Out of Darkness by Ashley Hope Perez


“It wasn’t that Beto wanted to tell the story. It was that he had to. He hoped that, after, he could begin to dream of the fragile joy of the months before the explosion and of the family that they had made for themselves in the woods. They had been happy, for a time, before the rules found them. Before the terrible price was exacted for their transgressions. For the crossing of lines. For friendship, for love” (Perez 2016, p. 196).

This book was incredibly difficult to get through, and I found myself having to take frequent breaks in order to process what I was reading. On the one hand, I found it incredibly powerful and engaging, with characters who feel like real people rather than caricatures. On the other hand, I felt like the book was a constant slog of misery and heart-break, only serving to depress me and remind me of the horrors and injustices of the world. I found myself gasping in shock at some of the events of the novel, and often wanted to step in to protect the characters from what was happening. Ashley Hope Perez is, without a doubt, an amazing author, and it’s very clear that she did intense research when writing and preparing this book.

Out of Darkness takes place in New London, Texas, in the year of 1937. The story focuses on Naomi Vargas and her two half-siblings, Cari and Beto, who have just been sent to live with their estranged father Henry. Henry has a history of sexual abuse and alcoholism, and Naomi resents him for inadvertently causing the death of her mother after repeated miscarriages and the bloody birth of her half-siblings. While he is the biological father of Beto and Cari, Henry is merely Naomi’s stepfather, giving him all of the excuse he needed to sexually abuse her at a young age. Perez uses the 1937 New London school explosion to frame the narrative, telling a compelling story about love, loss, family, and the compassion and humanity we can find in others during times of tragedy.

The first thing I feel like I have to say about this book is that I wanted Henry to die from the very first page. I absolutely hated him as a character, and found myself grinding my teeth at some of the horrible things he did to Wash, Beto, and Naomi. He is a textbook abuser, using his authority as the head of the household to not only make advances on Naomi, but to emotionally abuse Beto and Cari at every opportunity. He threatens to kill Beto’s cat several times throughout the novel, and frequently treats Wash as being less than human simply because of the color of his skin. As if that weren’t enough, he feels ownership over Naomi, claiming a right to her and her body and becoming enraged when he later learns that she has fallen in love with Wash. Terrible as it might be, I had to cheer when Beto finally killed him in the end, ending his reign of terror over those around him.

Vile as he was, there were times when I felt that Perez was almost trying to make Henry sympathetic, leading the reader to believe he was trying to do better and live an honest life. I would find myself sympathizing with his desperate attempts to make things work… And then I would remember how he frequently raped Naomi’s mom until forcefully impregnating her (despite protests from her doctor), and how he forced a young Naomi to perform sexual acts on him for his own twisted pleasure. I quickly lost any and all sympathy I might have had for him when I was reminded of his past actions, especially after seeing how they continued to affect Naomi, who was forced to tiptoe around him for fear of setting him off. Despite his own faults, and the fact that he was a raging alcoholic, Henry still had the nerve to treat Wash like trash, making me wish <i>he</i> had been in the school instead of Cari near the end. I recognize that Henry’s viewpoints reflected the views of many during this time period, but he somehow managed to be so vile and unforgivable that I judged him even more harshly for it than I would other characters.

The romance between Naomi and Wash felt extremely authentic, and I found myself rooting for them despite the odds. Because this book had already gone to incredibly dark places, I knew it wasn’t likely to end well, but I kept hoping anyways that they would somehow make it out okay. Perez was obviously looking to portray realistic circumstances, but the novel felt so dark and devoid of any hope at times that it was hard to continue. To be fair, I didn’t really expect a book centered around a massive tragedy to be happy and end well, but I wished there had been just a little more joy in the book before all hell broke loose at the end. The quiet moments with Naomi and Wash were touching, and I was happy to see the two characters (both of whom had been treated terribly by society) find solace in one another. I only wish they’d managed to escape Henry’s control and abuse in the end.

This book honestly didn’t feel like a young adult novel; it felt more like reading a horrific piece of adult historical fiction, with themes such as racism, rape, sexual abuse, emotional abuse, and violence. I felt so incredibly sorry for Naomi, who’d lived an incredibly rough life up until the beginning of the book, and was severely punished for trying to enjoy the only small modicum of happiness she’d been able to find in Wash. I must admit that the ending of the novel left me a sobbing puddle of emotion, wondering why such horrific things have to happen to such genuinely kind and caring people. I was concerned for Beto, who likely carried the scars of what happened for the rest of his life (as the end of the novel hints). I was happy to see Henry punished for his actions, but also devastated that Wash, Cari, and Naomi had to die first. The characters are fictional, but written in a way that makes them seem real, so I felt a genuine loss at their tragic demise. The story was heart-breaking and frustrating, and while realistic, I think it needed more light moments to balance out the tragedy of it all.

