When Heirlooms arrived in my mail, I shirked all responsibilities to get into it, even though I was knee-deep in The Goldfinch and some clunky literature on criminal psychology. The stories in Heirlooms dive deep, but for me they offered a welcomed pause for reflection on family and identity, how our histories intersect, and American culture as it interacts with people who emigrate from their homes to be here. First, a sidenote: I'm not biased, I promise; though I consider Rachel one of the best writing teachers I've ever had and an all around great human being, I would not be writing this review if I didn't so highly regard this book.

Heirlooms begins in Saint-Malo, in 1940: a focal character, Lise, becomes guardian to her baby niece after her sister-in-law dies. From here, Rachel zooms into the lives that constellate around Lise and the baby Eugenie. Everyone is influenced by the War; all are insulated and also connected by their losses. Even for the people who betray Lise in some way, Rachel slips in the most subtle details to illustrate parallels. One woman who appears briefly, Sylvie, at first seems antithetical to conscientious Lise when she refuses to help Lise's hungry family, but the reader will soon see their parallels, right down to their knitting projects.

Rachel's care for details is something I appreciate most. They culminate into these beautiful moments of significance that have stuck with me -- which is what writing is supposed to do, keep coming back to you. I'm restraining my desire to analyze this too much here because I don't want to spoil anything for readers, but I will point out one example: later in the book, we learn Eugenie is a breast cancer survivor. Though Rachel does not belabor this episode, I believe she includes this detail for a sincere reason. While traveling in Paris decades after the War, a friendly German couple at a restaurant invites Eugenie to pull up a chair and offers her a glass of wine. Eugenie sizes them up, as we often do with new people, determining that they are "Younger than she, too young to have known the war in which she was the enemy, but what of their parents and grandparents?" Though Eugenie quickly moves on from this thought, it shook me. What explosive irony! How humans betray each other, delivering the greatest havoc and torment imaginable, and future generations can sit next to each other, sharing wine. The German woman is also a breast cancer survivor, and Eugenie, who is usually so guarded about her pain like everyone around her, connects with her on that profound level.

Many of the people in these stories hold their pain so secretively, as if it is theirs and theirs alone, as if pain were not a common thread in humanity. This truth makes it all the more poignant when they take care of each other, lift each other with the deepest sense of empathy, albeit silently. This theme comes full circle in the last few stories and with stark contrast: readers are introduced to a group of people from a younger generation, mourning very publicly on Eugenie's front lawn, to her discontent. Heirlooms is rich with these nuances.

From Europe to the United States, the stories trace the generations of a family fragmented by war -- struggling, after leaving everything behind, to maintain parts of themselves, of who they were. Within this, there are wonderful, uplifting tales of success and triumph. While there are a lot of books out there that reflect on the damage of World War II and the Holocaust, Heirlooms stands out because it examines the ripple effect on future generations. It is not simply an earnest, well-researched narrative; it breathes. It's immersive. It is careful yet honest, and therefore it does not force meaning on the reader. It is beautiful.

Her last story begins with: Freedom has a price, but only those who are truly captive understand what it is. That line keeps ringing in my head, among others. This book has that sort of effect.

In Brick Walls: Tales of Hope & Courage from Pakistan, Saadia Faruqi brings us seven short stories with heartbreaking verisimilitude of life in modern Pakistan. It is both a love letter to her home country and a stark, critical look at its current challenges. As Saadia puts it, "Little is known about Pakistan’s rich culture or colorful daily life. Nobody seems to know or care to discuss the strides being taken in education, social services, and even politics that are improving the nation every year...It is also a nation full of kind-hearted individuals struggling to make their society better with optimism and resolve. That’s the Pakistan I want people to know about."

Saadia frequently brings back the motif of time - from the first story to the last, time is always churning behind the scenes, whether through the image of a broken or stolen watch or the endless counting of days by a woman in Karachi jail for a crime she didn't commit. My interpretation? I believe Faruqi is pointing to the time it takes for true change to happen on a macro level, but individuals don't necessarily have time to wait. Time works against every protagonist in this book. An impoverished woman needs time to hone her sewing skills so she can find a new job and take care of her sick child.  Another struggles with the fact that "it's time" to leave Pakistan. Some characters win, some do not.

Another hard-hitting concept from Brick Walls is the presence of privilege through money, class, politics, and gender. Saadia is subtle yet deliberate in her portrayal. In "Tonight's the Night," we learn about a musician who is hired to play in the homes of the upper class, who "could circumvent Peshawar's strict norms and have parties in their secure homes." Details like these stuck with me. My favorite story, "Bittersweet Mangoes," tells of a boldly curious young woman who steps away from her privilege to learn about the true woes of her country. Like many of Saadia's characters, I came to look at her with admiration and appreciation.

