[{"id":316743,"date":"2026-09-24T08:37:19","date_gmt":"2026-09-24T12:37:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/?p=316743"},"modified":"2026-09-24T13:44:21","modified_gmt":"2026-09-24T17:44:21","slug":"bret-stephens-is-big-mad-at-the-best-writers-he-hasnt-read","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/bret-stephens-is-big-mad-at-the-best-writers-he-hasnt-read\/","title":{"rendered":"Bret Stephens Is Big Mad at the Best Writers He Hasn\u2019t Read"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">By now you might\u2019ve seen the mystifying, callous, and yes\u2014quite racist\u2014opinion essay published two days ago in <em>The<\/em> <em>New York Times<\/em> by Bret Stephens. In it, he refers to the National Book Awards as the \u201cliterary world\u2019s DEI checklist.\u201d Electric Literature doesn\u2019t link directly to foolishness\u2014if you want to read the essay, you can find it on your own\u2014but I was inspired to take a moment to unravel the premise upon which his essay rests and acknowledge the brilliance of the books he attacks.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-large is-resized\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1024\" height=\"312\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-17-1024x312.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316770\" style=\"aspect-ratio:3.2670157068062826;width:624px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-17-1024x312.png 1024w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-17-300x91.png 300w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-17-767x234.png 767w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-17.png 1292w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\" \/><figcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">&#8220;No, I won\u2019t link this fuckshit here, because I won\u2019t drive traffic to such intellectually lazy writing.&#8221; &#8211; Joseph Osmundson&nbsp;<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Stephens begins by noting, accurately, the increase in diversity among winners of the National Book Awards, particularly in fiction and nonfiction, over the last decade. He goes on to suggest that this is an overcorrection for the many decades in which white male authors, almost exclusively, were recognized with the award. He attributes this recent shift to the political leanings of the judges, embracing the idea that politics influencing art is problematic and diminishes the quality of the art itself. He concludes that these books couldn\u2019t possibly be the best books of the year.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I\u2019m not here to write an essay on the intersection of art and politics, but I do want to recognize the egregiousness of this argument. Literature is political; it has always been political. The very act of reading is, and has always been, politicized. Especially in this country. The idea that political ideology negates, or is irrelevant to, artistic merit is specious\u2014I can\u2019t even believe he wrote it. One look at any of these books, and you will realize that they are simply the result of the world we live in, the conditions of the lives of these authors, their communities, and those they are writing to and for. That they are being rewarded is, in my opinion, an indication of excellent taste.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">At Electric Literature, we consider ourselves to be something of a literary tastemaker, and we want to acknowledge the quality of the books against which Stephens took aim\u2014some of which we\u2019ve been honored to cover over the last year. Joseph Osmundson, one of the longlisted authors in nonfiction, assembled this list as a resource, and is graciously allowing us to publish it here. Many of these books tell stories that wouldn\u2019t, or couldn\u2019t, have been told just a few decades ago. Diverse stories appeal to diverse readers. They bring more people to the practice of reading, which inspires more people to become writers. I\u2019m sorry, Bret Stephens, but that is a good thing. To our readers, all of whom have the very best literary taste, I encourage you to buy these books. Read them! Let us know what <em>you<\/em> think.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u2014Denne Michele Norris<br>Executive Director and Publisher<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The following list was compiled and annotated by Joseph Osmundson with help from the EL staff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In order of his inane mockery:<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780593804056\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593804056\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Paradiso 17<\/a><\/em> by Hannah Lillith Assadi<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cAssadi refuses easy answers. If there is irony here, it is muted, almost mournful. The author is after something slower: the way history settles into you, day by day. Modernity is both an escape from history and a stage on which its contradictions become unbearable.\u201d \u2013 Zain Khalid, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/2026\/03\/18\/books\/review\/hannah-lillith-assadi-paradiso-17.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\"><em>The New York Times<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9781640098084\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781640098084\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Red Ants<\/a><\/em> by Kimberly Blaeser<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI love short stories that feel more expansive than their word count, and each story in Kimberly Blaeser\u2019s debut collection operates like their own galaxies of possibility.\u201d \u2013 Michael Welch, <a href=\"https:\/\/chireviewofbooks.com\/2026\/07\/15\/our-most-anticipated-books\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\"><em>Chicago Review of Books<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780593803523\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593803523\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">D\u00e8y<\/a><\/em> by Edwidge Danticat <br>(I mean, one of our best living writers, HOW DARE HE?!?!?!)<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThe novelist\u2019s duty is to present such questions and then leave the room \u2014 to grant the reader space to ponder them. Danticat does this masterfully, particularly regarding the subjects of love and home.\u201d \u2013 <em>The New York Times<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9781324097204\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781324097204\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Pretend You\u2019re Dead and I Carry You<\/a><\/em> by Juli\u00e1n Delgado Lopera<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThe author\u2019s turns of phrase are striking and indelible, and the characters are deeply and lovingly portrayed, including Mamadora, who looks out for the lonely Valentina, helping with her homework and making sure her disapproving aunt doesn\u2019t try to separate her from Ignacio. It\u2019s exquisite.\u201d \u2013 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.publishersweekly.com\/9781324097204\">Publisher\u2019s Weekly<\/a>, Starred<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780063375000\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780063375000\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Python\u2019s Kiss<\/a><\/em> by Louise Erdrich<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cErdrich is an absolute master of fiction. Her characters come alive on the page, each of their voices as distinct and consuming as the last. Her work is infused with an incredible depth of humanity\u2014both piercingly clear-eyed and deeply empathetic\u2014that is, to me, the very best of what fiction can do.\u201d \u2013 Katie Henken Robinson, <a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/louise-erdrich-sees-criticism-as-a-friend\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Electric Literature<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780593717202\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593717202\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">The Disappearers<\/a><\/em> by Marlon James <br>(I mean, come ON!)<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThis Masterpiece Is the Novel of the Decade, if Not the Century\u201d \u2013 Dwight Garner, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/2026\/08\/30\/books\/review\/the-disappearers-marlon-james.html\"><em>The New York Times<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9798217208319\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9798217208319\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Beginning Middle End<\/a><\/em> by Valeria Luiselli<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cA novel that folds time and writing itself [ . . . ] The story leaves the reader wondering how fractured memories can be preserved and told through fabricated narratives. What is it to live in the <em>middle<\/em> when memories are fading away?\u201d \u2013 Ofelia Montelongo, <a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/migration-touches-every-life\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Electric Literature<\/a>&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780374609429\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780374609429\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">The Renovation<\/a><\/em> by Kenan Orhan<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIt\u2019s an odd, elegant little book with disarming sincerity that belies its metaphysical hocus pocus, held aloft by keen literary wordplay and an evocative exploration of what homeland really means.\u201d \u2013 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.kirkusreviews.com\/book-reviews\/kenan-orhan\/the-renovation\/\">Kirkus Reviews<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780374620158\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780374620158\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Mad Eden<\/a><\/em> by Morgan Thomas<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cPublishing too often uses the word groundbreaking, but in the case of <em>Mad Eden<\/em>, something about this rings true. <em>Mad Eden<\/em>, a debut, is nearly impossible to categorize yet joyful to inhabit.\u201d \u2013 D\/Annie Liontas, <a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/the-most-anticipated-queer-books-for-summer-2026\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Electric Literature<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9798889661955\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9798889661955\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Passengers<\/a><\/em> by Alexander Maksik<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWe don&#8217;t know if we&#8217;ve ever read a father-daughter bond written with more tenderness, complexity, or accuracy than in this slim novel about an interminably delayed flight&#8230; When inconvenience begins shading into apocalypse, this intimate portrait expands into a moving case for loving fully in the wake of a complicated past and the face of an uncertain future.&#8221; \u2013 Marion Winik and Charley Burlock, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.oprahdaily.com\/entertainment\/books\/a73512741\/best-books-of-fall-2026\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\"><em>Oprah Daily<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>(Note: Stephens makes a *huge* point about Maksik being white and male and straight, which frankly, who cares, and why would I exclude him from the list for that reason? It\u2019s still a mockery of his work to be discussed in this way.)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">The nonfiction books didn\u2019t even get their titles given or linked so people could buy, but WHATEVER<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780593239544\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593239544\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Seasons of Fury: Four Families and the Rise of Islamophobia in America<\/a><\/em> by Rozina Ali<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThe sweeping, landmark debut from journalist Ali explores decades of surveillance and harassment faced by Muslims in the U.S.\u201d \u2013 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.publishersweekly.com\/9780593239544\">Publisher\u2019s Weekly<\/a>, starred<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9781639737833\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781639737833\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Spawning Season: An Experiment in Queer Parenthood<\/a><\/em> by Joseph Osmundson <br>(Hi, yes, this is me)<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cA secondary narrative, following salmon on their journey to reproduce in warming waters, proves surprisingly apposite, partly thanks to Osmundson\u2019s expertise on the subject, and partly because it underscores what is uniquely human about his dilemma: that, for us, a universal instinct can also be a question.\u201d \u2013 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.newyorker.com\/best-books-2026\"><em>The New Yorker<\/em>,<\/a> Best Books 2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9781982178550\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781982178550\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">A Dead White: An Argument Against White Paint<\/a><\/em> by Wendy S Walters <br>(Creative nonfiction icon!!!)<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cRecursive yet resounding, a carefully curated aesthetic journey.\u201d \u2013 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.kirkusreviews.com\/book-reviews\/wendy-s-walters\/a-dead-white\/\">Kirkus Reviews<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780593242148\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593242148\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Let the Poets Govern<\/a><\/em> by Camonghne Felix<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cFelix offers a lyrical manifesto that blends memoir and nonfiction to avow poetry\u2019s transformative promise. <em>Let the Poets Govern<\/em> declares poetry a requisite teacher for both imagining and ensuring a brighter future&nbsp;[ . . . ] To learn the language of poetry, her book affirms, is to learn the language of liberation.\u201d \u2013 Naomi Elias, <a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/finding-our-political-future-in-poetry\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Electric Literature<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>(Camonghne wasn\u2019t in the Stephens bullshit, but I love this book, and you should buy it).<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>By now you might\u2019ve seen the mystifying, callous, and yes\u2014quite racist\u2014opinion essay published two days ago in The New York Times by Bret Stephens. In it, he refers to the National Book Awards as the \u201cliterary world\u2019s DEI checklist.\u201d Electric Literature doesn\u2019t link directly to foolishness\u2014if you want to read the essay, you can find [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9091,"featured_media":316778,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[5647],"tags":[130,55,109],"class_list":["post-316743","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reading-list","tag-awards","tag-politics","tag-publishing"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Bret Stephens Is Big Mad at the Best Writers He Hasn\u2019t Read - Electric Literature<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The NYT opinion columnist referred to the National Book Award longlists as \u201cthe literary world\u2019s DEI checklist&quot;\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/bret-stephens-is-big-mad-at-the-best-writers-he-hasnt-read\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bret Stephens Is Big Mad at the Best Writers He Hasn\u2019t Read - Electric Literature\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The NYT opinion columnist referred to the National Book Award longlists as \u201cthe literary world\u2019s DEI checklist&quot;\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/bret-stephens-is-big-mad-at-the-best-writers-he-hasnt-read\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Electric Literature\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-09-24T12:37:19+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-09-24T17:44:21+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/copy_of_23_questions_feature_image__1000_x_666_px___2_.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1000\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"666\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Willem Marx\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Willem 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Husband Swears Our Baby Is Out To Murder Us"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Son Debt by Lucy Zhang<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband swears to me L is out to murder us. Or at least him. Why else does L projectile pee every time Husband opens the diaper, right after he\u2019d finished wiping away jaundice-colored poop? Why else does L scream like the world has caught fire whenever Husband sets him down on the hard bamboo mat to foster the development of proper motor skills?&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I roll my eyes. \u201cHe\u2019s not out to murder you,\u201d I say. \u201cThat\u2019s called being a baby.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">But my words don\u2019t reach Husband. He has begun to fantasize that maybe our murderous L will wipe my in-laws off the planet\u2014the \u201cone good thing to come out of this human potato.\u201d Husband\u2019s mother possesses the manipulation skills of a viper. She tried to guilt her son into mortgaging a house far beyond our fiscal means simply because it had the guest house she desired for when she made her trip across the ocean to visit. We put our feet down on that one, and the result was several months of radio silence in the WeChat group she once engaged in daily. The one time she emerged from her silent treatment was to ask Husband for his passport information to finish writing her will\u2014passport information she already had for a will she\u2019d already written. Husband was convinced she was passive-aggressively threatening to remove him from her will if we didn\u2019t comply. \u201cWe don\u2019t need that money anyway,\u201d he said.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>When I can muster the energy in my vocal cords, I read these out loud to L while flipping to the few pages that contain photos for him to take in.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">My father-in-law is slightly better. Despite his tantrums and tendency to destroy objects and hit people, he is simple. Wears his emotions on his sleeve. Behaves like a child. His anger simmers at surface level, and after a few punches and throws, he forgets the argument with a good smoke. I don\u2019t want him around for other reasons: he refuses vaccinations, convinced they\u2019re western government propaganda; he will only take a mutant combination of traditional Chinese medicine and metformin for his diabetes instead of correcting his diet; he smokes like he breathes, a poison that Husband hopes will send his father to a quick grave and that I hope will never touch L.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband claims my side of the family is easier to deal with since they immigrated to the States decades ago\u2014plenty of time to westernize and assimilate. The best thing they ever did was give birth to me in the United States, according to him. No cutthroat Gaokao culture; no requirement to obey parents for every life decision; no burden of fulfilling elders\u2019 demands while counting down the days until they pass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIf this little devil were a good murderer, he\u2019d take care of his grandparents real fast,\u201d Husband says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cLet\u2019s not get ahead of ourselves. Once L gets over this SIDS phase, we can fantasize about his prospects as a criminal or whatever,\u201d I reply. \u201cHe needs to live first. Then sit up. Then stand. Then maybe he\u2019ll have the fine motor skills to kill someone.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI wish he were eighteen already.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWouldn\u2019t it be a problem though, if L wants to kill <em>you<\/em> instead of your parents?\u201d I muse. Of course, L will not pursue a career as illustrious and AI-proof as a homicidal felon, but rather tread down one of the surefire, financially secure paths: engineer, doctor, or lawyer.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d Husband nods. \u201cI could be next. The little devil has daily access to me and my jugular.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI\u2019m more worried about you \u2018accidentally\u2019 feeding L a pack of Buldak sauce to force your palate preference on him when he grows up. Spicy food will become the only thing this household ingests. The toilets will meet their doom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband shrugs. \u201cHigh spice tolerance is associated with grit and work ethic.\u201d \u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I carry L to the bedroom so he can look at white-and-black-colored squares from the Lovevery subscription my coworker gifted me. Black ink printed on cardstock marketed as critical to infant sensory development. The same types of shapes that cover my vision in spells of vertigo. My preference of toy consists of old, dense history textbooks able to concuss someone\u2019s head and pamphlets on the three warring states, which my dad purchased from an old man\u2019s vendor in Xintiandi, the only district in Shanghai not tainted by modern materialism like the rest of the city. When I can muster the energy in my vocal cords, I read these out loud to L while flipping to the few pages that contain photos for him to take in. But today is a low-energy day; Husband\u2019s morbid imagination has depleted any potentially conserved stores.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYou don\u2019t hate your dad, do you?\u201d I ask L, who kicks and swipes at the air like a toppled tortoise. I rattle a neon blue-pink-green contraption that my mom bought from Walmart when L was only three weeks old. I\u2019d told her it made too loud a sound and would overstimulate him, but she still rattled it in front of his face with a vigor I hadn\u2019t seen since she commanded a knuckle-worn seamstress to tailor a qipao for my attendance at a cousin\u2019s wedding. (I don\u2019t remember the cousin\u2019s name, only that her parents spent money like it was water, and my mother forever had to draw comparisons between our schooling, clothing, husbands, and soon child rearing.) Now I shake the toy in front of L like it\u2019s Gandalf\u2019s staff warding off evil: the apocalyptic baby cries.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cOr maybe you do,\u201d I murmur as his kicking evolves into kicking and babbling evolves into kicking and screaming. \u201cBut your dad means the best.\u201d Even if Husband currently views L as a responsibility, the way you need to replace tires before they blow out. Better than my father-in-law, whose sense of responsibility lacks the \u201csense\u201d part.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband\u2019s greatest dilemma is when (not if) to allow his parents to visit, a struggle that has resulted in multiple WeChat family group chats being abruptly disbanded and then recreated.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIf I were to post your situation on Reddit, the comments would be clamoring for you to go no-contact,\u201d I muse.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThat\u2019s Western Think for you,\u201d Husband replies. \u201cMy parents can\u2019t even conceive of me living independently. I am <em>supposed<\/em> to give everything up for my family. My birth was an implicit exchange: they raised me in return for an eternity of compliance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWe <em>are<\/em> your family,\u201d I say, pointing to a sleeping L and myself.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThis goes deep, far deeper than anything no-contact can accomplish,\u201d Husband continues without responding to my comment. \u201cThere\u2019s all this implicit nonsense that you\u2019re just supposed to <em>get<\/em>. It stems from imperial China: the emperor will ask his officials what they want as a reward for performing some great deed. And the official is supposed to say some noble shit like \u2018nothing, doing service for the country is good enough.\u2019 And if you\u2019re ever honest about wanting or disliking something, you die.\u201d I think the diatribe\u2019s over but he keeps going: \u201cThat\u2019s my mom: she\u2019ll say \u2018oh, no need to think about visiting me when planning your trip to Japan.