Another thing I really appreciated about this book was the commentary on religion. Though Henry claims to have found religion throughout the novel, it doesn’t stop him from doing vile, terrible things. Similarly, Perez hints throughout the story that religion often gives individuals an excuse to be hateful towards others while patting themselves on the back and feeling holy. Even the preacher, though he seems to be more tolerant and forgiving of others, sees no problem with Henry trying to woo and marry his underage stepdaughter as long as he doesn’t “give in to his urges” before they’re married. Part of this might just be a mark of the times (couples married much younger back then), but it still left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I applaud Perez’s efforts to demonstrate that religion does not always make a holy person; in fact, it can often give someone an excuse to be even more vile than they were before.

Though this book ripped my heart out and repeatedly stomped on it, I had to admit that it is an amazing work of young adult fiction. This isn’t a story I would recommend to the faint of heart, nor to the inexperienced or reluctant reader. It is powerful, but incredibly heavy and depressing, filled with moments that will leave the reader screaming at the injustice of the events taking place. Perez injects a sobering amount of realism into the work, never letting you forget that this is taking place in 1930s America rather than a fantasy universe. Though the characters are fictional, their experiences are based on real world accounts from the time period, reminding us of the horrors of the past. If you are interested in an engaging work of fiction about a real disaster, or if you’re simply a masochist who loves being made to cry, I would highly recommend Out of Darkness.


Perez, Ashley Hope. (2016). Out of Darkness. Paw Prints.


Marcelo in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork


“I remember the conversation Jasmine and I had in the cafeteria. ‘The right note sounds right and the wrong note sounds wrong.’

‘Ha!’ [Rabbi Heschel] says. ‘Look.’ She opens the book by Abraham Joshua Heschel, flips through the pages, and reads. ‘Our effort is but a counterpoint in the music of His will.’

‘What if we don’t hear the music?’ I say.

‘That’s what faith is, isn’t it? Following the music when we don’t hear it'” (Stork 2009, p. 279).

The first thing that comes to mind when I think about this book is simply, “Wow.” What an amazing, touching, heart-breaking, powerful book. Unlike The Book Thief and The Fault in Our Stars (both of which I adore), however, Marcelo in the Real World doesn’t have to kill off a single character to move me. This book made me ponder the very nature of humanity, something not many books have been able to do, young adult or otherwise.

Marcelo in the Real World, as you might expect, deals with many real world and difficult topics such as cognitive disabilities, infidelity, rape, and blackmail. The story is told from the perspective of Marcelo, a teenage boy with a cognitive disability similar to Asperger Syndrome, on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum. Though Marcelo is brilliantly intelligent, he has spent his entire life going to a school for children with cognitive disabilities, something his lawyer father hopes to mend for his final year in high school. Marcelo’s father makes a deal with him; if Marcelo can spend the summer following the “rules of the real world” at his law firm, then he can decide where to go to school next year. Marcelo reluctantly agrees, convinced that he’ll be able to choose his old school at the end of the summer, where he’s most comfortable. This, of course, doesn’t go as planned, as Marcelo begins to learn more about the “real world” he’s been avoiding his entire life.

The fact that Marcelo is one of the most innocent teenage characters I’ve ever come across in literature makes the story that much more interesting to me, as it allows the reader to see the world through the eyes of an innocent. When Marcelo meets Wendell, he is only concerned with befriending the conceited and spoiled son of his father’s law partner; he doesn’t immediately see that Wendell is playing nice in order to use Marcelo’s disability to his advantage. Wendell later uses this naivety in an attempt to blackmail Marcelo into hooking him up with Jasmine, a mutual coworker who befriends Marcelo on his first day at the firm. What Marcelo doesn’t realize, however, is that Wendell plans to drug and rape Jasmine, though he senses that Wendell’s intentions are less than pure. The story is a constant battle for Marcelo as he struggles to figure out the difference between right and wrong, navigating difficult circumstances he’s never had to face before.