This is Saadia's first work of fiction, but she writes regularly for a number of nonfiction publications including State of Formation, The Islamic Monthly, and Tikkun Daily. She is also the editor of the Interfaith Houston blog and Blue Minaret literary magazine. You can learn more about Saadia's work at www.saadiafaruqi.com. 

As an American reader, I was grateful for the opportunity to explore these perspectives and learn more about a place that US news typically doesn't empathize with. Yet it's critical to acknowledge how many of our problems, hopes, dreams, loves, and passions parallel each other. That is the importance of world literature and this book: to let us hear these voices and feel their existence, no matter what physical distance separates us. Beyond the political critiques, Saadia hits on something even more important and memorable, at least for me: the shared beauty and common kindness of humanity.

Here is something despicable about American primary schools and high schools: they neglect African history and ignore African literature. Colleges and universities fall to similar patterns, but not ubiquitously, which gives me hope. I was able to complete an African Studies minor back in my university days, but the course offerings were too lacking to create a major in that subject.

My admiration and fixation with African literature was instigated by my sister, who studied abroad for a semester at a university in Kenya (when she told this one woman she was going to Kenya, the lady replied, "Oh I so admire people who go over there to do charity work!" And my sister corrected her with, "No, I'm going there to study…" Just in that simple exchange is a microcosm of how uneducated we Americans are about Africa and the many countries, cultures, economies, and influential people occupying the continent).

My sister was the one who first recommended Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I know Adichie has finally received the limelight she deserves in the past year, but people's praises shouldn't come from Beyoncé's say-so; they should come from her talent. I've followed her development as a writer for some time because I like her style, storytelling abilities, and careful dialogue. Her lyrical, heart wrenching debut novel Purple Hibiscus brought me to tears, but not as much as her portrayal of the Biafran War (another history lesson glazed over by US schools) in Half of a Yellow Sun. So yes, those are must-reads, but my official recommendation is a book I just finished - and no, it's not a small press book, and it has already been reviewed by some big wigs, but I'm going to recommend it anyway because African literature itself is underrepresented:


1) Americanah

The glowing reviews speak for this book already. But let me say a few timely things about it. These past several months, in light of the Eric Garner and Michael Brown jury decisions and other tragic deaths, our country has been tense and forced into important discussions. These events brought a lot of unpleasant truths into the light where mainstream society can't turn a blind eye anymore. I have followed these cases and protests closely, and when I read people's arguments about this or that (or witness the painful arguments of family, friends, or worse…Facebook acquaintances), I am reassured of one thing only: White people, particularly of the middle and above income brackets, are out of touch with the experiences of black Americans. It doesn't matter what you believe about the Garner-Brown cases because this truth still stands. A large portion of debates are occurring because people don't see eye-to-eye in terms of their personal observations; they aren't willing to listen or believe that someone could have different experiences in this "land of the free." I can speak to this, having grown up in one of the most de facto segregated cities in America - Buffalo, NY. 

Americanah is a must-read for mainstream society to better grasp the concept of race in America. Told through the vantage point of a Nigerian ex-pat, the novel shows how race plays into everyday interactions with Americans. I admire Adichie's bold observations about our culture - things that perhaps only someone from an outside culture would see. At times it's preachy and sometimes the author's voice takes over; it is more of a cultural commentary than an immersing story, the way I found Purple Hibiscus. But regardless, I think what the author has to say is important to hear, and the medium of the novel has broadened and diversified her audience.

Today I'm going to switch it up a little. I'm not going to review a book but a short story - a worthwhile story nonetheless. After reading "Andretti in the El Camino," I immediately subscribed to Boulevard Magazine. I think it's important to support these publications for their cultural value - and like small book publishers, they too are fighting the good fight! Through their intensive review process, many of these small magazines uphold the cultural integrity of storytelling. I highly recommend subscribing to at least one literary magazine to follow up-and-coming writers, new styles and ideas, and see what you need to live up to (if you're a writer).

You can read Terrance Manning, Jr.'s story here.

Manning's imagery is strong from the beginning - depicting a hardass (and a bit unhinged) father, three resentfully obedient sons, and a reticent mother. The story revolves around Jay, a young man who is trying to connect with his father long after his death. He has a job removing asbestos in buildings - asbestos that his father once installed back in the day, asbestos that ended up killing him - and in his spare time, he's restoring his dad's old El Camino.