\u2019 And then she\u2019ll get upset when I didn\u2019t think of her while planning the trip.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWho cares about what long-dead emperors and officials would do? Didn\u2019t you say you\u2019d never let your parents visit again after the last two months\u2019 stay?\u201d I ask.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">One year ago, Husband\u2019s parents visited us and occupied the guest room across from the study. \u201cThis is your home, there\u2019s no need to treat us special. If there\u2019s something you don\u2019t like or want us to do, just say so. We have to be open with each other,\u201d my mother-in-law had said. She often magicked sweet words that worked on me at the time. I later learned her words served one purpose: to soften the listener\u2019s ears. She\u2019d tell Husband not to preoccupy himself with taking care of them, driving them to Costco, or helping them carry groceries, only to express deep disappointment when he took a Zoom call during the workday instead of dragging the pork chops they\u2019d spontaneously purchased through the garage. Her universe existed in one type of transaction: the one-upping of sacrifices, an exchange that only worked if her sweet talk engraved both obligation and guilt into Husband\u2019s brain. Of course, birthing Husband into existence was the greatest sacrifice one could make, so according to my mother-in-law\u2019s unspoken worldview, Husband owed her an eternal debt. \u201cTossing an egg and sperm together and then funding the product through college doesn\u2019t guarantee a life of servitude,\u201d Husband would repeat to me whenever one of these gaslighting messages came through. It wasn\u2019t just cellular growth and tuition though. The hot dog links from Costco that my in-laws stuffed our fridge with also demanded an equivalent exchange: \u201cWe bought you all this good food, but you won\u2019t even drive us around?\u201d Never mind that we rarely craved hot dogs and the only price we\u2019d pay in exchange was the duty to finish more cancer-causing meat to clear up space in the fridge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">By the time my in-laws were to leave, they\u2019d additionally \u201chelped\u201d by trimming our palm tree, stripping it down to a naked stalk that resembled a sole middle finger protruding from the soil to curse the heavens. After that incident, Husband swore to never let them stay for more than two weeks, a sentiment that later evolved into refusing to let them return at all.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIn an ideal world, they\u2019d never visit. But is this an ideal world? No. Hardly. And once they\u2019re old enough to stumble on the stairs to their apartment, I\u2019ll need to figure out how to cart them off to a senior center while an ocean\u2019s distance away,\u201d he complains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThat\u2019s still many decades away. Your parents can take care of themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>I rub L\u2019s head simultaneously, feeling the softness of his skull and the subtle dips and protrusions of the fontanelles and immature bone.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIf we\u2019re lucky, they won\u2019t even live long enough to go senile. The smoking and diabetes will end my dad, and the perpetual overthinking, stress, and borderline schizophrenia will end my mom.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t wish for someone\u2019s death,\u201d I warn. \u201cThat kind of thinking is what gets karma to dump you on your head.\u201d I rub L\u2019s head simultaneously, feeling the softness of his skull and the subtle dips and protrusions of the fontanelles and immature bone.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband laughs. \u201cWhat if my act of wishing for my dad\u2019s death kills him? And then our son kills me? We\u2019d be a bunch of dad killers.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I frown in a half-hearted attempt to pull him out of his spiral.\u00a0\u201cDon\u2019t joke about that.\u201d I\u2019m not sure why I\u2019m trying. Perhaps it\u2019s less for Husband and more for my ease of mind that at least I vocalized opposition and thus could not be complicit in any future fallout between dad and son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cDon\u2019t deny it. It\u2019d be terribly funny,\u201d Husband says between chuckles. \u201cMy life is a joke.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband\u2019s delusional scenario would not have been possible had I conceived a girl instead of a boy, to Husband\u2019s disappointment (he wished for a daughter whom he believed he could coddle rather than a boy he\u2019d constantly measure up against society\u2019s definitions of successful) and to my in-laws\u2019 great satisfaction. But the fact that I failed to bear a girl means no relatives clamoring for us to try again for a boy. One experience of over twelve hours of unmedicated contractions is enough for my lifetime. Any more children must be aggregated in a test tube or laid via eggs.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cGood, it looks like you\u2019re still pretty after giving birth,\u201d is the first thing my mother-in-law says during our first WeChat call one month postpartum. She carefully inspects my face through the video camera, her eyes hovering above the lens, only the top half of her face visible through our view.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And then: \u201cMake sure you eat lots of peanuts, dates, and glutinous rice. These things will help your postpartum body recover from everything it lost.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And then: \u201cChina has thousands of years of medical experience in births and postpartum recovery. Don\u2019t rely on Western medicine. In fact, I actively try not to take any of that stuff. People use those drugs too much. It\u2019s better to follow traditional Chinese medicine: balancing the hot and cold of the body, taking our herbal supplements.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I nod along. Husband holds back a smirk\u2014this is just another one of my mother-in-law\u2019s delusions. \u201cIrrational trust placed in the largely unscientifically proven TCM. Sure, it\u2019s based on generations of Chinese illness and treatment\u2026with the biggest survivorship bias to speak of,\u201d he has told me multiple times.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI\u2019m eating plenty of healthy things,\u201d I reassure my in-laws. Then I point the phone\u2019s camera at L so they can focus on the baby.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cHow cute,\u201d my mother-in-law remarks curtly. My father-in-law nods and says nothing. Husband and I share a quick glance. Classic: the only aspect of our son they care about is the title they can claim as grandparents before their friends whose kids are either still in school earning pennies while wrapping up their infinitely long PhDs, or freshly graduated with their doctorates but struggling to find jobs in the AI-and-layoff-job-obsoleted market. \u201cMy son makes good money, is married, has a child, and owns a house,\u201d she often touts as though the accomplishments are all credited to her, never mind that work stress has induced heart palpitations and high blood pressure in Husband before reaching the age of thirty. My mother-in-law had even suggested Husband take one lone week of paternity leave and then return to work so his career growth saw no regressions or slowdowns. \u201cNeed money to buy a big house,\u201d she\u2019d repeat like a shaman chanting for a loved one to return from the dead, a ghost who can only live in a residence with six bedrooms and over one acre of land. In turn, I told Husband: \u201cIf I\u2019m maximizing my maternity leave, you\u2019d better maximize your paternity leave, else what\u2019s the point of working at a company with good benefits? We are expendable cogs. In turn, we expend corporate resources.\u201d&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then she returns to blabbering about best postpartum practices. I doubt she truly cares about my health as much as she cares about preserving her son\u2019s wife as \u201cpretty\u201d and demonstrating a facade of considerate expertise. She leaves no room for me to interject: \u201cYou should try to minimize standing. Don\u2019t go outside if you can help it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">We\u2019re situated under a clear, San Diego blue sky, surrounded by palm trees and succulents, in the valley of several mountains where an expanse of bushes and rocks stretches between neighbors\u2014you can hardly call them neighbors. I\u2019ve already been outdoors multiple times, feeling the wind blow over my body and the heat of the sun absorbed by my hair. <em>We don\u2019t have an AQI problem like you do<\/em>, I reply in my head. <em>Inhaling the outdoor atmosphere won\u2019t fill me with those elusive toxins that you believe cordyceps will expel.<\/em> I continue to nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And: \u201cEat brown sugar congee. It will return the heat to your body.\u201d I wonder what heat needs returning when my night sweats wake me before even my engorged breasts can leak through the linens.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And: \u201cDon\u2019t eat pears or frozen fruit. Definitely no cold water, which you shouldn\u2019t touch at all, postpartum or not, for that matter.\u201d Three bags of Kirkland frozen blueberries sit in our freezer.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I pray for L to cry bloody murder so I can disappear under the guise of feeding him, the only blessing of breastfeeding and my inevitable self-identification as a cow. Husband senses I might simmer over any second. It\u2019s all in my eyebrows. I control every part of my facial expression with ease, except the eyebrows, which twitch and crease and slant and spasm on a face whose smile and gaze remain constant. An improperly wired puppet, Husband describes it.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband takes the iPhone and heads to his office to continue chatting with his parents, a family boundary I more than willingly respect. I stand and cross a milk-stained carpet to carry L to the nursery chair. You\u2019d think a white carpet would disguise excessive breastmilk letdown, but instead, I can point out every splotch even at night with the lights dimmed in hopes that L will sleep an hour longer.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The Great Fallout started with a video conference. It ends with Husband triumphantly entering our bedroom to L\u2019s sporadic whimpers culminating in a long wail.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYou successfully declared yourself no-contact with your parents?\u201d I guess, knowing such an outcome is impossible.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI successfully delayed their visitation indefinitely,\u201d he announces. \u201cTold them that we don\u2019t need urgent help with the baby because your parents are retiring and have that handled, so no rush to travel. You know how my mom is: everything she does is a sacrifice to \u2018help\u2019 me. If we don\u2019t need help, she won\u2019t just come out and say we owe her the trip.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThat doesn\u2019t sound too indefinite to me. It sounds more like you staved off their visit by a year or so.\u201d I shove my nipple into L\u2019s mouth. He latches perfectly and unlatches equally perfectly. OK. Not hungry. I pat his back, rub his head, and bend and stretch his legs to his chest. Anything to appease potentially murderous future tendencies.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>Husband senses I might simmer over any second. It\u2019s all in my eyebrows.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cGranted, that\u2019s a full year to try and convince your dad to get vaccinated, or give up smoking,\u201d I continue. \u201cYour mom, though\u2026I\u2019m surprised she didn\u2019t wage World War III.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband sighs. \u201cMy dad won\u2019t change his ways; the best we can do is hope he dies within one year.\u201d What a fitting solution coming from him, who chose his English name from too many late nights reading tales the English teacher did not assign because they held no \u201cliterary merit.\u201d Husband, the hero. His parents, the tyranny. The noble method of attack: robbing his parents of time and their grandson.&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cAnd it\u2019s less World War III and more of a Cold War. My mom hung up right after I told her that. Classic response: \u2018I knew this would happen; there\u2019s nothing more to say<em>.<\/em>\u2019 <em><\/em>Beep. Done,\u201d he continues.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cSounds like a good thing. If she won\u2019t talk to you, you won\u2019t need to talk to her,\u201d I reason. \u201cYour dad will just follow suit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Husband groans. \u201cI hate Chinese people.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I laugh. \u201cYou can\u2019t hate your own people.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cLiberty and independence. I\u2019m all about that. Not filial piety and self-sacrifice.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He also envies the neighbors who bought their twenty-something, academically-failing son a Cybertruck in cash, no strings attached. Things surely only white parents would do: love their child unconditionally, give them something \u201cundeserved\u201d as defined by his framing of society. But that Cybertruck son still talks to his parents like they\u2019re best friends. Meanwhile, H is halfway to cutting his parents off for good. Is Husband the failure? Or the Cybertruck son?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He glances at L, who hiccups and looks off into the ceiling corner, this room making up his entire, conceivable world. \u201cSee, I have no expectation that L will take care of us or follow our rules when we\u2019re old and need to use text-to-speech for everything that requires a screen. The moment he\u2019s an adult, he becomes his own, individual problem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWe\u2019re all our own, individual problems,\u201d I reply. But I\u2019d still save L from ruining his future by committing homicide. I\u2019d also like to save Husband from getting killed.\u00a0I think about my mother-in-law, languishing in her apartment in Beijing, scrolling TikTok or Taobao, unable to verbalize her version of a mother\u2019s \u201cunconditional love\u201d without passive-aggressive expectations, and her only son an ocean\u2019s distance away and ignoring her texts. I too have been infected with this agonizing \u201cmother\u2019s love.\u201d It grows uncontrollably each day, and with it, this bottomless pity and sorrow for my mother-in-law.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I rock L back and forth in my increasingly sore arms, wondering how I carried this creature for so long in my belly. Maybe he will remember the hearth of my placenta long after he leaves the country for a more affordable university. He may even visit from time to time, asking for advice or sharing new adventures without any intention of murdering his father.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Son Debt by Lucy Zhang Husband swears to me L is out to murder us. Or at least him. Why else does L projectile pee every time Husband opens the diaper, right after he\u2019d finished wiping away jaundice-colored poop? Why else does L scream like the world has caught fire whenever Husband sets him down [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7109,"featured_media":316731,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[6181,85],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-316724","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-personalnarrative","category-essay"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>My Husband Swears Our Baby Is Out To Murder 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Cover Reveal of FAR FROM EVERYWHERE by Hiromi Kawakami, Translated by Allison Markin Powell"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Electric Literature is pleased to reveal the cover of<\/em> <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/p\/books\/far-from-everywhere-hiromi-kawakami\/27b93baf590d3227?ean=9781643758107&amp;bkshp-astro=t\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Far From Everywhere<\/a> <em>by Hiromi Kawakami, translated by Allison Markin Powell, which will be published on February 16, 2027<\/em> <em>by<\/em> <em>Algonquin Books\/Granta Books. You can pre-order your copy<\/em> <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.hachettebookgroup.com\/titles\/hiromi-kawakami\/far-from-everywhere\/9781643758107\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">here<\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">From the bestselling, International Booker-shortlisted author of <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781640090163\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Strange Weather in Tokyo<\/a><\/em>, this polyphonic story of love and friendship on the outskirts of Tokyo takes readers into a neighborhood like any other, yet full of unforgettable characters\u2014by turns funny, wise, and heartrending.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Take the train from central Tokyo and head east. In twenty minutes, hop off and here you are: far from anywhere, but right in the heart of everything. Here, you&#8217;ll meet a widowed fishmonger who invites his dead wife&#8217;s former lover to move in, a fortune teller who helps a friend down on his luck, a young woman who learns her mother-in-law&#8217;s secret over a late night snack of tea and rice crackers, and, at the local restaurant, the cook and the server whose on\/off relationship might be back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">From one of Japan&#8217;s most celebrated writers, this charming, character-rich meander through a small, seemingly average community becomes a quiet, profound meditation on connection and attachment, loneliness and loss, life and all its ephemera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Here\u2019s the cover, designed by Luke Bird:<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/p\/books\/far-from-everywhere-hiromi-kawakami\/27b93baf590d3227?ean=9781643758107&amp;bkshp-astro=t\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/final-cover-Far-From-Everywhere-Darcy-Glastonbury.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316526\" style=\"width:460px;height:auto\"\/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Hiromi Kawakami: <\/strong>The men and women who inhabit this Tokyo neighborhood might appear ordinary but are each remarkable in their own way, and the novel zooms in and out as they quietly go about their lives, none of which have played out as expected, exposing the subtle intersections of their shared existence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The inspiration for<em> Far From Everywhere<\/em> began when I was writing another novel, <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781640090187\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Manazuru<\/a><\/em>. I was making frequent trips to the town of Manazuru, and one time I went into a run-down dried fish shop, where there was a photograph of Picasso and Cocteau. The photo of these two artists in tuxedos was such an unexpected sight on the dilapidated wall of this dried fish shop, and thinking about this incongruity is what inspired me to write the first chapter. From there, another chapter appeared on the page, and another, like links on a chain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>From Algonquin editor Madeline Jones:<\/strong> When the Granta team showed us their cover design by Luke Bird, we all knew at Algonquin that we wanted to use it for our edition in the US, too. The architecture gives such an immediate sense of place. You want to know the stories of the people running errands, going about their daily lives, crossing paths with mutual friends or acquaintances without realizing it, like the characters in the book, whose small interactions reveal Kawakami&#8217;s profound wisdom about what makes life meaningful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Electric Literature is pleased to reveal the cover of Far From Everywhere by Hiromi Kawakami, translated by Allison Markin Powell, which will be published on February 16, 2027 by Algonquin Books\/Granta Books. You can pre-order your copy here. From the bestselling, International Booker-shortlisted author of Strange Weather in Tokyo, this polyphonic story of love and [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7109,"featured_media":316526,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[6177],"tags":[6182,6562],"class_list":["post-316525","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-cover-reveal","tag-cover-reveal","tag-news"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ 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Grief Comes With Nude Polaroids"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">An excerpt from <em>Bastards<\/em><\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Rudy left me his old leather motorcycle jacket, which I took to have the zippers repaired and the lining replaced. On retrieval, the man at the counter slid an envelope to me. \u201cWe found these in the lining. Must\u2019ve fallen through the torn pocket or something.\u201d He couldn\u2019t meet my eyes. Outside, a mist. Under an awning, I checked the envelope. Old Polaroids of cocks, assholes, feet. I laughed, delighted, one last pervy gift.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In Rudy\u2019s 1980s diary, which he sent me three months before his death with a note to \u201cread and burn,\u201d he writes about a long, messy night out, armored in his leather jacket and cap, cruising bars and piers for quick sucks, and ending up marooned at a party where the cocaine has worn off. Leaving, he runs into a painter who made acid-bright cartoonish work, and says, \u201cYou look like one of your monsters.\u201d The painter replies, \u201cI\u2019m all of my monsters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He wrote the entries on scraps and threw them in a shoebox, only later finding and creating the book\u2014the pieces pasted to pages with marginalia and commentary sometimes scribbled beneath them. They had sat for years while he took photographs and drugs and lived through a plague. This is the way to tell a story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You win. I say it all the time to people. You win. You won. You\u2019re the winner. Congratulations. I said it when a boyfriend told me he didn\u2019t love me. I said it on the ward. I said it when I got evicted. You win. Good for you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">No reason to stay, nowhere to go, no claim ticket, nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Rent has gone up again on Charlie\u2019s house, an old Polish two-flat on Milwaukee\u2019s lower east side bought by an Arizona-based management company. The letter announcing the hike had a land acknowledgment. \u201cDoes that mean I can pay the rent increase to the Ho-Chunk tribe?\u201d Charlie said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Charlie sold old books by Phil Andros, the Simenon of semen: <em>Stud<\/em>, <em>The Boys in Blue<\/em>, <em>Shuttlecock<\/em>, and <em>Different Strokes<\/em>\u2014because he\u2019s flat broke. Next up: Adults Only-marked 70s paperback one-handers originally priced at $2.25 with names like <em>Cherry Cop<\/em>, <em>Mountain Stud<\/em>, <em>The Big Pipe<\/em>, <em>Saddle Buddy<\/em>, <em>Shore Leave<\/em>, <em>Truck Stop<\/em>, and <em>Tall Timber<\/em>. He\u2019s even considering his beloved show poster signed by Ethyl Eichelberger, Peter Hujar, and Agosto Machado. Collectors pay big for queer 70s and 80s memorabilia. <em>Vintage<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When he listed the books for sale, they were classified as Historical Erotica. \u201cI want a business card that says Historical Eroticist. When the person reads the card and looks back up, I\u2019m suddenly wearing a steamed-up monocle,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI know it\u2019s hard but . . . .\u201d I forget the rest because we are seated outside and a man I used to occasionally fuck is nearby. He concertedly watches his dog root around in some grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cIt\u2019s absurd. I guess I could have unloaded all this stuff ages ago. I thought maybe I\u2019d pass it on to someone someday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWell, you did in a way.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cDesperation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYeah, I know the feeling.