One such circumstance soon becomes Marcelo’s sole focus, leading him to question everything he’s learned about the world so far. While organizing files for a case his father is working on, Marcelo stumbles upon a photo of a severely injured girl, a victim of faulty windshields produced by a company that Marcelo’s father (and the rest of his firm) are representing. Consumed by the image of the girl, Marcelo sets off on a quest to aid her, soon learning that the world is full of both horrible sadness and tremendous light. He learns, as we all eventually learn, that there is no such thing as black and white; there are many shades of gray in the world, and individuals are complicated. Marcelo, who has always seen his father as a kind and positive figure, has to contend with the fact that his father has also done some pretty terrible things in his lifetime, such as refusing to help the injured girl and cheating on his wife. Despite this, Marcelo learns to forgive as he begins to see humans as flawed beings who can make mistakes. Along the way, he is forced to question everything he thought he knew about the world and the people in it, leading to an incredibly profound and moving story.

My favorite quote from this book sums up the points I’ve just made fairly succinctly:

“Then it comes to me. It cannot be that this is the first time I realized this, but it is. We all have ugly parts… How do we live with all the suffering? We see our ugly parts, and then we are able to forgive, love kindness, walk humbly” (Stork 2009, p. 299).

This is both incredibly beautiful and full of truth, defining the very essence of humanity that we all share. This is the quote that urged me to add this book to my list of favorites, as it points out an inherent truth about the world: we might all have darkness inside of us, but it is the brief moments of light that make the ugliness and suffering bearable. Though Marcelo comes face to face with greed, deceit, and hatred, he also meets Jasmine, an intelligent and kind woman with a love for playing music. He meets the kind lawyer Jerry Garcia, a man who spends his time fighting to defend those without voices. His mother, Aurora, spends her time working with sick children to make their final moments brighter.

Though he discovers suffering, Marcelo is also able to see the good in the world during his journey, convincing him that entering the “real world” will be worth it in the end. This is a profound message, and one that should remind us all why we keep going even when the world seems bleak and dark. The book, as the above quote demonstrates, also brings up the issue of faith: both faith in God and in the goodness of humanity. As Marcelo begins to lose his faith in the divine, he finds it again in the goodwill of others, helping him to come full circle in his journey to join the “real world.”

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and would encourage anyone interested by my (very long-winded) review to check it out. It’s a wonderful story of hope, resilience, and the moments in which we discover ourselves despite being faced with unspeakable darkness and tragedy. Much more than a book about a cognitively disabled boy who learns to live in the “real world,” this is a book about how a quiet, intelligent, and incredibly perceptive individual holds the power to change the world around him – a power that any one of us could wield to make the world a little brighter.


Stork, F. X. (2009). Marcelo in the real world. New York City, NY: Scholastic, Inc.

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz


“Sometimes parents loved their sons so much they made a romance out of their lives.They thought our youth could help us overcome everything. Maybe moms and dads forgot about this one small fact: being on the verge of seventeen could be harsh and painful and confusing. Being on the verge of seventeen could really suck” (Saenz 2014, p. 239).

It’s been a while since I updated this blog, for which I apologize! It’s my final semester of graduate school, and I’ve found myself swamped with work and job applications. Though I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading, I haven’t had a chance to review any of the works in depth until now. I’ve been looking forward to Aristotle and Dante for most of this semester, however, so I knew I’d have to add a review once I finally read it. I had a feeling I was going to love this book before I picked it up, and I definitely wasn’t disappointed! After reading and enjoying Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (which I thought was incredibly sweet, funny, and adorable), I could tell this was going to be another favorite of mine. I’m happy to say that I was not wrong on this account.

The story follows two teens (named Aristotle and Dante, as the title implies) with Mexican heritage who meet one summer at the local pool. Aristotle, nicknamed Ari by his friends and family, is quiet and thoughtful, and has trouble making friends and meeting new people. Dante, on the other hand, is bold and loud, entirely unafraid of articulating himself. As the story progresses, the two form an unshakable bond of friendship that slowly grows into more (though neither boy is quite prepared to deal with the ensuing emotions). The novel deals with themes such as homophobia, family, friendship, and assault, and does so without ever feeling preachy or over-the-top.

As to be expected, my favorite part of this novel was the relationship between Dante and Aristotle, which holds all of the simplicity and innocence of first love while speaking to the difficulties of being an LGBT youth. As Dante slowly comes to realize that he likes boys more than girls, Ari finds himself pulling further and further away, uncomfortable and ashamed of his own feelings. This idea of shame is further solidified when Ari learns that his estranged aunt has been living with another woman for almost his entire life, causing her to be shunned by a majority of Ari’s family. Not only does Ari feel guilty for harboring feelings for Dante, but he also begins to feel guilty about never reaching out to his aunt (who he used to be incredibly close to), especially after her death later in the novel.