Yes, this is a motif that has been expressed a million times…a son must live with his father's mistakes long after he is gone and overcome the age-old battle of understanding who he is, and his manhood, through his father's legend. But Manning tells this story with care, attention to detail, irony, and depth. He adds internal complexity to a storyline that risks being cliché - but there are no cliché's in Manning's writing, just well-developed characterization and several hard-hitting realizations.

For months, Jay thinks he has come down with Mesothelioma from the asbestos, like his father. In the end, he wonders: "Maybe I had what my father had, that I could, for some reason, inherit it from him." This strikes hard as a metaphor for the qualities and lessons we inherit from our parents - the good, the bad. And even the bad qualities can ring with nostalgia. Jay often works without a mask, breathing in the asbestos, imagining it's his father's breath.

Above all, I love the juxtaposition of character memory. Jay recalls his father as erratic, unsettled, and angry, while his mother and uncle remember him as a "good man" with spirit and imagination. One person can have many faces in a lifetime, and each of us can impact the people close to us in so many different ways. By the end of the story, we see Jay's memory has transformed simply because he wills it to.

As for Andretti (a world champion racer) driving El Camino, he symbolizes yet another part of the father's legend; someone father and son both aspire to be, in some way, through the ownership of that car. The question is, will Jay ever be able to restore it, or will he find solace in memory, imagination?

I love my version of this Rubaiyat*! It is huge, weighty, and leather-bound - a look and feel that lends itself to the ancient text inside. The poem was written in the 12th century, but this book - a full translation - was printed in 1938.

The beautiful, encapsulating illustrations were done by Hamzeh And-ullah Kar. On any paper, this poem on the purpose of life is enchanting, but it is even more magical when it is delivered through this old book.

The title has been carved and painted into the leather cover. This book also came with a jacket that the book slides into. I don't know if the creators intended it for better preservation, but it really has kept things intact.

*A Rubaiyat is a form of Persian poetry. Omar Khayyám's work defined the genre, and Edward Fitzgerald's translation is still praised for its accuracy and thoroughness.

People read Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in high school and generally not in their spare time. That's why I'm a bit of an odd bird. I've enjoyed reading his old short stories even more than his poetry. What they don't teach you in high school literature class is that these old writers had a sense of humor, and you're allowed to laugh at what they write. Teachers often put each writer in a bubble: this writer did x, this writer did y, and that writer did z. I didn't discover that Longfellow wrote short stories until I got "The Continental Tales of Longfellow" as a gift. His stories are strange, often with absurd conclusions, and not at all like his poetry, which is why I like this book so much. Most of all, I like the broad pages with large open spaces.

This book was printed in 1948. The rims of the pages were painted blue to match the cover, and the binding is engraved in copper. What makes this book of prose so special is that Longfellow published most of his short stories anonymously. The creators of this book, over sixty years after Longfellow's death, wanted to show his works that were never studied or observed much during his career. That's an interesting concept - will that happen to some writers of today, sixty years down the road? Will someone be unearthing their ebooks from a digital stockpile and resuscitating them?

Blackjacks & Blue Devils

Stories by Jerry Wilson
Publisher: Mongrel Empire Press
ISBN: 978-0-9833052-5-5

When author Carter Revard reviewed Blackjacks & Blue Devils, he wrote, "Steinbeck could have learned a lot from this book." So, I was intrigued enough to buy it. I mean, that's really something to say about one of the Great American Novelists, and it sets up quite the expectations.

It's possible that Revard was referring to the idea that Steinbeck could learn brevity from Jerry Wilson. Where John was notoriously long-winded, Jerry was VERY short and sweet. But all jokes aside, here is my take on Revard's comparison: both Steinbeck and Wilson set out to encapsulate the spirit of America's past. Our pioneerism (I looked that up, and it is NOT a word apparently, but I like it anyway. What can I say, perhaps I'm a linguistic pioneer?) These stories reveal American heart. Our cruelty, our greed, our lust. Our assiduous work ethic. Wilson's theme takes us through the landscapes of Oklahoma, those stretches of dry earth where history rises like a dust storm. And yes, The Grapes of Wrath begins in Oklahoma, too - but I believe Wilson's book accomplishes something very different.

While I am refuting Carter Revard's claim, I am also giving a nod to Wilson, who is genuine and true to his own style - not copying Steinbeck or attempting to beat out other novelists of the frontier. Instead, he is shining new light on old backdrops, illuminating voices that strike the heart in a different way.

Wilson's book is a series of snapshots. It is a flip-book through Central American history. His fluid writing style and piercing descriptions pulled me into quick breaths of time: The Dust Bowl, Oklahoma Land Runs (which, to be honest, I didn't know about before reading this book), the Depression and bootlegging. These quick snapshots of the past are characterized by strong emotion and people who just as well could be real.