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The man and the dog are gone. The man: Johnny? Lenny? Danny? The dog: Pickles? Chuckles? Knuckles?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Charlie turns 60 next month. He\u2019s $70,000 in debt. No house, no car, no vacations, no savings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Student loans and credit cards, with some medical debt heaped on for variety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cPay my serf fees and get a doughnut,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Charlie says, \u201cOnce the antiviral drugs came out, it was like a gag order. People stopped talking about AIDS. Here\u2019s your pills, shut up, faggots. And we obliged. We were exhausted. Or I was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">HIV-positive since 1988, he was near death when the cocktail came along. My Lazarus. I try to remember the names of the treatments and medications he has been prescribed or is currently taking but it\u2019s a jumble\u2014NRTIs, NNRTIs, INSTs, PIs. I forget if he\u2019s on Mercy Medicaid or Badgercare Plus Standard or if they are the same thing. Many times, it has been a full-time job staying alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He\u2019s on an AIDS hit parade: Sylvester, Klaus Nomi, and reissues of Diamanda Gal\u00e1s records. I listened to her trilogy <em>Masque of the Red Death<\/em> back in the late 80s. In an interview then, she said, \u201cMy voice was given to me as an instrument of inspiration for my friends and a tool of torture and destruction to my enemies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I hadn\u2019t revisited those early albums in a decade. I listened to the live recording <em>Plague Mass<\/em> Gal\u00e1s performed after the trilogy. Its final lines are: \u201cThere are no more tickets to the funeral. The funeral is crowded!\u201d The audience\u2019s applause and shouts at the end brought me to tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Gal\u00e1s is 66 now and lives in San Diego where she grew up. She moved back to care for her ailing parents until they both died. She rarely sees people. I relate to much of this. Withdrawal. The world not as too much\u2014as the agoraphobic spectrum is imagined\u2014but as too little. Thin. Inconsequential.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When her mother died, Gal\u00e1s fantasized about painting the house\u2019s interior entirely black, covering the windows with duct tape, and soundproofing the structure so that she wouldn\u2019t hear anything from the outside. Extreme grief or an appropriate reaction to the world\u2019s noisy chatter? Stylized because style is important even if no one sees it. Especially so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I saw Gal\u00e1s on the street in New York, 20-more years ago. She looked like Salvador Dal\u00ed\u2019s wife dressed as the Empress in the tarot deck he was commissioned to make in the 1970s for the James Bond film <em>Live and Let Die<\/em>. The deal fell through, but he made the deck anyway (he cast himself as the Magician, naturally). No matter. The Empress glided ahead of me, and I watched. The late afternoon\u2019s low sun hit my eyes and when I looked again, she had disappeared.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>An excerpt from Bastards Rudy left me his old leather motorcycle jacket, which I took to have the zippers repaired and the lining replaced. On retrieval, the man at the counter slid an envelope to me. \u201cWe found these in the lining. Must\u2019ve fallen through the torn pocket or something.\u201d He couldn\u2019t meet my eyes. [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1546,"featured_media":316490,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[5557,5561,5965],"tags":[579,62,175,593,82,52,94,20,1015],"class_list":["post-316486","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lit-mags","category-the-commuter","category-fiction","tag-capitalism","tag-death","tag-history","tag-illness","tag-lgbtq","tag-music","tag-relationships","tag-sex","tag-technology"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - 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1990s Black Sitcom Was Both a Promise and a Trap"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Camille Acker\u2019s debut novel<a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593597507\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\"> <em>A Very Special Episode<\/em><\/a> is part sinister satirical thriller, part laugh track.\u00a0It\u2019s like watching your favorite show and finding yourself inside an episode where every joke suddenly feels like life or death.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593597507\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"600\" height=\"907\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-12.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316364\" style=\"width:300px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-12.png 600w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-12-198x300.png 198w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Set in Washington, DC, the story follows Nina Johnson, newly elected leader of The Tenth, a prestigious Black social organization founded by her ancestors after Emancipation. After wrestling The Tenth from her mother, Dolores, Nina pledges to bring the organization into the future: \u201cIt would definitely stay Black. Black, but better.\u201d But when a wealthy white philanthropist offers a significant donation in exchange for Nina\u2019s participation in a mysterious public health project at The Orchard\u2014a former housing complex for Black families and the site of the recreation of <em>Coolin\u2019 Out with the Johnsons<\/em>, a 1990s sitcom Nina loved\u2014Nina is forced to choose between her generational aspirations (money and legacy) and her core values (protecting her people).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>A Very Special Episode<\/em> toys with the form of the sitcom, beginning with Nina participating in a minstrel show for Washington DC\u2019s wealthiest Black citizens and concluding with a finale that includes trickery, some surprise villains, and group dancing. Between each chapter are intermezzos\u2014little commercials\u2014that give us the real people of The Orchard, those who have been displaced or exploited, the very individuals Nina and her friends (what is a sitcom if not \u201cand friends\u201d?) must endeavor to save. The book interrogates the neoliberalism brainwashing of \u201890s sitcom television and its effect on the Black American consciousness. The dialogue is delightfully witty and the narrative suspenseful, but what is truly very special is Acker\u2019s ability to \u201csave the guests, save ourselves, and save the race\u201d by refusing to turn away from hard questions about inheritance, generational assurances, and what we mean by \u201cvalue.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Camille and I are friends in Philadelphia, where we spoke about \u201890s sitcoms, Black humor, and, in June Jordan\u2019s words, what any of us is to do after what\u2019s been done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Interested in reading some of Camille Acker&#8217;s work? Check out her story <a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/look-at-the-woman-you-fail-to-see-camille-acker\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">&#8220;All the Things You&#8217;ll Never Do&#8221;<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>D\/Annie Liontas: Your work often centers on the question of when Black people\u2014especially Black women\u2014can \u201cfinally stop performing and get free.\u201d How does <em>A Very Special Episode<\/em>, in its own special way, take this on?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Camille Acker: <\/strong>The opening chapter of the novel is a literal performance by the main character, Nina. I envisioned that scene early on as this moment when I hope readers will laugh, cringe, and also begin to empathize with Nina. She has let the expectations of her family and her elite community craft so much of who she is in the world that she has very little that\u2019s her own. The book becomes this journey of her uncovering not just the secrets of this nefarious organization, but also the secrets of her own history. She begins to ask questions she\u2019s never asked before and consider who she is and who she wants to be. The process the reader goes through in that first chapter of laughter, shame, and empathy is also often the process we can go through to lead us to change. If you\u2019re only ashamed of something, you may only bury it, but if you can laugh at it, see yourself tenderly, then you can begin to empathize, to understand, and then maybe you can actually address that thing and try to make it better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: I love this idea that empathy, especially for oneself, can arise through humor.\u00a0It seems that, for Nina, her self-reckoning necessarily begins with her relationship to her mother. At one point, she protests, \u201cI\u2019m not in a pageant contest, mother,\u201d and her mother Delores replies, \u201cWe\u2019re all in the running for something.\u201d Her mother tells her she learned to survive \u201cby the rules white people set, because they\u2019re the ones who possess everything you want.\u201d What is Delores desperate to give her children, and why must Nina break free of that kind of protection?\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>The process the reader goes through in that first chapter of laughter, shame, and empathy is also often the process we can go through to lead us to change.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA: <\/strong>Ooof. I think that\u2019s such a complicated question for Black parents especially. A good parent (maybe even the bad ones?) want better for their kids. Because of resource inequality, whiteness often correlates with \u201cbetter.\u201d As in, which school will have the newer facilities and the better teacher-to-student ratio? Which neighborhood will get police who respond with empathy instead of violence? Which homes will get higher real estate appraisals? So, middle class Black parents have often moved to suburbs or put their kids in schools which can help them achieve \u201cbetter.\u201d This was true of my own growing up, being in a planned community in Maryland called Columbia until I was eight, when we moved to DC. And then, when I was in DC, having to get what was called \u201cspecial permission\u201d to go to a high school on the other side of town that had programs and resources the high school only a few minutes away from me did not. Delores has sought out those experiences for Nina and indoctrinated Nina to seek out those experiences, in part because Delores herself didn\u2019t have those economic privileges. The novel meets Nina at a moment when she is realizing all of that has been at a cost. I\u2019m thinking here of the death of Nolan Wells, of that picture with him and his white friends. Proximity to whiteness, access to whiteness, can mean more money and more resources, but it does not come for free. There are real consequences to that proximity. Nina finally begins to tally that cost and starts to break away from it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: Nina seems to grapple with such questions and incongruities as a child\u2014if subconsciously\u2014particularly when she watched <em>Coolin\u2019 Out with the Johnsons<\/em> with her family. The sitcom at the heart of this novel was written \u201cfor a generation of Black kids sure that middle class contentment was well within reach.\u201d What was your relationship to television growing up? As a young Black person shaped by media and television in the 1990s, how do you understand those influences and messaging now, and how it\u2019s impacted an entire generation of Black thinkers and artists grappling with what success means?\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA:<\/strong> I loved television when I was growing up, but a lot of how people talked about television then is how people talk about social media now. Television would rot your brain and lead you down the wrong life path that generally included drugs, sex, and violence. There was also a lot of worry about how bad your eyesight would get! In my house, the television was on a lot to watch sitcoms and the news. My family would watch the evening news while we ate dinner and then discuss what we saw. So, TV was both this influence on conceiving fictional worlds through scripted shows and the real world through the news. Black imagemaking ran the spectrum for me then, from shows like <em>A Different World<\/em> or <em>Living Single<\/em> that had the Black middle class at its center in nuanced ways to the waning years of <em>The Cosby Show<\/em>, which despite the heinousness of Bill Cosby, had an indelible effect on Black media. That show in many ways was meant to counter the images of Black people on the news, which were largely exploitative and anti-Black. As I got older, I could see that each of those kinds of shows were constructing narratives of what was right and what was wrong, of what was desirable and undesirable to be in the world. The news would largely tell me being Black was bad, and <em>The Cosby Show<\/em> said being a certain type of Black was bad. Both [of] those narratives can become scaffolding for people and disassembling them means divesting from a lot of how someone sees the world.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: The 1990s\u2014a time after the civil rights movement but before Black Lives Matter\u2014are the perfect historical context for this aspect of the book, when race is a far more muted topic in America and fodder for sitcoms. The brainwashing we see happening at The Orchard seems to parallel the brainwashing of \u201890s culture and media. Additionally, Nina and her two friends and sister, all Black women, are all cast as the same sitcom character, Tanya. What did this echoing\u2014particularly regarding <em>erasure<\/em>\u2014open up for you? How did it allow you to conduct expansive cultural criticism, particularly regarding racist white institutions and the inescapable trap of race and respectability politics?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>Proximity to whiteness, access to whiteness, can mean more money and more resources, but it does not come for free.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA:<\/strong> Even though it was a daunting (and electrifying) undertaking to think about building this world within a world, it also allowed me to play around with those larger cultural critiques on a more intimate scale. So, the media brainwashing can be encapsulated in the lines of one sitcom. The dangers of white supremacy can be seen through discrete abuses of power. Nina, her friends, and her sister can be used by the white power structure as interchangeable tools, in this case a character from a \u201890s TV show. The vastness of the universe can fill us with wonder and it can freeze us with dread. In political and cultural times like these, we know so much, but may feel we can do so little. This smaller scale, this life in miniature, allows the details to come into focus. Maybe a reader doesn\u2019t know how to dismantle white supremacy, but they probably have an opinion about some of Nina\u2019s choices, and that isn\u2019t the philosophical place to end, but it is a place to begin.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: Can you speak to the structure for the commercial breaks and how they create space for the very people silenced by this system (and by white supremacy)?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA:<\/strong> In earlier drafts of the novel, I didn\u2019t have the commercial breaks. I\u2019d joked with my agent at one point, why didn\u2019t I just write a coming-of-age story for my first novel? Instead of only learning how to write a novel, I was also learning how to write a satire, learning how to deploy a high-concept plot, and learning how to manage 20-plus major and minor characters. So, those earlier rounds, I was getting the story down.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Once a later draft went to my agent and editor, I had that crucial time to be away from the work and just think about it. I knew by necessity in some ways, the dementia patients in the novel were silent and yes, silenced. I told a friend I felt like I was moving them around like furniture and she said, having visited her grandmother in an elder care facility, that was pretty accurate. Nina also doesn\u2019t individuate them early on, doesn\u2019t humanize them, and certainly that\u2019s the goal of white supremacy, to other, to flatten, making it easier to do violence to people who have been disembodied. But, the novel would not do that. Then, it hit me, the chapters are \u201cepisodes\u201d and for 1990s television that means there\u2019s also commercial breaks. I could let those characters take over the narration from Nina. They could be given full life histories and still move the plot forward by giving some information about how they ended up at The Orchard.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Formally, I also liked this idea of interruption, of \u201cbreaking\u201d the story, which I think again is pulling at the persistence of internal and external narratives. I like that the main plot of the novel is meant to be propulsive, to move, but then sometimes the novel makes the reader wait, makes the reader surface, and just like breaking the surface in water gives them a breath, a different thing to take in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: This book, as much as it confronts complexities of racism and classism, is also a lot of fun, with memorable characters, costume changes, and a line-dance finale the reader won\u2019t soon forget. Can you talk about writing humor, especially in dialogue?\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>All of the best things are both sacred and profane.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA:<\/strong> As much as this novel was a hefty assignment, it was also a lot of fun to write. I could \u201chear\u201d these characters really well once I got going, and they cracked me up. That comedic timing is deeply informed by my family, who are really smart, funny, and irreverent. My various crews of Black girlfriends, from college friends to my time living in New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia, who are all so quick-witted and sly with a joke. Humor is so foundational in Black culture. The ability to see the absurdity in all of these terrible systems is both a survival tactic and a common language. So, it was only natural for me as I was writing these characters to have them meet a dire situation with a bunch of jokes and an off-the-wall plan. I wanted the dialogue to be fast, even overlapping at times, to keep up the novel\u2019s pace, but to also reveal the warmth and love between these characters even when they\u2019re critiquing each other. What better way to reveal the intimacy between two people than to hear the jokes they make at the other\u2019s expense? Sometimes I would amuse myself too much, and my agent even suggested I remove some of the jokes, and that was the right call. A good joke, like a good wine, needs to breathe a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: This is very much a cast of characters. Who is your favorite?\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>CA:<\/strong> I don\u2019t know that I can pick a favorite, but if I ever found myself in a tough spot, Z would be pretty clutch. I love a foul-mouthed baddie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Black people are deftly skilled at multiplicity, both\/and is just a Tuesday, and that has enabled survival in the most dire of times, but it also makes us hilarious. Because what\u2019s a good joke but finding the sweet spot of tragedy and joy? What\u2019s the best food but a little bit of this and that? The best dance move, a really good kiss? All of the best things are both sacred and profane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: Nina, forced to confront her own complicity and who she must be going forward, must face what feels to be an almost impossible question. You write, \u201cWas it all minstrelsy? The show? Her in a corporate meeting? The entirety of her life? No matter how she attempted to best whiteness, earn more money, live in a nicer home, work in their organizations, chuckle at their jokes, it was always going to end up here, wasn\u2019t it? Her fighting for her life.\u201d As a Black woman living in America in 2026, you\u2019re not only writing this, but you\u2019re confronting it daily. I\u2019m wondering\u2014how does this book as a cultural artifact give you and your readers power in a system that disenfranchises Black voices?\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n<aside class=\"related-content-block alignright no-title\">\n    \t\t\t\t\t<article class=\"post-box\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/cliff-huxtable-stole-my-heart-bill-cosby-broke-it\/\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-info\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<h2>Cliff Huxtable Stole My Heart, Bill Cosby Broke It<\/h2>\n\t\t\t\t\t<!-- <p><h4>He felt like a part of my family, but I only knew the character he wore as a\u00a0mask<\/h4><\/p> -->\n<!-- temp without tags -->\n\t\t\t\t\t<p>He felt like a part of my family, but I only knew the character he wore as a\u00a0mask<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-lower\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\tJul 27\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t&#8211; <span>V.V. Ganeshananthan<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-image\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span class=\"post-box-category\">culture\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<!-- blah -->\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"640\" height=\"397\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/03\/1*drTXqnsaGqqsw5c4JdMROA.jpeg\" class=\"attachment-medium_large size-medium_large wp-post-image\" alt=\"\" \/>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/article>\n\n\t<\/aside>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I don\u2019t think this book can give us power and I suppose that\u2019s part of what the novel is asking. The corporate job, the home, the car, the respectable ways of being in the world cannot empower anyone. How do we even think about power? How have we constructed our lives around ideas of wielding power? I do hope though that the book can provide an opening for conversations, perhaps for thinking and ultimately rethinking. So many institutions and routinized ways of operating in this country are falling down around us. That is scary and deeply dangerous. It\u2019s also, in my most hopeful frame of mind, an opportunity of reassessment and transformation. What haven\u2019t we thought of, dreamed of, wondered about because we were too caught up in \u201cbefore\u201d? Or as June Jordan asked in her poem \u201cIt\u2019s Hard to Keep a Clean Shirt Clean\u201d: \u201cWhat\u2019s anyone of us to do about what\u2019s done.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>DL: The last pages, as I told you, gave me a chill.\u00a0What do you want readers to leave this book knowing, feeling, or asking?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">CA: I want readers to be a little shook, honestly. I hope they look up from that last page with a touch of bewilderment in their eyes, transported and wild-eyed. What just happened? And then, I want one of the questions that came up for them while they were reading, about family expectations, about racial solidarity and cross-racial solidarity, about aspirations and assimilation, community building, lost loves, lost selves, I hope one of those things lingers for them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Camille Acker\u2019s debut novel A Very Special Episode is part sinister satirical thriller, part laugh track.\u00a0It\u2019s like watching your favorite show and finding yourself inside an episode where every joke suddenly feels like life or death.