Both Dante and Aristotle are fortunate enough, however, to have incredibly loving and understanding parents, parents who encourage them to accept their feelings and be who they are. I found this to be incredibly important, and something that more young adult literature needs to embrace. Not all parents are homophobic and intolerant, and I think it’s important for questioning or LGBT teens to see that there are supportive adults in the world. At one point in the novel, Ari confesses to Dante’s parents that he admitted to liking boys more than girls, and Dante’s parents are shocked and hurt that their son would be afraid to confide in them (mostly because he didn’t want to disappoint them). It’s heart-breaking and powerful, and a true testament to the bond of love shared between parents and children.

Surprisingly, I failed to notice Ari’s inner turmoil as the novel progressed, as it seemed much more like he was asexual than bottling up his feelings towards Dante. Though he comes to accept his feelings in the end, their relationship seems one-sided at times, with Dante falling fast and hard while Ari struggles to feel any physical urges for anyone (male or female). I was sure that he was going to be revealed as being either asexual or demisexual at the end, as he didn’t seem interested in the discussions about masturbation or kissing. I’m not sure if this was intentional, but it was definitely something I picked up on as I read the novel. Regardless, I appreciated seeing this brought up or implied in a young adult novel, as I haven’t yet seen an author deal with the concept of asexuality before now.

That being said, I still really enjoyed the relationship between Dante and Aristotle, as it showed the importance of having people in your life to lean on and confide in as a teen. Even if Aristotle hadn’t turned out to be gay, he immediately accepts Dante for who he is, growing incredibly protective of his friend and resistant to any sort of homophobia hurled is way. This is evident in the way he hunts down the boys who beat Dante up near the end of the novel for kissing another boy, bringing out a rage in Ari that he wasn’t even aware he possessed. This also ties into Ari’s relationship with his estranged brother, who was jailed for killing a transgender prostitute when Ari was still very young. This is yet another subtle look into homophobia, as well as the relationships between family members that permeate the novel’s many plot threads.

Aside from the relationship between the two titular characters, I really appreciated the themes of love and support found throughout the novel. Not only do Ari’s parents learn how to heal from their own emotional wounds (Ari’s father has PTSD from his time in Vietnam, while his mother constantly grieves for his imprisoned older brother Bernardo), but they also encourage their son to express his own feelings instead of holding them in. There is also quite a bit of discussion about Dante and Ari’s Mexican-American heritage, and what exactly makes someone “Mexican” or “American” enough to pass. Though it was a small part of the story (taking a backseat to the LGBT themes throughout), I appreciated this small acknowledgement of those who come from mixed cultural backgrounds. I think this helps to reassure young people that it’s okay not to feel as though you truly belong to your culture, as  we are all trying to figure out who we are and where we fit in during our teenage years.

There is a lot of beauty in the interwoven plot lines throughout this story, and I like that they all come together to share a message of being open and supportive of those we care about. We never know what private battles someone is struggling with, so it is crucial to be sympathetic and understanding towards others, even when their actions seem to make little sense. I thoroughly enjoyed this story, and it is definitely one of the best young adult novels I’ve read this year.


Sáenz, B. (2014). Aristotle and Dante discover the secrets of the universe. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster BFYR.


Fire from the Rock by Sharon M. Draper


“I don’t understand why people are so mean to each other, why one group of people can hate another group of people so much. It makes my head hurt to think of it, but I see it everywhere now. I can see it in the eyes of the bus driver who really doesn’t want me on his bus, and the man at the Rexall drugstore, who thinks I’ll probably steal something.I can feel it in the whispers of people who walk behind me on the street. I wish I was still young like Donna Jean, who is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, making long necklaces of Pop-it beads and only worrying about whether she’ll run out of red ones” (Draper 2007, p. 130).

Thus far in my “Youth Literature for a Diverse Society” class, I’ve been asked to read quite a bit of heavy material. This material has ranged from stories of abuse to stories about teenage pregnancy and the horrors of poverty. All of the literature on the list so far has helped to provide a window into the lives of others, whether they come from a unique culture (as in An Na’s A Step from Heaven) or from a lower socio-economic status (as in Make Lemonade by Virginia Euwer Wolff). This week’s reading has been no exception to that rule, but it has been the first to discuss the hardships of integration in Southern schools. I found this book to be incredibly powerful and moving for many reasons, the most poignant being that this scenario actually happened. As Sharon Draper states in her author’s note at the end of the novel, “Sylvia Faye and her family are fictional, but the nine students who integrated the school are very real” (Draper 2007, p. 229). Though I’d heard of the Little Rock Nine before, I’d never given much thought to how difficult their journey to integration truly was… until now.

