relate to, especially those in adolescence who begin to notice and understand the kinds of sacrifices and changes that their parents experience. However, with Ronny Nguyen, her parents’ experiences as immigrants and refugees heighten the kinds of sacrifices and changes they’ve experienced as they attempt to assimilate into American society.

In addition to tackling themes of identity development and racism, the book also draws heavily on Vietnamese culture, especially food. I loved that Dang incorporates Vietnamese language in the book, and how the characters bond over traditional Vietnamese dishes. In particular, it was interesting to see how Ronny doesn’t really like many of the dishes that other relatives and friends share. It isn’t until Ronny experiences a traumatic assault that her tastes begin to change. I found this to be an interesting aspect of the book. Although the assault is horrible, and I want to warn readers about it, Ronny is able to fight back and develop her identity as a result of this event. Furthermore, her tastes for meat develop and readers can see how food and culture can have healing, nourishing, and restorative properties. Although Ronny seeks out meat to satiate her lust for blood and vengeance, it also speaks to her Americanization and her initial distaste for some Vietnamese dishes.

After her assault in the first few days of school, Ronny tries to assimilate into the cliques and groups of 9^th grade. I found these sections describing her attempts to join in and make friends to be the most relatable in the book. Ronny not only wants to belong, but also has to deal with rumors and gossip, and in some ways, she leans into the rumors being spread about her, which I found to be empowering for a character like Ronny. Although the 1^st person narrative allows us to hear some of Ronny’s conflicted emotions and thoughts, readers can also see a determined character who is not going to be bullied or allow others to define her. This was really interesting to see how her identity was shaped by these experiences. In addition to the high school scenes, Ronny also has strange neighbors who keep to themselves but also set squirrel traps on their property. Ronny and Tommy stumble across a trapped squirrel that has bloodied its mouth attempting to bite through the trap’s wires. As Tommy explains, these animals don’t want to be trapped and will become aggressive after they are trapped, doing almost anything to break free. Although it’s a little strange, the squirrels provide a clear symbol about attempts to trap perceptions of others and how fighting back against those with power can come with a cost. While Gigi, Ronny and Tommy’s neighbor, seems indifferent to the squirrels’ suffering and pain for being themselves, Ronny and Tommy both recognize how unfair and unnecessary it is to trap these animals.

What Hunger has some plot twists and turns, and although some parts may seem a little unbelievable, the message and themes of identity and navigating grief and trauma are important for readers to read and understand. Although the novel is challenging and upsetting at times, readers do experience a resilient main character who overcomes obstacles while also coming to understand both of her parents and their experiences as immigrants and refugees who remain guarded and reserved about their pasts and protective of their children’s futures. I recommend this book, although be warned about the incidents of loss, grief, and assaults.