\u00a0 Set in Washington, DC, the story follows Nina Johnson, newly elected leader of The Tenth, a prestigious Black social [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7109,"featured_media":316378,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[350,5567],"tags":[6217,6287,6500],"class_list":["post-316363","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-conversations","category-interviews","tag-black-women","tag-social-change","tag-whiteness"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>The 1990s Black Sitcom Was Both a Promise and a Trap - 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Less Obnoxious as a Falcon Than a Monk"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">&#8220;Zulum&#8221; by Miljenko Jergovi\u0107, co-translated by Ellen Elias-Bursa\u0107 and Mirza Puri\u0107<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<blockquote class=\"wp-block-quote is-layout-flow wp-block-quote-is-layout-flow\">\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Djevojka sokolu zulum u\u010dinila<\/em> \/ <em>A maiden did a falcon harm<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The word &#8220;zulum&#8221; means injustice and violence. The falcon, which was assailed by terror, its nest burnt, retaliates while keeping with its nature. There were, I believe, times when even birds were not animals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-drop-cap wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Jakov Durmo\u2019s name was somehow always circumvented in the annals of the Kre\u0161evo monastery. Yet it couldn\u2019t be said that he was never mentioned when he should have been, or, God forbid, that the honorable chroniclers falsified the lists of our brethren just to keep him off. No, they would write down Fra Jakov Durmo\u2019s name just as they would any other, but then the inkwell just so happened to tip over, the monastery tomcat smelled bacon where there was none and blotted Fra Jakov\u2019s name beyond repair, or mice gnawed at just those pages which described in detail what this friar had done during his years at Kre\u0161evo, the trouble he\u2019d been in, and the miracles his kind soul should be remembered for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Under each blot of ink on the loose leaves and volumes, on every spot where the writing has faded, where the paper has fallen apart or has been eaten away, under every paw print\u2014Fra Jakov Durmo\u2019s name is bound to be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It was early spring, the snow not yet wholly melted, when one Saturday at dusk someone banged on the monastery door. Fra \u0160i\u0161ko was the swiftest afoot, as always, and opened it to a woman, corpulent, dressed alla Turca. Before he could even ask her what she wanted and what trouble had brought her to the servants of God at this ungodly hour, she was already halfway across the room by the hearth, then there she was perching on Fra \u0160i\u0161ko\u2019s three-legged stool, warming her palms, repeating: Woe is me, dear Allah, oh woe is me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Serafin and Fra Ilija froze where they stood, although their hands were almost in the fire. Fra \u0160i\u0161ko went rigid, mouth agape, in the middle of the room, as if the Frenchman were here again to capture us on a daguerreotype. But this was no Frenchman, blast your eyes, this was a Turkish woman. A right and proper one, and she didn\u2019t seem to be of sound mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It should be said that it was never clear whether Rejhana was truly mad or just relished the friars\u2019 fear. But it\u2019s true we talked more about her at the monastery than about the assassinations, impending wars, and empires crumbling around us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Jakov wasn\u2019t there when she came, nor did anyone find this strange. Had he come home before the night turned pitch dark, that would\u2019ve been strange, just as they\u2019d have found it strange had he not slipped out at the very break of dawn. He was like that, and everyone was used to him as he was. The guardian had long since given up on him and stopped threatening to have him transferred. After all, where on the rump of the world could they possibly send him without making him even happier? Somebody once said the dimwit ought to be sent to Rome, as it would have been the worst possible punishment for him, because in Rome there is nothing but people and the odd pigeon. No wolves, bears, foxes, and, most importantly, no lynxes! In Rome, our Fra Durmo would have languished in solitude, or he\u2019d have started to howl, growl, and roar to himself, as he\u2019d have no one to talk with on an equal footing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Why did they send him to us<\/em>, moaned the late Fra \u0160imo. They didn\u2019t, properly speaking, send him, they merely returned him, broken. He\u2019d been a bright seminarist, they said, so instead of teaching him nothing but theology and the things that would be of use to a friar in this savage little land of ours, they sent him to study animals. As if he would hold mass for eagles and call upon rabbits to convert! And it all became mixed in his head, he over-studied both theology and zoology, and all that St. Francis had said about the brotherhood of all creation. Instead of caring for human souls, Fra Jakov set out to make a list of animal ones. There was no remedy for it. Especially after he ran into a lynx in the forests of Mt Igman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When they finally collected themselves, they asked Rejhana why she had come and if she knew where she was. She said she was cursed, it had been three years and she could no longer cope because her youth was passing and so, by God, would the rest of her life if she let this go on. She said of course she knew where she was. As if you could arrive at a place such as this without knowing exactly where you\u2019d been going.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Do you know, hanuma, asked Fra Serafin, what your people would do to us if they knew you were here? She snickered and said they would do a lot less than what had already been done to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Well, whatever has been done to you is hardly our fault, why are you inviting misfortune to our doorstep?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I\u2019m not, by Allah, I\u2019m not, I\u2019ve come so you can save me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">How?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">If I knew how, I\u2019d save myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You\u2019ll know. What if we don\u2019t?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then it\u2019s all the same and there\u2019s no help for anyone . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And so the t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate went on between the Franciscan brethren and the woman whom, it seemed, the devil himself had assembled from various body parts and set loose upon the world. She was as broad as a smallish moonshine still, and all the female hills and dales on her body were designed to insult the gaze of those who\u2019d vowed to stay chaste and faithful until their final hour. She appeared at a moment when the talk of the land was that the Sublime Porte had let Bosnia go, and it was only a matter of time before the troops of the Viennese emperor forded the Sava and marched on Sarajevo. Never had there been more darkness and hatred in the eyes of the Turks, never did one have to be so careful not to cross their path. What could be worse than if they were to find, or smell, or sense that Rejhana was there?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">No trace would have survived of the monastery, and the heads that would roll were no laughing matter either, so the brothers started anew, in even greater alarm: why are you here? do you know where you are? do you even fathom what will happen when word gets out? And she said the same thing over again, she\u2019d been cursed, and she could not bear it anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Close to midnight, Fra Jakov Durmo finally appeared. Covered in mud and scratches, his habit in tatters, a hatchet in one hand, a knife in the other. Had it been otherwise, they all would\u2019ve been surprised. On one occasion he\u2019d returned in the same state in which he\u2019d left, and Fra Serafin, feigning concern, asked him, <em>Are you getting married? No, why would I want to do that?<\/em> he replied quite matter-of-factly. It was always better not to ask Fra Jakov anything, he was like a spider using the web of another spider to hunt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Do you think he was surprised to see a woman, a Turkish woman at that, sitting by the fire in the middle of the monastery, warming her hands? Not only was he not surprised, he went straight to the hearth himself to get warm. He didn\u2019t ask her anything, nor did he ask us what she was doing there. He sat by the fire for some ten minutes, then withdrew to his cell. To make up for the prayers he\u2019d missed, as the late Fra \u0160imo would have said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The brothers begged and pleaded, they promised to lift Rejhana\u2019s curse and recommend her to the Lord God, if only she\u2019d go out and sleep in the hay barn. She\u2019d insisted on sleeping by the hearth, and gave in only after Fra Serafin told her that the uncles, as people called the brethren, could no longer be uncles if they spent the night under the same roof as a woman. They would lose their spiritual powers, and if that were to happen, Rejhana would have come in vain, they wouldn\u2019t be able to break the spell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When she finally left, Fra \u0160i\u0161ko bolted the gate and said he wouldn\u2019t open it for at least a month, even for the Emperor of Mexico. The brothers fell asleep in God\u2019s peace, but had they known that what had already happened that night was nothing compared to what was to come, they wouldn\u2019t have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When Fra Jakov Durmo didn\u2019t show up at chapel at dawn, nor later at breakfast, they first thought he\u2019d gone out earlier than usual. But then, how could the gate still be bolted shut, just as Fra \u0160i\u0161ko left it? It occurred to them that the brother might have been overcome in his sleep\u2014surely he would\u2019ve let them know if he\u2019d been taken ill\u2014so Fra Serafin and Fra Ilija ran to his cell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It was past nine o\u2019clock, the time when the fairest rays of sunshine flooded the eastern cells and aired all the trouble and malice out of them. The first thing they saw in Fra Jakov\u2019s cell were his wooden nalin clogs. Fra Jakov would take off his hobnail boots and walk around the monastery in his nalins. He said he saw people do that in Padua. He may have, but nobody else did. There they were, the clogs, in front of his bed, just as he\u2019d left them the night before. The bed was unmade, the rumples of the sleeper were visible, his habit where it ought to be, his hobnail boots on the window-sill, but Fra Jakov was nowhere to be seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In the middle of the bed stood a bird, a stately falcon, looking at them, trying to see what the brothers were doing there. Its gaze was like a human\u2019s, yet slightly reproachful. As if to say\u2014have you no shame, barging into somebody\u2019s nest like this?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Will you look at the dolt, now he\u2019s brought a bird to the monastery, grumbled Fra Serafin, and waved his arms to shoo the falcon away. The falcon did not respond, it only blinked, the way a man might blink at someone waving their hands in his face. The friar made to grab it by the neck, and the bird, instead of attacking, cocked its head, puzzled. As if to say\u2014Lord have mercy, what have His servants been reduced to, grabbing honest folks by the neck. Fra Serafin balked. Go on, Ilija, you no-good oaf, do something! I can\u2019t, my brother, don\u2019t you see how it\u2019s looking at us?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Both men left Fra Jakov\u2019s cell, leaving the window open, so the bird could fly out if it so pleased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The brothers acted as if everything was ordinary that day, as if nothing had disturbed their dreary monastic routine. They nourished their souls with the same prayers, reminding the Lord of this land which lay behind his back. Dinner was simmering, they were having cabbage and potatoes again, but also, thank God, a few grains of rice, to let everyone see how far to the East christened souls had set foot. As he did every day, Fra Ilija cleaned the pistol and the two great ugly muskets entrusted to him by Fra Grgo when he left for Padua three years before. Fra \u0160i\u0161ko decanted wine from one barrel to another in the cellar, mumbling superstitious gibberish to stave off the vinegar. They pretended the falcon wasn\u2019t there, and it strutted about like a higher-class hen, ventured into the kitchen, oversaw the lubricating of the guns, went to the chapel and stood long at the altar, staring at Jesus and Mary, sad as only those who do not see the same sight every day and appreciate the silent pain of it can be. From time to time he\u2019d take flight and wing a few laps under the low ceilings, without colliding with a wall like the pigeons and sparrows that regularly strayed in. Then it would land and strut on, step by step, slowly and with the awareness that the world is small and our community of friars smaller yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">At night it settled by the hearth, by Fra \u0160i\u0161ko\u2019s three-legged stool, and spread first one wing then the other, to warm itself better. The brothers were silent for a time, as if they were reticent to air monastery secrets before a stranger; they wouldn\u2019t even exchange glances lest they recognize the confusion and restlessness in each other\u2019s eyes or find occasion for an unseemly joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Where had hanuma Rejhana gone?<\/em> Fra Serafin broke the silence. <em>Oh, who knows, women will be women<\/em>, someone sighed in answer. <em>Is she still bewitched or has the spell worn off? Is that you asking in earnest, or just so? Just so, of course, why would I want to know, as long as she\u2019s gone. Right you are, as long as she\u2019s gone. What if she\u2019d stayed? Nothing, just like now. Right, nothing. Not something, perish the thought. So what do we do now? Why ask me? Ask the person next to you. Jakov will know when he returns. If he does! Well, I\u2019ll show him this time around, by Saint Elijah and this here cross, I\u2019ll show him . . .<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">That night the brothers did not sleep, and Fra Jakov Durmo did not return. The falcon withdrew to Jakov\u2019s cell and in all likelihood was the only one to get any sleep. It tucked its head between its wings, and made what seemed to be a huffing sound in its sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The next day Fra Serafin convened the friars. They shut the door and both windows lest the bird come in. It is three days until the guardian returns from Po\u017eega, he started. He entrusted the monastery to me, to maintain order and guard the sanctity of God\u2019s house. This will be easy so long as none of us lacks in good sense. Even if my precious moonshine still were kicked over three times, my hand would not reach for a pistol or a hanjar. This is why the guardian chose me. For my good sense . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Serafin struggled with what he wanted to say, but none of them would help him. The brothers, withdrawn, as quiet as children in catechism class, were letting him be the first to say what made no sense at all. And he held back, broke out in a sweat, and finally went on: What happened here yesterday is best forgotten. In ancient Rome they\u2019d say the Furies have arrived, in Greece they had a different word for it. I forget which. Children are taught not to open the door to strangers. I don\u2019t blame Fra \u0160i\u0161ko, we are all God\u2019s children . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra \u0160i\u0161ko sat up when his name was mentioned: <em>So, now it\u2019s all my fault.<\/em> Fra Serafin looked at him imploringly, he\u2019d have given anything for a good argument right now, but he\u2019d give even more for someone else to say what had to be said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Brothers, I believe Fra Jakov is here at the monastery; that it only seems to us that he is not<\/em>, said Fra Serafin finally. His gaze glided from one friar to the next, eyes rising like stars at late dusk, and he saw agreement there. <em>Am I right?<\/em> he asked Fra Ilija who sat directly across from him. <em>You are<\/em>, said Ilija softly, and all nodded. If someone had seen them at that moment, he would\u2019ve thought they were making fun of old grannies who sit and nod by the stove, looking forward to their last rites.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In the end everything turned out the way Fra Serafin wanted. When the guardian came back from his trip he wouldn\u2019t hear anything that could lead him to believe Fra Serafin had lost his good sense, nor would the meeting in the library be used to dog Fra Serafin until his deathbed, turning into a tale that would be passed down for as long as Kre\u0161evo and its monastery stood. Something was and wasn\u2019t said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>They were all aware that they were of the same mind. Fra Jakov Durmo had turned into a falcon.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">At any rate, they were all aware that they were of the same mind. Fra Jakov Durmo had turned into a falcon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">How this had come to pass, whether the transformation was born of good or of evil, whether it happened because Fra Jakov conversed too much with animals or because someone had given him the evil eye, the brothers weren\u2019t sure. The former would be better\u2014at least it would mean he wouldn\u2019t be spending so much time away from the monastery now, he\u2019d be more dedicated to his spiritual commitments\u2014but somehow the latter seemed more probable. If the latter was the case, then Rejhana might have had something to do with this. Who else, indeed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Serafin did not regret that Jakov had changed from one form to another, he wasn\u2019t keen on animals, a neighbor\u2019s cur bit him when he was a child, he still had the scar on his leg, so he couldn\u2019t be pleased about a friar who communed only with animals. But there was something else that worried him sorely and darkened his normally bright disposition. However leery he was of charms, enchantments, and folk superstitions, he had seen with his own eyes people who stepped into magic traps; children gone blind though nothing was the matter with their eyes; women whose milk dried up when they saw a spider on the wall; priests struck down as they exorcized the devil from youths; and he knew a thing or two about specters. He used to laugh at the Turkish belief in the karakoncolos which roamed the countryside around Christmastime preying on people, drinking their blood, until some ten years before he\u2019d traveled from Kiseljak just before Christmas Eve. Night caught up with him along the way because he\u2019d been tossing the pot at a certain Gavro Stijepi\u0107\u2019s house, whose wife had given birth to three sons at once. The boys had to be baptized, and Fra Serafin had downed a thimbleful afterward, just enough to make him afraid of getting on his horse; he went instead on foot, step by step alongside his bay. And so, in the dark of the moonless night, the creature pounced on him and clawed him all over. The skin on his face was shredded, it took time to heal, and his habit looked as if a company of Turks had been hacking at it with their scimitars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">This could only have been the karakoncolos. They all agreed, though they didn\u2019t believe in tall tales. Except for Fra Jakov, who calmly declared that, in his opinion, Fra Serafin had been attacked by a lynx, because the animal was frightened by the smell of the rakija. Look at him now\u2014if he still doesn\u2019t believe it was the karakoncolos, he should look at what he\u2019s turned into!<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It was decided that the bird would be allowed to do as it pleased, as long as its behavior was becoming for a man. If it wanted to eat at the table, let it eat at the table like everyone else. If it wanted to attend mass, let it, and let it visit the chapel whenever it pleased. But it was not to receive Holy Communion. Because nobody could be certain that Fra Jakov\u2019s soul was in the falcon, and lest it pluck the Eucharist with its beak, as the Body of Christ is not to be chewed and a beak is the same thing as teeth, concluded Fra Serafin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The brothers grew accustomed to the bird that same day. There wasn\u2019t much to adapt to anyway, because all the things Fra Jakov had done to bother them were gone. He no longer tracked in dirt when he returned from the woods, nor did he act superior as the one who left things unsaid. The bird was no mere animal getting in their way, tangling between their legs. They sensed a human soul in it, a soul wiser in every way since its move from one body to another. They\u2019d been given a better brother, yet hadn\u2019t lost the old one. This was a tangled matter, only Fra Ignacije, the famous logician from the lyceum in Visoko, would have been able to disentangle it, had he not died the year before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">They went off for their afternoon rest and contemplation feeling peace such as Fra Serafin hadn\u2019t felt since the summer before he took the cloth, when he planted a plum orchard at Plehan with a young Fra Ilija and seven other young men by day, while by night they stargazed with Fra Julian. Fra Julian was over eighty and was still completing his magnum opus, a map of the sky over Bosnia. He started it a bit late, when he was already retired, and knew nothing about astronomy; he believed every land had a different arrangement of stars and that the sky above Florence couldn\u2019t possibly be the same as the sky above Derventa. Nobody wanted to disabuse him of his notions, it is a shame and pity to stand between an old man and his sky, so they purchased him a new telescope. It arrived from Vienna a short while before Fra Serafin\u2019s summer, and there was probably no greater marvel of technology in all of Bosnia at the time. Fra Julian was as happy as a child, he hopped around, spreading his celestial papers all over the desk. His happiness lasted for days. It seemed at one point that, little by little, the whole monastery of Plehan was leaving this poor chilled Earth behind and taking off for the stars. Every night he stared through the telescope, pencil in teeth, circling from one end of the sky to the other, supposedly to acquaint himself with the swathes of sky previously concealed from him by the Paduan contraption, the primitive old telescope he\u2019d brought with him the last time he\u2019d been sent on a trip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then something happened that changed the meaning and sense of Fra Julian\u2019s story about the stars. One morning he set out across the green and stumbled over a plum sapling planted by the young men the day before. He jumped swiftly to his feet and changed direction, only to stumble over another sapling. Five or six more times he fell until someone ran over to help; the old man started wailing as if someone were flaying him alive. Out of his mouth came the crudest coachmen\u2019s curses, ones that had never been heard, not even from the most ribald of the brothers. He wriggled himself loose, started running, and stumbled yet again over a sapling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Poor Fra Julian couldn\u2019t see. Who knows when this had started. He was almost completely blind, and he\u2019d kept it a secret lest the monastery find that the sky map would never be finished. As long as the brothers thought he was working on it, he felt he was. He\u2019d learnt to move by habit and inner eye, he knew every inch of the grounds, where every single thing stood. He had counted all his steps long ago, and in a world in which nothing changes for centuries, it took a new plum orchard to catch him off guard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It was agreed that the mishap would be passed over in silence; they would encourage Fra Julian by sending him young seminarians every evening for stargazing lessons. He was overjoyed. God created the firmaments so man would have the occasion to lift up his gaze from time to time, so his head wouldn\u2019t drop, his neck twist, with ants and bugs of all kinds crawling into his nostrils, he said during the first session. The young Serafin listened, and he thought there could be no greater truth than the truth as seen by the eyes of the blind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He showed them everything to be seen in the sky, and asked: Lad, do tell. What does that star over yonder look like to you? And was amazed to hear yon star was like a drop frozen on a windowpane at night, because to him it had always been like the headwaters of Gospava stream, so tiny, one would never have thought so much radiance could emit from it, and who could imagine so much water pouring forth from the spring. During those long nocturnal sky-watching sessions there was never any awkwardness that might have invited derision about the fact that the old man could not actually see. If there was such a thing as inner peace, it was, for Fra Serafin, the peace of that summer when they planted plum saplings by day and by night learnt about stars from Fra Julian.