Fire from the Rock, though dealing with the very real issue of integration in public schools in the 1950s, focuses on the story of a fictional girl named Sylvia Patterson. Until now, Sylvia has only had to worry about doing well in school, navigating the social world of boys and school dances, and being a good daughter and role model to her younger sister Donna Jean. The novel begins in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1957, as the school district is beginning the process of integration. When Sylvia is recommended for the list of students who will integrate into Central, the local all-white high school, she and her family must make a crucial decision: Should Sylvia risk her safety (and the safety of her family) to help change the world, or keep things exactly the way they are?

Though this book does a wonderful job of describing the hardships of African Americans during the time of segregation and the Civil Rights Movement, I was impressed to see that this wasn’t the sole focus of the novel. Sylvia’s best friend is a white girl named Rachel Zucker, whose family fled from Germany during WWII. It is made clear throughout the novel that Rachel’s father survived the horrors of Auschwitz, only to come to America and be faced with more scorn from other white people. One of the white women on the school board actually remarks to Sylvia that she doesn’t have any “real” white friends, as there was heavy discrimination even within the white community during this time. In addition, Draper doesn’t paint all white people as being racist, bigoted and hateful; there are actually quite a few young people who are entirely willing to integrate, and only a few (specifically the Crandalls) who still see African Americans as being lesser than white people. I appreciated Sharon Draper’s ability to show the horrors of segregation without painting all white people as the enemy; I think she did an incredible job of portraying this difficult time in history accurately and fairly.

Along with portraying some of the white characters as helpful and sympathetic, Draper also added several African American characters who handled integration the wrong way as well. For example, Sylvia’s brother Gary, as well as her school crush Reggie, are both portrayed as being full of anger, willing to bomb stores and hurt people to enact change. Near the end of the novel, Reggie’s flirtation with violence comes to a head when he accidentally bombs the Zuckers’ store, nearly killing Sylvia and everyone else inside. Draper is clearly using this to show that violence is never the answer, and that answering hatred with hatred never works. Again, this was incredibly eloquent, wise, and fair to the time period, showing that things were not quite as clear-cut as we may believe. The addition of historical details (mentions of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Little Rock Nine, Elvis Presley, etc.) help to paint a fairly accurate picture of what it might have been like to live during this tumultuous time in American history, and I feel as though I learned a lot more about integration and the conflicting politics of the time period.

Often when I read books set during particularly controversial periods in history, I can’t help but compare them to the political climate of today. It seems that history has a dangerous tendency to repeat itself, and I see many parallels between the civil rights movement for LGBTQ people and the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 60s. I often wonder what I would have done id I’d lived during the time of segregation. Would I have stood up for my fellow human beings, or would I have hidden on the sidelines, afraid to make waves? I’d like to think that I would’ve been one of the white people helping with the integration process, as I try my best to advocate for the civil rights of others today. The uncomfortable truth is, however, that I’m not sure how I would’ve reacted if I’d lived during the time of segregation; none of use really are. Reading books like Fire from the Rock help to propel us out of our privileged comfort zone, reminding us that things were far from equal not even a century ago in the United States.

It might be a tired old cliche to say that “those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it,” but I think there’s a reason this phrase has not died out over the years. It’s crucial that we never forget historical events like slavery, the Holocaust, and segregation; these are supposed to make us feel uncomfortable, because we now recognize how fundamentally wrong these things were. If we choose to ignore the historical truths that make us uncomfortable, we risk forgetting they ever happened, leading us to discriminate against others in entirely new ways in the future. It’s a dangerous cycle, and one that I think novels like Fire from the Rock are trying to end. By putting ourselves in the shoes of others, we can build empathy and understanding, helping us to work with other cultures, races, religions, and sexualities to create a world that is accepting of everyone, not just the majority.