Mongrel Empire Press strives to find quality, thoughtful literature without regards to genre, discipline, or author biographies. As its name implies, its publications are a wild mix of styles, genres, and topics - though the press does admit to a little favoritism toward Oklahoma authors. Nevertheless, it is refreshing to see a press that isn't concerned about sticking to a marketable theme, but merely high-calibre writing.

I recently came into possession of a 10-part Wordsworth collection. It was printed over a century ago…and this particular collection has never been read. How do I know this? Because the pages have never been cut.

It's fun, doing things the "old way" as I read a long epic poem titled "The Excursion." I have to cut open each page like a present as I move through the book. I wish I'd come across Part I of this poem, "The Wanderer," in high school because it encapsulates how I felt as a teenager - and how I still feel at times - yearning to wander freely in the mountains. (A romanticized notion, I realize! Wordsworth's appreciation of nature has always captured me).

These books were printed in 1911 and are bound with fabric. I think the reason they survived for so long is because whoever owned them kept them in a personal library with some measure of climate control. I'm picturing the previous owners as socialites who preferred to show off their books rather than read them - but of course, my imagination could be way off! But there has to be some reason why the books have zero damage from humidity, and no wear and tear. And best of all, they have never been opened in a hundred years. A part of me wonders if I should keep them unopened to maintain the value of the books - but what is the point of keeping them if I don't read them? Books are meant to be opened!

I'm a collector of old books. There's something about their smell, the sound of the hand-cut pages, the weight of their leather binding, that creates an unmatched beauty lost with ebooks and paperbacks. Book covers today can be awesome - I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I love a good one! A lot of time is put into their design and printing, but not like when they used to do it by hand.

Most of my books hail from the 19th century and early 20th…back in the day of steam-powered iron presses. Cloth bindings became more popular in the 20th century, and then paperbacks in the 21st, which is why I value a rare leather-bound book, its cover engraved by hand and its pages painted with gold.

It's remarkable that these books managed to stay so intact for 100+ years. Each page is jagged because they were cut by hand, each cover embossed with gold lettering.

The old classics - Burns, Whitman, Longfellow - were first either self-published or printed by small presses. So I'm introducing a new type of #tbt…Oldie Books, where I'll share a gem from my book library to appreciate the old ways.

My #tbt post is Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. This book is a true encapsulation of the work inside! It is one of a kind, from 1900, with some incredible features. See for yourself:

Editor: Adam Klein
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Price: $14.95 paperback, $7.99 ebook
Link: Buy Here

You'd think I would choose an uplifting book for such a depressing month as February (it's cold where I am!). Not so fast. We're in the thick of winter's threads, days of cold and grayness weaving endlessly, but I guess you could look at things this way: I picked a book that makes it seem like life ain't so bad anyway.

I really respect what Adam Klein did with this collection of short stories. He took a group of Afghan students in Kabul and asked them to find an authentic voice of fiction for Afghanistan. As Klein says in the introduction, fiction is not at the forefront of Afghan concerns, so it doesn't yet get the attention it deserves.

This collection is unique because it provides us with Afghan voices. This is a chance to hear from people who grew up in Afghanistan through its erratically violent political tides, who can tell these important stories in a way that an outsider cannot. The stories have been written first-hand in English, so neither are we seeing these words through the filter of a translator. (Of course, one could argue that a truly "authentic" Afghan voice would be writing in its native tongue, but let's consider who the audience is for this book. Isn't it important that Americans - who have occupied their land since 2001 - pick this up to understand the heart within this country?)

This collection of varying stories provides something a novel cannot: a broad scope. Afghanistan has seen occupations by communist Russia, Islamists, the Taliban, and America. It has been plagued by guerrilla warfare since the 60s. But that is just the political history. We must not forget the people who suffered through it, the ones who had to make crucial choices for the sake of their families, the ones who still wanted love and peace and happiness. What was it like for Afghanis to find out about 9/11 from the sound of a forbidden radio? What was it like to look up to a father who joined the mujahideen to fight communists? What was it like to avenge a sister's rape and murder? What was it like to guide US soldiers through unpredictable terrain? What was it like to run a forbidden bookstore, or feel lust, or play a forbidden rabab, during Taliban rule?

The writing itself doesn't have the innovativeness of David Foster Wallace or the lyricism of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. But that's not the point of this book, I don't think. The content and voices are what matters. It opened my eyes to things I never thought about. It put me in shoes I've never walked in before. Isn't that what a book is for?