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">This is the peace he regained as he lay on his wooden bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the falcon pegging down the hallway, to Fra Jakov Durmo tapping on the stone floor with his sharp talons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">If the story had come to its end that afternoon this would have been very good indeed; if it had, one name wouldn\u2019t have been smudged in the annals of the Kre\u0161evo monastery. But the end is never where one wants it to be; the story goes on until whatever began it all has run its course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">After two ordinary days and two peaceful nights, on the third morning, the morning of the day when the guardian would return from Po\u017eega, somebody banged again at the monastery door. Fra \u0160i\u0161ko, again, absent-mindedly hurried to open it, and there stood a man in rags, dirty, unshaven, in a sorry state. Who would you be? The friar was taken aback. What do you mean, who? Scowled the stranger. Ilija, brother, come have a look at this fellow, Fra \u0160i\u0161ko was still dazed. Yes, I see him, how could I not. What do you want, my good man?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The man looked at them in disbelief, halfway between rage and apprehension, but he also felt a pang of suspicion that they might be poking fun. The two, however, had never been more serious. Brother, would you like some bread? asked Fra Ilija. No, I would not, but I would like to come in, said the man, and the two of them took a step back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Serafin did know, he\u2019d immediately recognized Fra Jakov in this tatterdemalion. It\u2019s not as if the friar could\u2019ve changed so utterly in four days, and he\u2019d never been the picture of tidiness and cleanliness, but the brothers believed so deeply that his soul had moved to the falcon that his face meant nothing to them. They should\u2019ve been accustomed to him; this required the same effort of mind and soul as accepting that the man had become a bird.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">If nothing else, their faith was honest and deep. The Holy Father himself would have wept if he could have seen them now, thought Fra Serafin later as his anger smoldered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">At first, Fra Jakov Durmo would not say where he\u2019d been, but when they pressed him, reminded him that the monastery wasn\u2019t his property and pointed out that he might find himself looking at the gates of Kre\u0161evo from the outside for the rest of his life, he admitted he\u2019d gone with the woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I have sinned, he said, the worst possible sin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You are lying again, you\u2019re not one to be tempted by a woman, and she isn\u2019t even right for your size, she\u2019s three times your height and girth, said Fra Serafin. And then Jakov told them something that would\u2019ve been entered into the annals and remained there if only there had been a decent harvest of wheat the next year to save the mice from having to eat paper the year after that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">This is how Fra Jakov talked of his absence, spoken in his own voice: Before dawn, when the clock was soon to strike four, I heard voices under my window. One was female and human, although it wasn\u2019t saying human words, the other was the voice of a bird. They quarreled and quibbled like sisters-in-law before a wedding. You couldn\u2019t make out what the argument was about but you got the feeling they\u2019d been at this for a while, it wasn\u2019t their first fight. It\u2019s easy to spot. When people hate each other their whole lives, and God, kismet, or the fact that they\u2019re cut from the same cloth won\u2019t let them part even for a day, a higher order emerges in their hatred. They interrupt each other, yet always know whose turn it is to swear and rail; they scratch each other\u2019s eyes out, but warn the other first; they fling tin plates and morning stars at each other, if they have a morning star handy, but in such a way that the other is just able to avoid being hurt. Similar order exists among animals. When a he-wolf pounces on a she-wolf to rip her throat out, or when a village dog lunges at the spine of an animal\u2014one seeming sure to be killed\u2014neither is hurt. They crouch at the ends of the den licking their wounds, but they are so close, their tails might touch and they know they wouldn\u2019t have it any other way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>When people hate each other their whole lives, and God, kismet, or the fact that they\u2019re cut from the same cloth won\u2019t let them part even for a day, a higher order emerges in their hatred.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And so I listen to them, wide awake, the fog in my head clearing, as if I\u2019d never been sleeping at all. And I think to myself, what is the matter with the woman, why doesn\u2019t she speak human language? I know she isn\u2019t mute, for if she were, even the bird would avoid her. Words probably fled her tongue after overlong conversation, so I get up for a glimpse, and what do I see? Under my window a woman, enough flesh on her to hew out a pair of mighty warriors, flailing her arms, flushed, about to burst, and a falcon flying around her, lunging at her face. It is a nice, plump bird, you can tell it has never lived in want. But still, some trouble has driven it to talk this way, this long, to the woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">So I say to them, <em>could you keep it down? The servants of God will be missing their sleep!<\/em> Just to see if the woman has actually forgotten the language of humans and to pepper the argument with a little humor. And she lifts up her head, almost burns a hole in me with those eyes of hers, and swings, hitting the bird. The falcon hops back and falls silent, it understands that now is not its time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Anyway, she tells me not to play the fool, we have sat by the hearth together, her name is Rejhana and she will not leave the monastery until we rid her of the bird\u2019s curse. <em>Why us, why not see a hod\u017ea?<\/em> She says she\u2019s been, and he told her there was nothing he could do, there was nothing in his books about bird curses and spells, but the friars might know, their books had all manner of idle talk in them. <em>Will you look at the hod\u017ea! Not half crazy, is he! Got rid of the pesky woman, besmirched the cross.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">She says, <em>come on down, I\u2019ll tell you what happened.<\/em> I say, <em>how am I supposed to come down at this hour, what will the uncles think?<\/em> She says, <em>come down before I make you \u2019cause if I do you ain\u2019t gonna be climbing up no more.<\/em> So down I come, what else can I do? From the window, yes, how else? Yes, I did forget my habit, but it\u2019s not as if I would\u2019ve needed it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">So there she is before me, taller than a stack of hay, the falcon next to her like a good-sized chicken, but as pretty as no human ever could be. And so they stand, and you, Jakov, go ahead and judge between them!<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>All right<\/em>, I say, <em>let\u2019s hear it<\/em>. <em>But no lies, I don\u2019t want your companion to claw my eyes out later.<\/em> And, by God, did Rejhana talk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When she turned fifteen she was the prettiest girl in the village, second to none in three neighboring villages. On all of Mt Bjela\u0161nica, as far as the eye could see, among the clans of Brutus, Hrvat, and Krd\u017ealija, there was no such beauty. All who saw her fought over her, men would run home to father sons, hoping someday she\u2019d be their bride. Potatoes rotted in root cellars, cattle perished in barns, wolves broke into pens, but the men didn\u2019t care. The festival of Rejhana\u2019s beauty lasted a long night, and more sons were conceived on Bjela\u0161nica that year than the previous and following years combined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">But as beauty and good sense do not go hand in hand, and girls at that age have no peace of mind, Rejhana was all a mad dash. She would run off from home, sleep in the snow, shelter in bear dens, run her hands through their bear fur and wreak havoc in their ursine dreams. She says she learnt what every bear on all of Mt Bjela\u0161nica was dreaming, and that bears are as different from one another as humans are. Some sleep restfully, others wake at the first thaw, more tired than when they went to sleep. When she wasn\u2019t with the bears, she\u2019d chase rabbits or climb the highest cliff to see Stamboul from afar. She thought one could see the distances from such a height, and longed for a young muezzin to look toward Mt Bjela\u0161nica from the highest minaret in Stamboul, see her, and fall in love. Or for the Sultan\u2019s sons to cast a quick glance from the highest tower in the city, then come and whisk her away. This is what poor Rejhana believed was to happen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Once she was climbing up a cliff and was about to hop from one rock to another; she reached for a crag when something snatched at her little finger. It snatched her finger, and bit the pinky right off. She saw the blood gush, and thought the princes and the young muezzins would never want her like this, and a great rage welled up inside her, the kind of rage that makes the human soul shrink into the smallest speck, into a dazzling ray of sunshine sharper than a scimitar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Rejhana looked up to see who\u2019d done this and spotted the falcon with three chicks. The she-falcon was away. As she glared at the falcon\u2019s nest, it caught fire. The falcon flew around its young in circles, but there was no way to save them. They burnt in a terrible grief, the grief of offspring who believe the all-powerful parent has no wish to help. There is no difference in this regard between Jesus on the cross, the falcon chicks, and the tiniest of ants who know their father and their mother. You remain a child until you understand that your father is powerless. If you live to understand this, you are someone\u2019s father yourself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Rejhana doesn\u2019t know how she knew the falcon had cursed her, but she knew it at once. She returned home and never again roamed the mountain, her finger healed and soon enough one could barely see it was missing, but from that day forward she began to lose her beauty. First she grew fatter, her breasts swelled up like those of the plumpest new mother, her hips broadened, and her voice coarsened. Her nose was like a sizeable potato, ears like a man\u2019s, hair covered her body, and ultimately she grew a beard. She smelled like a bitch in heat, and her closest kin kept her at arm\u2019s length.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Like a man who\u2019d carried a sacrificial lamb on his shoulder for three days from one side of the mountain to the other and finally dropped it at the feet of the master of the house, so poor Rejhana sweated and stank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then, after all this happened, and after it became clear that the lowliest pauper in the realm wouldn\u2019t take her, the falcon came for the first time to her house. It is then that the conversation, which had been going on for three years now, started; she hadn\u2019t learnt bird-speech, but she did learn bird curses, quarrels, and imprecations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And so it was that she came to the monastery at Kre\u0161evo so we could rid her of the curse, and beguile the falcon into forgiving her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">A tall order, I tell her, difficult even for the great Lord God, if you don\u2019t believe He runs the world of animals by the same laws and customs He uses to run the world of men. I do believe that, says she. And I hold my tongue, what else can I do, it\u2019s not mine to judge whether someone does or doesn\u2019t believe, I must act as if everyone believes, and Rejhana will soon learn the reach of her faith, because one cannot fool God and his desperate children in times of distress, whether they fly, or only walk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The falcon would stay at the monastery in my stead, everything would be as if I were here, my brothers wouldn\u2019t notice the difference, and I should do what is good and just. And if it is just, and if hanuma Rejhana has faith, the falcon would halal her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">So Rejhana and I leave for Bjela\u0161nica. I tell her to take me to the cliff where she set the falcon\u2019s nest alight with her gaze. If she can\u2019t remember which cliff it was, she should try to give more thought to this before we get there, for the whole effort is in vain if she takes me to a different cliff. She says she knows and has no need to think, because she could never mistake that cliff for another. How could she forget the place where she committed zulum against the falcon? Such things, if they don\u2019t etch themselves on the mind, are remembered by the soul. Not many walk the Earth who have committed zulum and have forgotten where, against whom, and how. God has arranged things so that it will not be forgotten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It took us two days to reach the foot of the cliff, and another to climb the face. There were no traces of a nest on the gray stone. I say, do you know what the nest was made of, how it was made? She says, I do, I\u2019ve seen hundreds like it. Good, walk around, gather twigs, knead mud with your spit, and when you run out, the moisture from your armpits will do. I can\u2019t be of help because the nest must smell of you and each twig must be brought by your hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">By the time I\u2019d smoked two pipes of tobacco, the nest was done. We came down the mountain faster than we\u2019d climbed up, she left for her village, and here I am now before you, uncles, brothers. Do what you have to do, you may believe I\u2019ve done a good deed and rid you of great distress, or that I\u2019ve lost my wits. What you may not say, nor will any of you ever so much as murmur behind my back, is that I committed the sin of fornication. I already lied to you that I\u2019d fornicated, but you didn\u2019t believe me, though I\u2019d rather you thought of me as a sinner than a fool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">As Fra Jakov Durmo wrapped up his confession, all eyes turned to Fra Serafin. As if to say, it is up to you to judge, before the guardian returns from his trip. And he stands there, silent, ten lives\u2019 worth of bitterness welling inside him, and he doesn\u2019t know which is worse\u2014what he\u2019s just heard, what is expected of him, or what might happen when the guardian returns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Where is the wretched bird? Bring me the bird! he shouted, and the brothers scurried off through the monastery to find the falcon. Only Fra Jakov remained sitting. He smiled glumly, looking Fra Serafin straight in the eye. The falcon is gone, homeward bound. It has a place to mourn now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Having said that, Fra Jakov began to weep. He buried his face in his palms, and his palms were as big as the biggest shovel, the kind heartless landlords give their underpaid servants. Meanwhile they\u2019d be thinking themselves to be clean before God, they\u2019d pay for every hundred shovelfuls with a crust of bread, as if God didn\u2019t know and couldn\u2019t see that a dozen normal human shovelfuls could fit into one of their shovels. This is how big Fra Jakov Durmo\u2019s palms were. His tears ran down the gullies of his palm lines, rinsing the dust and mud. If there was, by any chance, an ant lodged there, it drowned in the friar\u2019s tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The brothers couldn\u2019t find the bird that had been there only a moment before, and Fra Serafin suddenly seemed to have forgotten what was on his mind, what had been discussed, and what he was to pass judgement on. He said the guardian must be welcomed back to a clean-swept and scrubbed monastery; that he left friars behind when he set out, he was not to find pigs in their place when he came back; Fra Serafin couldn\u2019t allow any such thing, his honor was at stake, and so he sent the men to sweep and scrub.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Something is out of kilter in your mind. Or your soul. Or partway between. Something is awry for sure. You will go to your cell and rest until further notice. If the guardian asks, you will confirm. You can\u2019t sleep at night, you hear voices where there are none, you\u2019ve lost your appetite. This is what you shall do, God help you if you should do otherwise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Durmo lay down on his bed and there he stayed for three months, until the matter faded into the past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">They told the guardian some things, kept others to themselves, but what they did tell him was enough to wreak havoc in his mind. At first he thought something evil had transpired, which they were trying\u2014but, why?\u2014to conceal. Then they looked like children who\u2019d spilled the milk and told their mother they\u2019d drunk it. Finally, he summoned Fra Serafin to his cell and told him: this is your one and only chance! You may now tell me what manner of bird it is that went to Mass and visited the monastery with your permission. Was it a human bird, since you discoursed with it so nicely, and if so, why does Ilija refer to it as \u201cthe bird\u201d when christened souls have their own names though they aren\u2019t supposed to have wings? What did \u0160i\u0161ko mean when he said it flew daintily, without brushing the walls with its wings? Tell me, were the lot of you guzzling rotgut and losing your mind for three days? Why did you have the place scrubbed? What filth are you hiding from me? Who did the Turks send to rob the monastery? I hear it was a hanuma. Or was it perhaps a bird? And why has only Jakov taken ill, while all the others talk gibberish, yet somehow they\u2019re supposed to be sane? Go on, explain that! If you don\u2019t, and I hear of it ever again, God help you, Serafin! Let it be as if nothing happened, because I will not suffer you to make a fool of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fra Serafin kept silent and now and then he sighed. Every time he was about to speak, his thoughts would trip over a bit of nonsense, something he couldn\u2019t say without first preparing the guardian, so he\u2019d heave another sigh and start thinking of how to do this, but then these thoughts would lead to another bit of nonsense that could only produce yet another sigh. Nothing but sighful silence remained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">That silence was to be recounted and remembered for another hundred years, which is how long it took for the story to reach me, and for me to furtively write it down. Furtively, I say, because it had been told and passed on among friars as a joke at their own expense. Or as a joke about the olden days when friars were able to think that a human soul could move into a falcon, and when a falcon, a bird almost extinct in our parts now and wary of everything that walks on two legs, could peacefully strut through the hallways of a Franciscan monastery. I\u2019ve not been able to think of the story of the wondrous life of Fra Jakov Durmo\u2014the friar whose name is not to be mentioned\u2014as a joke, nor can I laugh at Fra Serafin\u2019s silence and sighs. So please forgive my lack of humor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And let us move on to the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Nothing more was ever heard of Rejhana, and it is not known if the falcon ever forgave her and left her in peace, or if her beauty ever returned. She was never discussed again, not before the guardian nor before Fra Serafin. The brothers never mentioned her among themselves, although it is hard to believe a day ever went by without them thinking of her. Some wondered forever whether Fra Jakov had made fools of them, fabricated the whole story just to have an excuse for those few days of absence. They never stopped weighing, calculating, and examining what he\u2019d told them, never ceased searching for explanations for the unusual events in books. Others couldn\u2019t forgive him for dragging them into his animal world, if only for a day or two, leading them to see a human soul in a feathered creature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">After months of penitence, when he\u2019d had to feign madness although he was sane and lie that he couldn\u2019t get a moment\u2019s sleep at night even though he slept like a Bjela\u0161nica bear, Fra Jakov returned to the forest and its creatures. Again he took to leaving at dawn and returning long after nightfall, but he never told anyone about whom he met, what he saw, or what creature he discoursed with on any given day. And the brothers were not overly inquisitive. The only thing that could soften him and make him talk was when Fra Serafin asked if he\u2019d perchance come upon a lynx. Fra Jakov Durmo would find his tongue and start at length about the great cat from his forests that had lived there long before the men of the three faiths bred to excess, and when they did, how the cat reproduced less and less, frightened by the humans, although it was stronger and more nimble, so now it was on its way out, and if the friars of Saint Francis didn\u2019t help, the cat would be no more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Thus Fra Jakov spoke about the last thing he wanted to talk about with humans. Fra Serafin just listened, nodding from time to time, gliding with his fingertip down the scar on his neck left by the karakoncolos, thinking of how weak his faith must be; after all these years, he\u2019d like nothing better than to argue about whether he\u2019d been attacked that drunken night by a lynx or by a specter from Turkish superstition. Fra Jakov believed one thing, the other friars believed another, and Fra Serafin was forever partway between. He would write about them in the annals, and feed Fra Jakov\u2019s name to the mice, blotch it with ink, and coax the monastery tom into smudging it on the page with his wet paw. And the next chronicler would do the same, until Fra Jakov Durmo departed from this world, still in love with Rejhana\u2019s unseen beauty.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>&#8220;Zulum&#8221; by Miljenko Jergovi\u0107, co-translated by Ellen Elias-Bursa\u0107 and Mirza Puri\u0107 Djevojka sokolu zulum u\u010dinila \/ A maiden did a falcon harm The word &#8220;zulum&#8221; means injustice and violence. The falcon, which was assailed by terror, its nest burnt, retaliates while keeping with its nature. There were, I believe, times when even birds were not [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1546,"featured_media":316427,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[5557,63],"tags":[690,5660,507,5577,121,5702,30],"class_list":["post-316392","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lit-mags","category-recommended-reading","tag-animals","tag-european","tag-folklore","tag-recommended-reading","tag-religion","tag-rural","tag-translation"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin 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Memoirs That Complicate the Story of Filipino America"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The first known Filipino American memoir, Carlos Bulosan&#8217;s <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780143134039\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">America Is in the Heart<\/a><\/em>, was published in 1946. The next wouldn&#8217;t appear on the American literary landscape for nearly 60 years. Then, starting around 2018, something shifted: a surge of memoir and hybrid writing by Filipino American writers that hasn&#8217;t slowed down since. <\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781636284934\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"600\" height=\"900\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-10.