I’m of the belief that we are far more alike than we are different, and I’m grateful to this book for reminding me of the privilege I’ve had for most of my life. I’ve never once had to fear for my life while heading to school, or worry that there might not be a school tomorrow for me to go to in order to get my education. I’ve never been discriminated against because of the pigment in my skin, or bullied and spat on because I’m part of a minority group. I think more people need to recognize that privilege does exist, and be empathetic to those who have not grown up with the same privileges. Reading diverse literature helps us to experience the hardships of others through the comfort and safety of our own homes, and open our eyes to the lives of those who are different from us. Sylvia and her family might be fictional, as Draper says, but the students who bravely faced the hatred and opposition of angry mobs to go to school every day were very real, and they have my full respect. This was an excellent work of historical fiction, and one that I would encourage everyone to read. If you’re willing to leave your comfort zone in order to face uncomfortable truths from the past, there’s no telling what you might learn.


Draper, S. M. (2007). Fire from the rock. New York, NY: Dutton Children’s Books.

Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell


“Eleanor was right: She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something” (Rowell 2013, p. 165).

“What were the chances you’d ever meet someone like that? he wondered. Someone you could love forever, someone who would forever love you back? And what did you do when that person was born half a world away?” (Rowell 2013, p. 301).

The more I read for this blog, the harder it is to choose a favorite. This was the first book by Rainbow Rowell that I’d read, and I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t waited quite so long to pick up some of her work! I absolutely adored this book; it had such a simple story, and yet the main characters were so pure and innocent that it was hard not to be completely absorbed by their romance. The book explores many tough themes, from child abuse and alcoholism to bullying and self-esteem, but it never once feels preachy or forced. Instead, this novel feels honest; each of the characters is incredibly believable, and none are without flaws or imperfections. As someone who enjoys fantasy and sci-fi, I’m always surprised when I find a work of realistic fiction that really resonates with me.

Eleanor & Park, as you might imagine, follows the story of two misfit teens, Eleanor Douglas and Park Sheridan. At the beginning of the novel, Eleanor has only recently moved back into the area, and is now attending Park’s school for the first time. Eleanor comes from a broken home; her parents are separated, and her mom remarried an alcoholic man who is verbally abusive to Eleanor, her mom, and her four young siblings. Eleanor struggles with self-esteem and weight issues, and frequently suffers from vicious bullying at the hands of her new classmates, who refer to her as “Big Red.” Park is Korean and somewhat popular, hanging around with a group he doesn’t necessarily like in order to avoid the bullying. Though his parents have a strong marriage and clearly love him, he constantly struggles to live up to the expectations of his strict father, who sees him as a bit of a “sissy.” When Eleanor steps onto the bus on her first day of school, nobody is willing to give her a seat. That is, of course, until Park reluctantly moves over, sharing his space with the new misfit. The two slowly begin to form a friendship as the year drags on, learning more and more about each other until they’re completely inseparable. Eleanor & Park is a heart-warming story of acceptance, friendship, family, and the courage to pursue young love even when you know it has no chance of lasting.

This book reminds me a lot of Judy Blume’s Forever, as it toys with the idea of first love and how it rarely lasts in our modern society. While Forever deals more with sex, consent, and contraceptives, however, Eleanor & Park focuses on issues such as bullying and broken homes. While Eleanor and Park experiment a little with their sexuality, they never actually go “all the way,” putting the focus much more on the emotional side of their growing relationship. One of the biggest themes I noticed throughout the novel was acceptance, and what it took for Eleanor to be accepted by her peers and those around her. When the novel begins, Eleanor is the weird new girl, whose weight and bright red hair make her an instant target for bullies. As the novel progresses, she continually finds crass, obscene things written in her textbooks, and at one point her clothes are even thrown in the toilet, forcing her to walk home in nothing but her tight gym uniform from school.

After reading the novel, I found myself wanting to know what happened next, leading me to Rainbow Rowell’s FAQ page. To my dismay, I saw that one of the most frequently asked questions was “whether or not Eleanor was actually fat.” This saddened me, as I don’t think anyone’s weight (fictional character or otherwise) should matter as long as he or she is healthy. In fact, Eleanor is malnourished throughout the story, only getting proper meals when she visits Park at his home. Her weight clearly has nothing to do with an unhealthy lifestyle, and yet she is ridiculed and ostracized for it by her peers. I could tell that Rainbow Rowell was disheartened by receiving this question as well; she linked to a very powerful article in her response, in which a woman describes her own struggle with acceptance due to her weight and low self-esteem. Eleanor is overweight, yes, but finds love and acceptance anyways, thus proving that her weight never really mattered at all. She is strong, smart, and tough, and manages to find her own happy ending despite her struggles with weight and bullying. The author of the article, Kaye Toal, describes in immense detail what reading about Eleanor’s struggles at age 23 meant to her:

“I wonder how my life would have been different if I’d met Eleanor Douglas earlier. If Eleanor and Park had existed when I needed it most, would I have read it instead of She’s Come Undone? Would I have developed an eating disorder so violent that I still can’t think about it too hard without wanting to crawl under a bed and stay there in the dark and quiet for several hours? Would I have been able to forgive my parents sooner? Would I have been able to forgive myself? I think maybe the answer to some of these things is yes” (Toal 2015).