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316208\" style=\"width:300px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-10.png 600w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-10-200x300.png 200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">What connects this body of work across eight decades is a persistent refusal of easy narrative, though that refusal doesn&#8217;t always look the same. Sometimes it breaks the page apart, other times the refusal stays inside a single, conventional sentence, in a writer who won&#8217;t let race, gender, or genre hold still long enough to resolve into one shape. The form is the argument, whether that argument unfolds in fragments or simply refuses, page after measured page, to settle into one. My own hybrid memoir, <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781636284934\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Mud on the Moon<\/a><\/em>, moves between memoir and a fictionalized reimagining of my father\u2019s unspoken history: his arrival in the US in 1928, the same era that opens this list.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In 2021 I wrote the memoir installment for <em><a href=\"https:\/\/sk.sagepub.com\/ency\/edvol\/the-sage-encyclopedia-of-filipinx-american-studies\/front-matter\/i893#_\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">The SAGE Encyclopedia of Filipina\/x\/o American Studies<\/a><\/em>, the first encyclopedia of its kind, mapping this tradition from Bulosan forward. This list continues that work: Eight essential Filipino American memoirs and hybrid works, spanning 1946 to 2026, that trace a literary tradition that has been formally radical all along and is only now getting the recognition it deserves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780143134039\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780143134039\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">America Is in the Heart<\/a><\/em> by Carlos Bulosan<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Carlos Bulosan&#8217;s <em>America Is in the Heart<\/em>, published by Harcourt Brace in 1946, is widely considered the first Filipino American memoir, though Bulosan himself called it fiction. The book chronicles his childhood in the Philippines, his journey to the United States, and the prejudice, poverty, and violence he and other Filipino migrant laborers endured working the fields and canneries of the rural West during the Depression. Bulosan blends autobiography with composite, fictionalized scenes built from the lives of the men around him, a choice that let him tell a truth no single life could contain. Eight decades later, that blurring between memoir and invention still runs through every book on this list.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9781632060242\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781632060242\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">The Body Papers<\/a><\/em> by Grace Talusan <\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Grace Talusan&#8217;s <em>The Body Papers<\/em>, winner of the Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing, circles rather than marches through her life, organizing chapters around the recurring subject of the body: her own, her family&#8217;s, the Philippines itself. Weaving immigration papers, medical records, and family photographs directly into the prose as structural material, Talusan narrates her childhood immigration to a white New England suburb, years of undocumented status, childhood sexual abuse, and a hereditary cancer diagnosis. The book never resolves into a single arc of triumph; instead, memories loop back on themselves, retrieving and recontextualizing what came before, mirroring how memory itself actually works.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780525561323\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"> <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780525561323\"><strong><em>Fairest<\/em><\/strong> <\/a> by Meredith Talusan<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Meredith Talusan&#8217;s <em>Fairest<\/em>, published by Viking in 2020, is the most conventionally narrated memoir on this list, and that&#8217;s almost the point. Talusan recounts her childhood as a boy with albinism in the rural Philippines, perceived there as white, through her education at Harvard and her gradual transition into living as a woman. Her prose moves in clear, linear sentences, but the self it describes won&#8217;t stay fixed: Race, gender, and class all shift depending on who&#8217;s looking and where she&#8217;s standing. <em>Fairest<\/em> proves that the refusal of easy narrative doesn&#8217;t require fragmenting the page; sometimes a life that won&#8217;t fit into one category is argument enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<script src=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/widgets.js\" data-type=\"featured\" data-full-info=\"true\" data-affiliate-id=\"269\" data-sku=\"9780063230149\"><\/script>\n\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780063230149\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Nervous<\/a><\/em><\/strong> by Jen Soriano<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Jen Soriano&#8217;s <em>Nervous<\/em> is built around a provocation: What if chronic pain is not a personal failure but an archive? As the daughter of a Filipino neurosurgeon who told her to &#8220;tough it out,&#8221; Soriano rejects the rigid model of the nervous system in favor of something more organic, what she calls &#8220;an album of waterways.&#8221; The book\u2019s 14 essays blend science, history, and lyric prose across her own body, her family&#8217;s history, and the Philippines&#8217; centuries of colonial trauma. Drawing on neuroscience, epigenetics, and indigenous resistance movements, she traces how intergenerational trauma is inherited through story, memory, and the body&#8217;s own biology. Healing, for Soriano, is never individual: activism is relational therapy, collective ritual. The book ends where the metaphor began, on the rivers of the Philippines, tracing water as a map of inherited trauma and showing what healing requires of all of us.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781662510618\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"324\" height=\"500\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-9.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316206\" style=\"width:230px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-9.png 324w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-9-194x300.png 194w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 324px) 100vw, 324px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781662510618\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">A Way Home<\/a><\/em> by Cinelle Barnes<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In <em>A Way Home<\/em>, Cinelle Barnes is writing a travelogue in a cafe, piecing together a journey back to the Philippines after a 20-year separation, when a ruptured brain aneurysm erases her memories, her sense of self, and her connection to her husband, daughter, and her own past. What follows is a memoir of recovery that alternates between travel writing and dispatches from recovery: medical narratives, the backstory of her adoption and immigration to America when she was young, her undocumented years in the US, and her reclamation of her Filipino identity on her own terms. Barnes writes to practice what she calls &#8220;re-membering,&#8221; stitching together the self through flashbacks, immigrant heartache, and the slow return to wholeness. At its heart, Barnes finds home in the tending of the self and others.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9781770462779\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"565\" height=\"353\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-11.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316215\" style=\"width:300px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-11.png 565w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-11-300x187.png 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 565px) 100vw, 565px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/p\/books\/one-hundred-demons-lynda-barry\/93bb2759dff54569?ean=9781770462779&amp;affiliate=269\">One! Hundred! Demons!<\/a><\/em> by Lynda Barry<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Lynda Barry, an award-winning cartoonist and MacArthur fellow, coined the term &#8220;autobifictionalography&#8221; for her graphic memoir <em>One! Hundred! Demons!<\/em>, published in 2002. In 17 full-color comic vignettes structured on a 16th century Zen exercise of painting one&#8217;s demons, Barry confronts the moments that shaped her: the worst boyfriend, a lost childhood friend, the textures and folklore of her immigrant family, race, sex, and death. Her introduction asks outright whether autobiography can hold fiction and fiction can hold truth. The book is part memoir, part creative guide, image and word working as one to render a self that refuses to sit still inside a single genre.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.alibris.com\/search\/books\/isbn\/9780803243415\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"400\" height=\"533\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-7.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316195\" style=\"width:240px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-7.png 400w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-7-225x300.png 225w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.alibris.com\/search\/books\/isbn\/9780803243415\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Sleep in Me<\/a><\/em> by Jon Pineda <\/h4>\n\n\n<aside class=\"related-content-block alignright no-title\">\n    \t\t\t\t\t<article class=\"post-box\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/albert-samaha-book-memoir-concepcion\/\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-info\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<h2>This Filipino American Memoir Confronts Privilege, Sacrifice, and Colonialism&#8217;s Legacy<\/h2>\n\t\t\t\t\t<!-- <p>Albert Samaha examines centuries of family history from pre-colonial Philippines to Trump-era America in his memoir \"Concepcion\"<\/p> -->\n<!-- temp without tags -->\n\t\t\t\t\t<p>Albert Samaha examines centuries of family history from pre-colonial Philippines to Trump-era America in his memoir &#8220;Concepcion&#8221;<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-lower\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\tOct 13\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t&#8211; <span>Meredith Talusan<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-image\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span class=\"post-box-category\">interviews\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<!-- blah -->\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-768x576.jpg\" class=\"attachment-medium_large size-medium_large wp-post-image\" alt=\"\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-768x576.jpg 768w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-1024x768.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-600x450.jpg 600w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/rj-joquico-rMeo_4lBqiM-unsplash-1-scaled-e1634156152505.jpg 1067w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\" \/>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/article>\n\n\t<\/aside>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Jon Pineda&#8217;s <em>Sleep in Me<\/em>, published in 2010 by University of Nebraska Press, reads less like a plotted memoir than a sequence of poems that have shed the boundaries of their form. Pineda, a poet first, narrates his boyhood and teenage years against the backdrop of his older sister&#8217;s catastrophic car accident, which leaves her unable to walk or speak for the five years before her death. His lens widens beyond his own grief to his mother&#8217;s tireless years of caregiving and his largely absent father, the family reorganizing itself around a tragedy that touches every member differently. It\u2019s not just the structure that won\u2019t settle into something tidy, it\u2019s the language itself, straining toward what can&#8217;t quite be said even as the chapters move steadily forward in time.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-full is-resized\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.patrickrosal.com\/atang\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\" noopener\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"432\" height=\"503\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-8.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-316205\" style=\"width:235px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-8.png 432w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/image-8-258x300.png 258w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 432px) 100vw, 432px\" \/><\/a><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.patrickrosal.com\/atang\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\"><strong><em>Atang<\/em><\/strong><\/a> by Patrick Rosal<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Self-published in 2021 on the quincentenary of Lapu-Lapu&#8217;s victory over Magellan, Patrick Rosal\u2019s <em>Atang<\/em> is a book-length essay built from fragments: poetry, prayer, collage, photographs, song, history, and memory. The acclaimed poet uses the form of an altar, an object made for offering and listening, to address colonialism, family, love, and loss, treating the dead as collaborators in the writing itself. True to the spirit of the book, Rosal released it for free, with no ISBN or retail distribution; readers can find it through his website. Of all the books here, Atang pushes hardest against the idea of what a memoir, or even a book, has to be.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The first known Filipino American memoir, Carlos Bulosan&#8217;s America Is in the Heart, was published in 1946. The next wouldn&#8217;t appear on the American literary landscape for nearly 60 years. Then, starting around 2018, something shifted: a surge of memoir and hybrid writing by Filipino American writers that hasn&#8217;t slowed down since. What connects this [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7109,"featured_media":316244,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[5647],"tags":[6494,240],"class_list":["post-316143","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reading-list","tag-filipino-writer","tag-memoir"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>8 Memoirs That Complicate the Story of Filipino America - Electric Literature<\/title>\n<meta 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Lists"],"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/8-memoirs-that-complicate-the-story-of-filipino-america\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/8-memoirs-that-complicate-the-story-of-filipino-america\/","url":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/8-memoirs-that-complicate-the-story-of-filipino-america\/","name":"8 Memoirs That Complicate the Story of Filipino America - Electric Literature","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/8-memoirs-that-complicate-the-story-of-filipino-america\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/8-memoirs-that-complicate-the-story-of-filipino-america\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/09\/isawred-M3cVnW0TG1U-unsplash-scaled-e1789054809158.jpg","datePublished":"2026-09-18T11:05:00+00:00","description":"Spanning eight decades, these writers use unconventional forms to explore migration, family, gender, grief, and 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Lost Myself When I Lost Hong Kong"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">You\u2019re Here Too by Tiffany Huang<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In Shanghai, I told myself I found my future husband while wandering past the mottled bark of plane trees under spring canopies in the French Concession. He was a Chinese American on vacation from San Diego; I was on a business trip while living in Hong Kong. We had attended the same university in the midwest a decade prior. I was starved for love after five years of failed attempts, so every coincidence felt like fate. He emerged from the shadows of a dimly lit hotel lobby in a collared shirt and slicked back hair. He was gregarious and made for easy company. On our second date, I felt an urge to flee at dinner, overwhelmed by his overeagerness and interruptions, but stayed. Was it so bad that someone was excited to date me? I let him drunkenly plant his lips on mine in a bar called The Odd Couple.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">A few months into our relationship, it seemed the best way to close the long distance was for me to move back to America. It was 2019, and Hong Kong\u2019s pro-independence protests had been intensifying for months. I remember the heat emitting from millions of strangers\u2019 bodies as we marched down Des Voeux Central Road. I attended the protests because I grew up in Taiwan. Hong Kong was our brother, and we were bound by the shared desire for our ways of life to be left undisturbed. Home was not a physical location, but a delicate set of historical conditions that made both places possible yet constantly under threat. I clung to a fragile sense of belonging, but now had to face the idea of leaving. The government ignored every peaceful demonstration against an extradition bill that allowed China to seize anyone they deemed a suspect, only halting its passage after protesters stormed past rubber bullets into the legislative building.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>Home was not a physical location, but a delicate set of historical conditions that made both places possible yet constantly under threat.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Around the same time, the Covid-19 pandemic began to spread, and Hong Kong\u2019s rules conveniently ratcheted up to constrict the population. As summer broke, the last Tiananmen vigil ever took place in Victoria Park, where a woman\u2019s sterile voice recording warned that we were violating social distancing rules. Weeks later, Hong Kong passed the National Security Law, rendering all protests illegal. People scrambled to snatch up the final issue of the beloved newspaper <em>Apple Daily<\/em>. Months later, its founder, Jimmy Lai, was arrested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It wasn\u2019t easy for my boyfriend to find a job in Hong Kong, not that he tried very hard. Mid- to senior-level roles increasingly required fluent Mandarin; my conversations with him were mostly in English. Hong Kong was no longer &#8220;Asia&#8217;s world city,&#8221; as presented on airport posters, but an entity that served China. Multinational corporations were leaving, spooked by civil unrest and China\u2019s influence over the island. My employer slowly migrated executives into two offices in Singapore and Shanghai. We were told not to post about the protests on our social media. In an instant, the line between our private and public lives disappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Winter came. Group gatherings were capped at two and sick people were whisked off to the wilderness of Penny&#8217;s Bay for a 21-day quarantine. If one wasn\u2019t physically ill, they were mentally ill. Paranoia abounded. If two people met at a cafe and ran into a friend, was that illegal? The city mandated everyone to check into public establishments with the LeaveHomeSafe app, but it felt like surveillance instead of safety, and people asked for paper forms so they could provide aliases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I reluctantly accepted the idea of returning to America. I was luckier than the youth of Hong Kong, who felt hopeless about their future. I didn\u2019t know how to say I couldn\u2019t bear to part with my bohemian life by the northeastern shores of the city, the garlic vermicelli served in scallop shells on weekends in Sai Kung, and the shores quietly stroking the edges of public parks during late night raves. Most importantly, I had an active life as a writer in Hong Kong, publishing zines with friends and running writing workshops. I told myself the price of finding love was that I must leave my home, even as\u2014or perhaps because\u2014it was disappearing.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">On my last night in Hong Kong, the universe conspired for me to meet you, a stranger, for the first and only time. As the proverbial curtains were drawn, I glimpsed into what my future could be if I were to stay. In the end, I still left.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">My last day in Hong Kong was like any other. The sky was white as I walked up the steps to a sleepy street overlooking the city. Holiday shoppers huddled in their coats while nursing hot coffees. Their steps mingled with the bounce of basketballs on a court nearby. They would wake up to another uneventful day, but my world was ending tomorrow. I was in despair.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">While running final errands, I stepped into a bookstore packed with people crowding around the narrow walkways between tables of books. Post-its with pro-independence messages like \u201cpersevere\u201d and \u201cwill you stand up to fight for Hong Kong?\u201d covered the walls. I walked to the register.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cSorry to bother. I\u2019m looking for a gift for my boyfriend\u2019s mother,\u201d I said in Mandarin from under my facemask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You looked up at me in silver-rimmed glasses. \u201cWhat does she like?\u201d Your words were muffled behind your own mask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cI\u2019m not sure . . . she\u2019s Shanghainese.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cMaybe she\u2019ll like Eileen Chang.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I&#8217;m embarrassed to admit this is how I learned about one of the most famous modern Chinese writers, but you didn&#8217;t judge my confusion. \u201cFollow me,\u201d you said, and we climbed up the narrow creaky stairs that led to the second level of the bookshop. You pulled a thick book with a cream cover out of a plywood bookcase and handed it to me. You had long fingers and pink palms sticking out from beneath a navy blue sweater. You looked like the kind of guy a girl dreams of meeting in a bookstore.&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>My world was ending tomorrow. I was in despair.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">As we walked down the stairs, you told me you were publishing a novel soon. \u201cI also like to write,\u201d I said as you handed me my change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cReally?\u201d you asked. \u201cWhat are you doing later? Maybe we can talk about writing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cOh, yeah, I can be free,\u201d I said quickly before catching myself. We decided to meet at the bookstore at 6:00 PM. I panicked. Was this a date? Maybe we would just talk about writing? I realized even if it was a date, my answer would not change. I suppressed the small burst of excitement in my heart and met friends before the sun went down, then returned to the bookstore under the yellow sidewalk lights, 21 hours before my flight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You were closing up shop and asked me to wait a few minutes before re-emerging with a scarf around your neck. \u201cAre you hungry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cOh,\u201d I said. \u201cYeah, I could eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThere\u2019s a dumpling store nearby, is that okay with you? My place is around here, so we can order dumplings and eat on my rooftop?\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">We stood next to each other outside the dumpling shop, awkward. You pulled your scarf off your neck. I asked if you had any favorite flavors. \u201cThe normal ones,\u201d you said. I asked if you were hungry. \u201cThe normal amount,\u201d you said. Chinese is a language that embodies ambiguity, leaving a world of interpretation beneath the words. I suggested soup dumplings and potstickers. You ordered eight of each. I continued to know nothing about you, including what dumplings you liked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You took me to your rooftop with the handles of the plastic bags looped through your fingers. The elevator was white and the floor buttons lit up in orange. We waited patiently side by side in silence. Your sweater hung off your shoulders. The elevator opened at the top floor, and we walked towards a warmly lit rooftop with a table and chairs on a cloudless night. We sat across from each other, and the mountains stacked majestically behind you like an amphitheater.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You unmasked for the first time, revealing smooth cheeks, a sharp chin, and a long nose. You talked about your book, in progress for several years now, about a Hong Kong man drifting aimlessly around the world. I asked you how you felt about the protests and noted the resignation in your tone. You wanted to write a book about what it meant to be a man from Hong Kong; if Hong Kong disappeared, what would happen to the man? You told me about your family, and it was clear we were not meeting to talk about writing anymore. When you spoke, you chose your words carefully. You didn\u2019t ask me about my boyfriend, only how I felt about returning to America. When I hesitated, you did not ask why, and when I spoke, you listened instead of interrupting me. I didn\u2019t want to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">We spoke in Mandarin for hours, and I realized I had never dated a man from Hong Kong, Taiwan, or China before\u2014only the British-born Chinese who unceremoniously left me to live in Vietnam, the Egyptian guy who cheated, the Dutch guy who returned to his ex, and the Jewish guy whose flat I frequented after midnight. Why did I assume for so long that I would not have enough in common with someone from Hong Kong? I hadn\u2019t seen the possibility until now. Perhaps my dating woes were due to my own small-mindedness. Now, on my final night, I got to peek outside the bubble I blew for myself. Was it any coincidence I didn\u2019t know Eileen Chang? Had I wasted the last five years? When you spoke to me in the language of my parents, it felt like an act of intimacy. Twice, you asked when I would be back. I told you I would return by summer. I was still trying to get my Hong Kong permanent residency, which required that I enter the island once every six months.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">We left your apartment and wandered through the empty streets. Neon reds, greens, and yellows bled onto the shiny black asphalt. We walked past the meat and fruit stalls next to Sai Ying Pun station. You told me about your adventures in South America. We skirted the sidewalks next to the Hong Kong trolleys slumbering in their depot. Our steps traced past the row of dried seafood shops near the seaports. You told me your favorite director was Wong Kar-wai. At times, I could feel the fabric of your clothes and your breath on my shoulder. Before we parted, you said, \u201cLet me know if you want to hang out tomorrow.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I reached home before 11:00 PM, wishing I had stayed longer. Shortly after I opened my door, you texted me. \u201cIt\u2019s really nice to meet you, take care and all that.\u201d I shared my Instagram profile and asked for yours, but you had no social media. In a culture of hyperproductivity, you used a brick phone.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The following morning, I was out running errands all day, selling one last piece of furniture and cleaning the apartment, which had returned to bare white walls. I almost texted you several times but held back. There was no point. You texted me in Chinese two hours before my flight took off. \u201cI hope everything goes smoothly for you when you return this time and that you have a wonderful life. If you come back to Hong Kong in June, let\u2019s grab a meal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">My throat tightened when I checked in at the counter. This was my last sliver of Hong Kong, but it was an austere send-off all the way to the gate. All the shops once brimming with life were shuttered, and a small walkway formed between two blockades. Some travelers wore white hazmat suits and plastic face shields. Reality hit and I began to sob as I walked down the plane. Two minutes after sitting down, I hid my face in my palm. I was losing so much that I would never get back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Fifteen minutes before the flight took off, I responded. \u201cThank you, it was really nice getting to know you. If you ever need any help on your book, ask me anytime. I have a lot of respect for you and your work. See you in June.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThank you. If you need any help, ask me too.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Looking forward to your return.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You were a man of words, so I wondered if you isolated the second line for emphasis. For a moment, I imagined myself stepping foot into a red taxi to zip into the city again or sitting across from you in a cha chaan teng cafe booth. When the plane took off, I couldn\u2019t tell if the pangs in my chest were from the change in air pressure or my profound sadness. Any bystander would have said I was on a lifeboat out of the Titanic, saved by my blue passport, but if that was the case, why did I feel like I was drowning?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When I started telling my American friends I moved to San Diego, they were quick to express envy. There was sunshine, nature, and plenty of distance between humans, but that very last thing was killing me. I was totally disconnected from the world.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">There were novel experiences. My boyfriend and I wiped our Trader Joe\u2019s groceries down with Clorox wipes. He drove me around in his two Teslas while wearing Allbirds shoes, both products famous for their lack of taste. We tried the maple bacon donuts at Sidecar, but the sugar didn\u2019t liven me. I was a ghost in someone else\u2019s home. My boyfriend was unemployed, so we were living in the basement of his parents\u2019 house. His parents stayed on the top floor and his brother lived across the hall from us. I felt cloistered and started looking for therapists. I got two for good measure and asked one of them, \u201cHow do I know if I want something?\u201d She cocked her head and studied me from two screens away, perplexed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">My boyfriend started saying, \u201cAmerica is the best country in the world,\u201d even though we were very far from the fourth of July. He said it at least once a month, first as a joke and then emphatically, because he could not understand why I was unhappy in this land, which had also been my home once, but no longer felt like it. Two weeks after I landed, I watched a mob storm the Capitol, speechless at the sight of Americans having an insurrection in viking headgear and facepaint, like it was a Halloween party. Back in Hong Kong, the protestors who stormed the legislative building were now awaiting trial, and everyone assumed it would not be a fair one. Three months later, a gunman in Atlanta killed seven Asian women in massage parlors. I watched terrified about the state of the country and my own safety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I ruminated about why people wasted so much time on the concept of a \u201cbest\u201d country, flattening culture into a linear competition. I realized when my boyfriend\u2019s ego was fragile, he was more likely to say America was great. When he felt insecure that he could not solve my loneliness, America could not be faring better. He held contempt for Hong Kong, the phantom in my mind. I began to find him insufferable. I had really outdone myself\u2014I abandoned my home in Asia for an Asian who hated Asia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>I was so fixated on preserving memories of Hong Kong that I could not concentrate on anything else.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cThe city is going to shit!\u201d he said of Hong Kong. \u201cWhy would you want to stay anyway?\u201d I was stunned into silence. How could he speak like this about the place I\u2019d chosen to live longer than anywhere else after my childhood in Taiwan? To him, Hong Kong was nothing but a headline, not the breeze against my cheek while leaning out of the trolleys, sharp insults like \u201cpuk gaai\u201d <em><\/em>(\u201cdrop on the street and die\u201d), and the aggressive taxi drivers who still adorned their dashboards with stuffed animals. Another day, he said more loudly, \u201cYou\u2019re in San Diego. You don\u2019t have to pay rent or cook. What else do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I worried that I\u2019d betrayed myself. I stopped writing; the words no longer came, and my eyes grew exhausted staring into the desert from the window in his room. Sometimes I went outside to scream into the wind, my voice muffled by the cars swooshing past. Otherwise, I worked hard to make our house feel like home by hanging a friend\u2019s photographs of Hong Kong\u2019s red taxis, framing Wing Shya\u2019s photography in our bedroom, and polishing hand-painted china plates from Jingdezhen. I was so fixated on preserving memories of Hong Kong that I could not concentrate on anything else and began to do stupid things. I drove one of the beloved Teslas too close to the sidewalk and scuffed a tire. I washed the dishes in a dissociated state, dragging the Amazon sponge over the Amazon plates. \u201cWho washed this?\u201d my boyfriend asked his mom, holding up an oily pan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cYour sweetheart,\u201d she said to him in Mandarin. Later, he relayed the line to me. I imagined the disdain in her voice and remembered the book of Eileen Chang\u2019s essays, left unopened in her bedroom. One day I cooked bacon and accidentally dropped water in the pan. The entire stove erupted in flames like a Cirque Du Soleil reveal, licking high above the exhaust. My boyfriend glared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Six months into San Diego, I realized it was time to return to Hong Kong for a quick trip if I wanted to remain eligible for permanent residency. \u201cQuick\u201d meant three weeks, since there was now a mandatory fourteen-day hotel quarantine, and I wanted at least a week of freedom to see the city and my friends. I asked my boyfriend if he would get upset if I left, knowing he was in the final interview stages at a company. \u201cGo ahead,\u201d he said with suspicious neutrality. I was relieved I could go without a fight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">With bated breath, I landed in Hong Kong, boarded an airport shuttle, and pressed my face against the window as the driver weaved through the city dropping passengers off at various hotels. I was home, minutes away from the harbor promenade of my old neighborhood and the bustling shops of Causeway Bay. I contemplated sprinting off the bus but remained like the other well-behaved passengers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">During my quarantine, my boyfriend got the job he was interviewing for prior to my departure and quickly became furious that I was not there to help him shop for apartments. In his mind, I ran away to Hong Kong to indulge myself while he toiled building a future for us, making him the selfless martyr to an inconsolable girlfriend. He\u2019d been patient with my grief at the start, but perhaps a girl could only be sad for so long. I reminded him that he blessed my trip just a week earlier and he swiftly blocked me on all messaging apps, a sort of punishment that had been normalized by now. He resented my long blocks of text and preferred to read less from me, but I only wrote him novellas because I was desperate, trying to employ as many words in the English language to make him understand me. I watched my blue text float undelivered in the air and knew he had turned me off like a switch again. I turned to the window and watched the waters of Tung Chung Bay drift below me, feeling unbearably stuck, not just in my quarantine hotel, but life at large. The reasons I chose America, my boyfriend, and a remote corporate job all now seemed unclear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">My life was filled with therapists. On top of the two I had for myself, we now had one for both of us, endless talking with no resolution. I wished one of them would either tell me to break up with him or reach through the monitor and euthanize me. My boyfriend and I had scheduled an appointment for while I was in Hong Kong. I emailed to confirm he was joining; that was the only channel through which I could reach him. When he showed up, he began to yell, frightening the older Chinese woman on the other line. She was around my mother\u2019s age, and I felt humiliated watching him demand her credentials. I had blamed him for not knowing how to tend to my heart and never asking me questions, but perhaps he was incapable of both. If he resisted shining a light into himself so violently, I began to doubt he would ever see me.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I thought of you when I was alone with my thoughts, first on the plane ride to Hong Kong, then again the first night in the hotel. I had restrained myself because I knew I had feelings for you but I was still in a relationship. But after being blocked, I felt so desperate for connection that I texted your number on Signal hours later, knowing it was an app my boyfriend would never check. \u201cAre you in town?\u201d I asked, but never received a response. It was an irresponsible message I had sent without a plan\u2014I just wished to see you, to escape from the misery of my decisions. Several times, I opened the app to a blank screen, then closed it, telling myself I was being selfish and unfair to you, that it would be better for me to constrain the mess of my life instead of bothering you with it.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">After my quarantine ended, I bolted out of the hotel like a woman unchained, rushed into my friends\u2019 arms, and ran from the Mid-Level elevators to Mong Kok\u2019s alleys until my legs grew sore. At the Hong Kong Museum of Art, I studied a Chinese watercolor painting featuring nearly 30 beasts\u2014from elephants and lions to cottontailed rabbits\u2014surging forward. The painter was Hu Zaobin (\u80e1\u85fb\u658c), who escaped to Hong Kong as the Second Sino-Japanese War broke. This was his last, defiant piece of art, a call to Chinese people to fight with courage, titled&nbsp;<em>Righteousness Permits No Turning Back<\/em>&nbsp;(\u7fa9\u7121\u53cd\u9867). I studied the ferocity of the tiger&#8217;s spread claws, lion&#8217;s tongue suspended in mid-air, and the commotion of galloping hooves, a far cry from the passivity of my life. I found myself a coward who had chosen a life of convenience, incomparable to the great generations long gone. Eventually I turned my back on the painting and left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I returned to America with dread. My boyfriend and I moved to an apartment in Los Angeles that he explained took him significant effort to find alone. Our relationship was as tattered as the wrinkly conversation script on our refrigerator; our couple\u2019s therapist had written the exact words to help us speak and listen to each other, since we\u2019d lost the ability to do either naturally. Maybe we never had it. I continued to think of you in bed; distant white street lights filtered through the blinds onto my cheek. It came as no surprise that my boyfriend and I fell apart two months later at the start of fall. When we broke up, he admitted, \u201cI always thought I wanted to date an independent career woman, but after dating you, I realize maybe I don\u2019t.\u201d I congratulated him on his self-discovery and pitied myself for trying so hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">A month before we split, I texted you and finally received a response. It was a short conversation, born out of my desperation for closeness in a relationship that had lost all its warmth. You let my message hang on Signal because you thought I was a scammer, and insisted you would have responded had you known it was me. Your book was coming out that month. I ordered two copies. When I broke up with my boyfriend, you didn\u2019t ask for more information. I assumed we were both single.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Your book arrived in Los Angeles. It was my first Chinese book and I worried I wouldn\u2019t understand it, but I did. The protagonist wandered across countries while mostly unemployed, searching for belonging. He was selfish, stubborn, and sad. I wondered how much of you was in him.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Around the time of my breakup, I caught up with an old friend and learned she was part of a rapidly growing crypto startup. When she said they needed help, I immediately raised my hand. For the last few months, I had been trying to leave a remote role with my Hong Kong employer, and the startup felt like an exhilarating, fresh start. I was ecstatic to learn that the company was going to be incorporated out of Hong Kong. In as short as five months, I could move back home. I imagined running into my friends\u2019 embraces over dim sum and forgetting the last few months. I imagined meeting you again.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When I told you the good news, we began texting more, sharing mundane details about our days in a daily rhythm. I snapped a photo of your book in the center of Times Square while on a work trip. You sent me Frank Sinatra\u2019s <em>New York<\/em> when it came on your Spotify. I sent you photos from a conference. You said I looked \u201cgreat.\u201d We were now seesawing between Chinese and English. Was this your modest way of saying beautiful?&nbsp; You watched <em>Her<\/em> on my recommendation; it was a way of flirting,&nbsp; putting you through two hours of watching a man talk to a woman he could only access through his phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then work started to take off and I could barely keep my head on straight. Unless I was showering, I was working. My responses became sparse. You simply said, \u201cDon\u2019t you think you should just lie down, stop working, and have some rest?\u201d You felt like a faint dream to me then, trying your best to support me from afar, but I could not explain the chaos of my life to you, because it was barely understandable to me.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">As gusts of fall wind swept through Manhattan, my boss called me into a cafe in Midtown on a Saturday morning. He broke the news that we would no longer be based in Hong Kong, but in Singapore. We had raised a seed round, and without exception, every venture capital firm told our founders we could not incorporate in Hong Kong. It was far too risky. Singapore was much safer and regulations were clearer. My boss offered to still process a Hong Kong visa for me if I adamantly wished to return, but I would have to battle time zone differences and likely wouldn\u2019t perform in my role if I went. My heart sank as I weighed the city I loved versus my career. My job was an existential expression of personal agency. I wanted to reclaim myself, not be the small girl who got lost in a relationship. I knew what I had to choose, but didn\u2019t know how to tell you, so I remained distant. You texted me again after a few weeks of silence in early winter. \u201cEverything ok?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I broke the news that I was no longer coming back and was giving up on Hong Kong permanent residency. I said I was sorry. You say it was okay. We remained in each other\u2019s phones but not in each other\u2019s lives. Around that time, you texted me that it was our first anniversary since meeting. Christmas was around the corner again. You were reading Japanese novels. Not too long after that, I disappeared. I didn\u2019t know how to keep up a relationship with you when we would not meet anytime soon. I couldn\u2019t keep up with Hong Kong in America. I dated someone else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Early the following year, I lost nearly all my possessions when thieves broke into my storage unit in Los Angeles. Every reminder of Hong Kong was gone: most of my clothes, the Wing Shya photographs, and every journal over the last five years. A news article described me as an American woman with no address. The loss of my belongings was compounded by the continued loss of Hong Kong. Xi Jinping visited for the first time since the pandemic and declared that patriots were now running the region. I tried not to dwell on the headlines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">One of the few items to my name was your book. It rested in my parents\u2019 place in Florida, then New York, when I moved there a year later. While sitting in my new apartment overseeing the East River, I finally finished it. It was brilliant. The last line was a reflection about how everyone is waiting for something or someone to make them feel less lonely. I wanted to tell you I loved it, but years had passed. I had already gone in and out of your life like a tourist twice. I was dating someone new, someone who finally felt like home, and I did not want to make him worry. I didn\u2019t want to toy with your feelings either. I couldn\u2019t keep being the girl with a boyfriend in your messages. Silence felt like the most respectful path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cDamn,\u201d I said slowly, when I put the book down. \u201cI just finished this Chinese novel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u201cWhat was it about?\u201d my boyfriend asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I told him about your book and our time together, a sweet memory, a moment lost in time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Another three years pass. I\u2019ve drifted for a long time since Hong Kong: nine months in California, a year and a half of being a nomad, another year in New York, and finally, Puerto Rico, where I now live with my boyfriend. It reminds me of Hong Kong here; 30 percent of the population voted to be independent from a larger neighboring country but have no say in the matter. Many of them didn\u2019t bother to vote at all\u2014their voices have been suppressed for so long. Puerto Rico is worse than Hong Kong in many ways, from cracked roads to power outages and expensive groceries, but you can hang a pro-independence flag without getting arrested. You do not get thrown in prison for graffitiing \u201cgo home gringo\u201d on buildings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I don\u2019t think of you for many years, until one day, a friend complains to me about her dating experiences in Taipei. I tell her to try dating men from Taiwan instead of expats and recount our evening together to her. The memory of you lingers in my mind. A few nights later, I write about you for the first time. It\u2019s an indulgence I allow myself while gazing at the calm waters of the Condado Lagoon. I write 4,000 words and realize it\u2019s a thank you letter. I lost myself after I left Hong Kong, first in my relationship and then at work. I never revealed my depths of despair to you, but every time I reached out throughout those tumultuous months, you responded, as if you understood I was flailing. I wonder if it would be selfish to send it to you. I search for signs of you on the internet from the darkness of my bed. You don\u2019t make stalking easy because you have no social media. I smile after pulling up old articles about your novel release, then I see a more recent Instagram post I haven\u2019t seen before. Someone\u2019s hand is holding your book against the mountain skies. \u201cWill miss you forever,\u201d the caption reads. My mind goes blank before I realize it\u2019s a memorial post. I stop breathing. You\u2019ve been gone since the spring of 2024.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>I knew I would give up our connection and my home for stability, even though looking back, I chose the most destabilizing path.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I search endlessly, but there is little information. I don\u2019t know how you died, and I don\u2019t know any of your friends or family. The following morning, I message the bookstore\u2019s Instagram account, leaving a long note explaining how we met and asking for more information. I receive a short response simply encouraging me to keep your memory alive.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I never got to say goodbye. There was a chance, but I didn\u2019t take it. Four months before you passed, I finally made it back to Hong Kong with my boyfriend, the same one with whom I shared your book. It was my first time back in nearly three years. I didn\u2019t contact you out of respect for my boyfriend, but you were still alive. By then, the bookstore where we met was long shuttered; the owner left and relocated the shop to another country. Police had stalked the premises for years, intimidating the staff until they grew weary, the last guest\u2019s footsteps faded and the last book was sold in a fire sale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I imagine an alternative ending to our story, where I call you on that last day in Hong Kong, cancel my flight, and order the shipping company to haul every last item back to my apartment. The truth is, I was always a pragmatist. I knew I would give up our connection and my home for stability, even though looking back, I chose the most destabilizing path. You were so brave for remaining an artist and finishing your book, the only public evidence of your life. I never told you I was scared to write, worried I wasn\u2019t talented enough, and chose to work at that startup instead for four long years. By the time I quit, I was convinced I had nothing novel to say, and that my talents were best served ghost writing my CEO\u2019s tweets. Only years after quitting was I relieved to find the writer in me had survived, alongside a handful of past artifacts. Your book is the only item in my apartment from Hong Kong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I visited New York recently and found myself at a Brooklyn house party standing face-to-face with a couple whose time overlapped with mine in Hong Kong. When I brought up the protests, they only nodded as the thudding bass of house music engulfed us for a few moments too long. The party suddenly felt so mundane, but mundanity was a blessing. Just one month prior, Hong Kong\u2019s police arrested five bookstore employees for seditious materials, including a young woman who looked like she had been plucked out of a college class, standing proudly with her hands cuffed behind her back, flowing straight hair framing her neutral face. She wore a black t-shirt with white Chinese characters that read, \u201cI am a bookstore employee.