If this isn’t proof that representation matters in fiction, I don’t know what is. It’s no secret in our society that young girls are often self-conscious about their bodies and their weight, and their doubts are often perpetuated by media that portrays women as unrealistically thin and fit. All too often, “being fat” is seen as an ultimate taboo, a reason to be shunned and picked on and made to feel inferior. For Eleanor, her weight becomes a source of empowerment, as she meets someone (Park) who loves her for who she is, curves and all. This was a heart-warming and much-needed change in fiction, and especially YA fiction, as it teaches girls that it’s okay to love yourself and your body, and that the right person will love everything about you.

While Eleanor is an excellent example of representation, however, I was a little more confused by Park. He is frequently described as being half-Korean (his father met his mother in Korea while serving in the military overseas), but it sometimes seems like the author is doing this for the sake of adding diversity to the story. On the one hand, I think it’s wonderful that an Asian character is being portrayed as a love interest, as this rarely happens in young adult literature. Similarly, Park seems to be Korean without being reduced to a stereotype; he doesn’t act any different than any of his peers. In fact, if Rowell had decided not to mention that he and his mother are Korean, I doubt the audience would even have noticed, which can be either negative or positive depending on your point of view. White people, for example, come from a variety of European nations; you wouldn’t know just by looking at someone whether their ancestors were from Spain or Germany or France. While you can clearly tell if someone is of Asian descent, their appearance tells you nothing about whether or not they’re Korean, Japanese, Chinese, or from another culture entirely. Park’s mother is very traditional (and speaks in sometimes disjointed English), but otherwise doesn’t flaunt his Korean heritage. This seemed to be the effect Rowell was going for; that people are just people, regardless of their heritage or place of origin.

That being said, Park’s Korean heritage didn’t quite add to the story in the way Eleanor’s red hair and weight did. He was never bullied for it (he mentions at one point that he’s been called racial slurs like “chink” before, but it doesn’t appear to have had a significant effect on him), and it is only brought up in passing as a joke every once in a while. I can’t pretend to know the reason for this, but I would hope that the author didn’t intend to pass Park off as the “token Asian” character. Similarly, Eleanor makes two friends in school named DeNice and Beebi, who stand out almost as “token African American” characters. While they seem to be the only two girls who treat Eleanor like a person instead of a punching bag (they protect her and make her feel more welcome and accepted at the school), they sometimes speak in a stereotypical manner, and serve no other purpose to the plot other than helping to build up Eleanor whenever she can’t be with Park. I didn’t have a huge problem with them, but I can’t help but wonder how a young African American reader might feel about their interactions with Eleanor. Sadly, I cannot speak for that demographic; I can only speculate as to whether or not the characters of DeNice and Beebi are respectful or offensive.

Despite the novel’s sometimes mixed messages on race, however, there are many themes explored in Eleanor & Park that I found to be extremely well done. For example, Eleanor comes from a broken home. Her parents divorced sometime before the beginning of the novel, and her mother is now married to a man who physically and verbally abuses his wife, and also verbally abuses Eleanor and her siblings. In addition, he spends the family’s hard-earned money on booze instead of buying food and necessities, only pitching in when he’s in a decent mood (which, as you can imagine, is rare). This character, named Richie, was absolutely terrible; I couldn’t stand him, and I kept hoping something awful would happen to him at the end of the book. The saddest part of reading this book, however, was knowing that there are real children out there suffering at the hands of abusive parents just like Richie; reading a book like this might give them hope that a better life exists out there if they can only hang on a little longer.

I also like that, while Park had a seemingly “perfect” and “normal” family (his parents are still together, and clearly making enough money to live comfortably), this doesn’t mean that Park’s life is “perfect.” Based on his father’s reaction when Park starts wearing eyeliner near the middle of the book, I can only imagine what he would have done if Park had turned out to be gay. His father clearly loves him, but is incredibly harsh on Park, berating him for every little thing he does that comes across as being “less than masculine.” This juxtaposition of the two families shows young readers that, no matter your situation, everyone is facing their own demons. The “perfect family,” or the family we might see a version of on our Facebook feed, does not exist; it’s merely an illusion covering up battle scars that we know nothing about. Eleanor and Park have very different problems, but are able to help one another through those problems by being supportive and empathetic towards one another. This was a very poignant message, and one that I think comes across exceedingly well.