\u201d You were a bookstore employee too; how would you have felt seeing this news?&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The couple from the party admitted they had not returned since Covid to preserve the old Hong Kong in their minds, but such decisions were luxuries only for people like us who did not have to feel the pain of 50 journalists getting arrested or 40 bookstores shuttering one by one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I imagine if the protests had never happened. Were we so foolish that we ironically expedited China\u2019s strangulation of Hong Kong? If this were true, how does one know when to speak or hide? Your old bookstore is an empty shell today. No business dares open at an address with so much police scrutiny, but I still imagine it flourishing again: the lights flickering on, swarms of people quietly reading towers of books, each page a beckoning into a new universe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">You\u2019d be happy to hear that I finally started reading Eileen Chang, including her short essay titled <em>Love<\/em>. It is about a boy and a girl who only see each other for an instant under a peach tree. The boy says to the girl, \u201cOh, you\u2019re here too?\u201d The girl is silent. They stand next to each other for a moment before they each go their own way. The girl is sold, then resold many times over. In old age, the woman remembers the boy under the peach tree. At the end, Chang writes:&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u5728\u5343\u842c\u4eba\u4e4b\u4e2d\u9047\u898b\u4f60\u6240\u9047\u898b\u7684\u4eba\uff0c\u65bc\u5343\u842c\u5e74\u4e4b\u4e2d\uff0c\u6642\u9593\u7684\u7121\u6daf\u7684\u8352\u91ce\u88e1\uff0c\u6c92\u6709\u65e9\u4e00\u6b65\uff0c\u4e5f\u6c92\u6709\u665a\u4e00\u6b65\uff0c\u525b\u5de7\u8d95\u4e0a\u4e86\uff0c\u90a3\u4e5f\u6c92\u6709\u5225\u7684\u8a71\u53ef\u8aaa\uff0c\u60df\u6709\u8f15\u8f15\u7684\u554f\u4e00\u8072\uff1a\u201c\u5662\uff0c\u4f60\u4e5f\u5728\u9019\u88e1\u55ce\uff1f<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Among all the thousands of people you meet, in all the thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, there is neither \u2018early\u2019 nor \u2018late,\u2019 there are only the moments in which you happen to catch up to each other. In these moments, there is nothing to say, only the gentle question: \u201cOh, you\u2019re here too?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>You\u2019re Here Too by Tiffany Huang In Shanghai, I told myself I found my future husband while wandering past the mottled bark of plane trees under spring canopies in the French Concession. He was a Chinese American on vacation from San Diego; I was on a business trip while living in Hong Kong. We had [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1807,"featured_media":316497,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[6181,85],"tags":[6194,55,94],"class_list":["post-316407","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-personalnarrative","category-essay","tag-love","tag-politics","tag-relationships"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>I Lost Myself When I Lost Hong Kong - Electric 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Dead Husband Still Wants the Last Word"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">The Bone Hermit<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It\u2019s very inconvenient that the hermit crab has taken up residence in your bones. At first it was disconcerting, to see him skittering along the beach, parading your salt-bleached toes outside our cottage. Sometimes he stops, right at the edge of the garden, and folds himself up into the crook of your remains, staring straight at the gate, watching me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I thought I\u2019d done a better job at hiding your body. I thought the sand and sea would wash your bones clean and sweep them away. But the sea, it seems, is resourceful. And now this tricksy little creature has come back to haunt me. Maybe he is you, reincarnated, and this is your final joke. You always did tell me you\u2019d get the last laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I\u2019ve tried catching the crab, but he\u2019s a speedy little thing and my bones creak too much these days to be chasing tiny crustaceans across the beach. I followed him once, to the sea cave at the edge of the coast, where I thought I\u2019d left you to rot, but I didn\u2019t want to go back inside there. I wonder if he knew that. If that\u2019s why he\u2019d taken up hermitage there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He returned later to the cottage, to my domain, now curled up instead in the hollow of a vertebra\u2014a bone hermit, working his way up your skeleton. Haunting me with your remains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The crab has moved into your skull. I can\u2019t tell you the fright I got when I saw your hollow-eyed face, jaw half broken, staring in the window, as though measuring up my own skeleton. Maybe he has a family that shares his penchant for bones.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I tried to take the skull from the crab, but he would not be parted from you. Instead, he taunts me, coming just close enough to be seen, before scurrying away. It\u2019s why I think he could be you. He reminds me that you\u2019re never truly gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Do you remember the day you brought home that creel you found washed up on the beach after a storm? I told you to return it to the local fisherman, that it was surely stealing not to, but you just brushed me off and said the sea gives and the sea takes, and sometimes you have to take what it gives. You always said things like that, things you thought were philosophical and profound, but came across as nonsensical and dull.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The creel had two lobsters in it, and a few large crabs, which you immediately took to prepare for dinner. But it was also full of other creatures, small crustaceans, molluscs and barnacles, and even a bulbous squid. I wondered how it even got in there. Maybe it had been drawn into the creel during the storm, then failed to escape before being washed to shore. I felt for it\u2014it must not be easy being swept up like that in such a current, only to find yourself lost and isolated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">After taking what you deemed of value, you could have discarded the other creatures, returned them to the sea where they could be free, but instead you kept them trapped, nestled inside our bath to slowly rot. Even though you could not use them, you let them suffer. You wouldn\u2019t even allow me to take them back myself to put them out of their misery. When I tried once, you were there to stop me, with a firm hand on the shoulder and that sharp-clawed look you gave me. Sometimes I think I see the hermit crab giving me that same look, with his tiny beady eyes, standing still as if daring me to step closer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I couldn\u2019t bring myself to try to free the creatures again after that. But then maybe if I had, we wouldn\u2019t be here now, and I wouldn\u2019t be stuck here staring out at your broken skull, darting every day between soil and sand like a strange harbinger of something to come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The squid was the first trapped creature to die, body paling before melting into a shapeless gloop. But the others were more resilient, and I could still see them move occasionally. There was a smaller crab that you said didn\u2019t have enough meat on it, but that still couldn\u2019t fit through the gaps in the creel. Every day it tried. Every day it failed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I took to sitting inside the bathroom, watching them, wishing they would just give up and die. Sometimes, you would come and watch me watching them, a grim smile on your face like it was all some sick game. The creatures still held onto life, while I felt I was slowly suffocating.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The smell of it all became overwhelming, a stench of death I couldn\u2019t get rid of, even when I was in another room, or outside on the beach. It was an acrid taste that clung to my nostrils, as steadfast as barnacles. The putrid scent was the strongest when I looked at you, or when I saw your smile at my discomfort.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Finally, when it all got too much, I begged you one last time if we could please just take them back to the sea. I told you that you were wrong, that I\u2019d had enough, that you were cruel and vindictive and sadistic. That\u2019s when you went to get your mallet, dragged me along by the wrist to watch, and then smashed them all up, one by one, until all that was left were broken shells and innards and brine. Some of the remains stayed squirming for several minutes even after that.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Then you told me to clean up the mess.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">So I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I brought a net and mallet outside earlier, intending to finally catch the hermit crab, smash up his home, <em>your<\/em> skull\u2014permanently this time.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">But when it came to it, I could only watch the crab, lifting his tiny pincers, beady eyes bulging, no threat at all.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The crab hasn\u2019t hurt me\u2014he\u2019s only trying to survive. If I can understand anything, it\u2019s that.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The Bone Hermit It\u2019s very inconvenient that the hermit crab has taken up residence in your bones. At first it was disconcerting, to see him skittering along the beach, parading your salt-bleached toes outside our cottage. Sometimes he stops, right at the edge of the garden, and folds himself up into the crook of your [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1546,"featured_media":316148,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[5557,5561,5965],"tags":[690,62,205,94],"class_list":["post-316146","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lit-mags","category-the-commuter","category-fiction","tag-animals","tag-death","tag-environment","tag-relationships"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin 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St John Mandel Can&#8217;t Distinguish Between the Real and Surreal Anymore"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Emily St John Mandel is a powerhouse of a writer. Like many, I\u2019ve been a fan for the long haul, devouring each of her books as soon as they release. Her writing is unlike any other: utterly original, boundary-pushing, and full of sharp observations. The creativity in her novels is boundless, and I\u2019m always delighted to spend time in her worlds\u2014even the dystopian ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I met Mandel over Zoom to talk about her writing life ahead of the release of <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593321461\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Exit Party<\/a><\/em>. She was preparing for publication week, which she described as, no exaggeration, \u201ca new city every 24 hours.\u201d We talked about the process of seeing her work adapted for the screen, her love of fashion and dark chocolate, and a shared preference for writing by the window. When I asked her thoughts on realism vs. surrealism, longtime readers of her work will find it no surprise that she expressed feeling like the boundary between the two is becoming harder and harder to distinguish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I was thrilled to have the chance to speak to Mandel about her process\u2014from finding that first inkling of an idea to knowing where the story should end\u2014for Electric Lit\u2019s 23 Questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u2014&nbsp;<strong>Katie Henken Robinson<\/strong><br>Deputy Editor<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>1. What book should everyone read growing up?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Emily St John Mandel:<\/strong> I think that different kids need to read different stories and I wouldn&#8217;t want to be prescriptive on that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>2. How do you start from scratch?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I find that it&#8217;s not that hard to come up with an idea. What&#8217;s hard is the execution. So I just dive right in. I have that idea, and then I&#8217;ll just start writing and see what happens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>3. Hardcover, paperback, or e-reader?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Hardcover if I&#8217;m home, paperback if I\u2019m traveling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>4. If you were a novel, what novel would you be?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I would actually be <em>Exit Party<\/em>. There&#8217;s a lot of myself in that book.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-list\">\n<li><strong>EL: <\/strong>Do you think that&#8217;s the most \u201cyourself in a book\u201d of the ones you&#8217;ve written?<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-list\">\n<li><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> No. But it might be tied with <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593466735\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Sea of Tranquility<\/a>.<\/em><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>5. Describe your ideal writing day.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Go for a run in the park by my place and then drink more coffee and then just write all day until dinner time, with a break for lunch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>6. Typing or longhand?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Both. I like to switch back and forth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>7. What&#8217;s a piece of writing advice you never want to hear again?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Write what you know\u2014I just find that so limiting, you know? We all have this one life, but there are all these other lives you could imagine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>8. What is the piece of writing advice you think everyone needs to hear?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Be at peace with writing a terrible first draft. I think of the first draft as literally just the raw material in which I&#8217;m going to find the novel, not the novel itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>9. Realism or surrealism?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> It&#8217;s getting harder and harder to tell the difference, honestly. Our current world feels so surreal to me that I don&#8217;t know if I can answer that.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>10. Favorite and least favorite adaptation of a book.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Okay, so my favorite is <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780307275431\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Children of Men<\/a><\/em>, directed by Alfonso Cuar\u00f3n. I think that&#8217;s an incredible film. The problem with my least favorite is that I actually have a second career as a screenwriter. So I feel like you&#8217;d have to waterboard me to get me to admit what my least favorite adaptation is, because I probably know the people involved in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-list\">\n<li><strong>EL:<\/strong> <strong>What&#8217;s a surprising thing that you&#8217;ve learned from<\/strong> <strong><em>being<\/em><\/strong> <strong>adapted?<\/strong><\/li>\n\n\n\n<li><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> What surprised me the most is realizing that you have to be willing to blow up your novel to make it an effective TV series or film. And the second surprise is that I love that. It turns out it&#8217;s really fun to blow up a story into its component parts and then figure out a new way to put it back together.<\/li>\n\n\n\n<li><strong>EL:<\/strong> <strong>I always say that the<\/strong> <strong><em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780804172448\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">Station Eleven<\/a><\/em><\/strong> <strong>adaptation is my favorite adaptation because of how it does exactly that. It&#8217;s not the book, but it retains its core and still gets at that same emotional feel.<\/strong><\/li>\n\n\n\n<li><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Totally, yeah. I feel like they changed literally every single plot point, but somehow remain true to the spirit of the book. That&#8217;s a pretty impressive feat.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>11. How did you meet your agent?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Through my first agent. I&#8217;m on my second agent. My first agent signed me when she was in her mid-80s. And then after a few years, she was ready to retire and she introduced me to my second agents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-list\">\n<li><strong>EL:<\/strong> <strong>How did you meet your<\/strong> <strong><em>first<\/em><\/strong> <strong>agent?<\/strong><\/li>\n\n\n\n<li><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Slush pile. She found me in her slush pile.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>12. Best advice for pushing through writer&#8217;s block.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I don&#8217;t know that I believe writer&#8217;s block exists, but I definitely have moments where I&#8217;m not sure what to do next. And I find the cure for that is to jump to a completely different point in the narrative, or possibly a different point of view, and just start writing from there, see what happens, and then figure out how it all goes together later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>13. What is your relationship to being edited?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I welcome it. It makes my books much better. My personal experience has been that editors excel at pointing out problems. And I almost always disagree with their proposed solutions. But having someone who&#8217;s very good at recognizing the problems in a book is absolutely invaluable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>14. Write every day or write when inspired?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Every day when I can. There are real moments of inspiration, but also it&#8217;s literally how I pay my rent. So that forces a kind of unglamorous approach to the process.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>15. What other art forms and literary genres inspire you?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Music and painting inspire me a lot. And I feel like I write in all of my favorite literary genres.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>16. Who is the writer who made you want to write?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Michael Ondaatje.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>17. How do you know when you&#8217;ve reached the end?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> When I can&#8217;t find anything else to fix. You start editing and at first the problems are enormous. And then with every revision, the problems just get smaller and smaller and smaller. And when I find myself moving commas around, that&#8217;s when I know it&#8217;s time to hand it off to somebody else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>18. Writing with music or in silence?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Oh, white noise. I like listening to a white noise loop of the ocean while I&#8217;m writing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>19. Describe your writing space.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I share an office with my wife, which is fine because I get the side of the office by the window, so I&#8217;m very happy. It&#8217;s a very pleasant room. I write at a standing desk. There&#8217;s a view of the East River. I like it. I should say, [my wife] is a photographer, so she actually needs darkness for editing the photos. I didn&#8217;t just like, <em>take<\/em> the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>20. How do you keep your favorite writers close to you?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> I have a lot of books in the main living area of my apartment, so when you walk in, you kind of walk into the book area. Which, you know, it&#8217;s New York City, so that&#8217;s also the kitchen and also kind of the living room. But it means that my books are always close by.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>21. What is the last indie bookstore you went to?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n<aside class=\"related-content-block alignright no-title\">\n    \t\t\t\t\t<article class=\"post-box\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/emily-st-john-mandel-did-not-predict-the-pandemic\/\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-info\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<h2>Emily St John Mandel Did Not Predict the Pandemic<\/h2>\n\t\t\t\t\t<!-- <p>The author of THE GLASS HOTEL and STATION ELEVEN on how history is doomed to repeat itself<\/p> -->\n<!-- temp without tags -->\n\t\t\t\t\t<p>The author of THE GLASS HOTEL and STATION ELEVEN on how history is doomed to repeat itself<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-lower\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\tApr 13\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t&#8211; <span>Becca Schuh<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"post-box-image\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span class=\"post-box-category\">interviews\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<!-- blah -->\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"640\" height=\"393\" src=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x-768x472.jpg\" class=\"attachment-medium_large size-medium_large wp-post-image\" alt=\"\" srcset=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x-768x472.jpg 768w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x-300x185.jpg 300w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x-1024x630.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x-600x369.jpg 600w, https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/merlin_166550895_5a4cb093-24b3-4402-9c7c-78470ba1352a-mobileMasterAt3x.jpg 1276w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\" \/>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/article>\n\n\t<\/aside>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> The Bookstore Plus in Lake Placid. We were up in the Adirondacks hiking and took a bookstore break. I bought a short story collection called <em><a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/269\/9780593803691\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noreferrer noopener\">My Dear You<\/a><\/em> by Rachel Kong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>22. What is an activity when you need to take a writing break?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> Honestly, this is so boring, but decluttering. I&#8217;m always trying to get rid of stuff to make my space feel less crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>23. What does evolving as a writer mean to you?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>ESJM:<\/strong> It means constantly working at the very outer limit of my abilities on each new book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Emily St John Mandel is a powerhouse of a writer. Like many, I\u2019ve been a fan for the long haul, devouring each of her books as soon as they release. Her writing is unlike any other: utterly original, boundary-pushing, and full of sharp observations. The creativity in her novels is boundless, and I\u2019m always delighted [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1807,"featured_media":316088,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[350,5567],"tags":[6513],"class_list":["post-316065","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-conversations","category-interviews","tag-23-questions"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.1 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Emily St John Mandel Can&#039;t 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