While Eleanor & Park definitely has its flaws, it is ultimately an endearing story about hope, family, and the power love has to lift us out of miserable situations. Eleanor and Park are able to find a refuge in one another, if only for a brief moment in time, and I think both of them are better off for it in the end. Through their relationship, those around them (such as Park’s mother, who dislikes Eleanor at first due to her strange clothing and quiet nature) begin to learn both tolerance and acceptance; even Tina, the source of most of Eleanor’s misery at the beginning of the book, ends up helping to hide her when her step-father comes looking for her near the end. Though the book deals with incredibly heavy themes (abuse, divorce, alcoholism, etc.), I somehow still found it to be an incredibly pure, simple story. It is a story about how love can transform us, allowing us to see others in a completely new light as we learn more about their hopes, flaws, and daily struggles. My only real gripe is that this book doesn’t currently have a sequel; I would love to know what happens to Eleanor and Park’s relationship after the conclusion of the book. While, in reality, they likely wouldn’t last past high school, something in me still hopes that these two characters might find a happy ending despite the odds.


Rowell, R. (2013). Eleanor & Park. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin.

Toal, K. (2015, March 11). How Finding A Fat YA Heroine Changed My Life. Retrieved January 22, 2017, from https://www.buzzfeed.com/kayetoal/that-knife-of-recognition?utm_term=.phjn2LBMn#.sx2ozqlro.


When the Moon Was Ours by Anna-Marie McLemore


“Now that he knew [she] was like him, he understood, and she knew that both he and she were creek beds, quiet when they were full and quiet when they were dry. But when they were half-full, wearing a coat of shallow water, the current bumped over the rocks and valleys in the creek beds, wearing down the earth. Giving someone else a little of who they were hurt more than giving up none or all of it” (McLemore 2016, pp. 101 – 102).

“‘We don’t get to become who we are for nothing. It costs something. You’re fighting for every little piece of yourself. And maybe I got all of me at once but I lose everything else. Don’t you dare think there’s any water in the world that makes this easy'” (McLemore 2016, pp. 154-155).

As with most magical realism, this book is rather difficult to describe without giving away the entire plot. I’ll admit that, at first, I had a hard time getting into it; I remember thinking to myself, “What drugs was McLemore on while she was writing this book?” As with most things I read, however, I decided to push through the awkward phase of beginning an unfamiliar book, giving it a chance even though I wasn’t feeling it at first. I am so very glad I did. This book is gorgeously written, with descriptive language and stunning imagery. It feels almost like reading Shakespearean language or a work of complex poetry, and the messages inside are simply beautiful.

When the Moon Was Ours follows the story of two teens, both of whom are known for being the odd ones out in their small town. Samir, nicknamed “Sam” or “Moon,” is known best for painting and hanging moons all over town and in the forest, moons that help young children sleep at night. Miel was discovered when she was only five years old, toppling out of an old and rusted water tower as it was torn down. This, however, is not the only strange thing about Miel; she is best known for growing roses out of her wrists, roses that will not wilt or die after being plucked. Also in town are the mysterious Bonner sisters, four inseparable girls believed by the rest of the town to be witches. For many years, they were able to charm any boy in town, but after one of the sisters is sent away for getting pregnant, the sisters seem to lose their mysterious powers. Desperate, they seek out Miel, believing her roses have special powers. The sisters begin to blackmail Miel, threatening to share every secret she’s tried desperately hard to hide if she doesn’t give up the flowers that grow from her wrists. What follows is a slowly unraveling mystery, as both Miel and Sam attempt to discover who they really are.

This book was, in a word, trippy. During the first few chapters alone, there is a girl growing flowers from her wrists, pumpkins turning into glass, and a woman who cures people of their love-sickness by creating a magic potion and literally pulling it out of their bodies. I wondered more than once what on earth was going on, and initially thought I’d made a big mistake in choosing this book to review. Though I enjoyed Laura Ruby’s Bone Gap and Leslye Walton’s The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender, magical realism is still sometimes hard for me to grasp. It took a little while for me to get used to the style of writing, and I had to read slowly and carefully to make sure I didn’t miss any details about the plot. This book definitely lends itself to repeat readings, as I’m sure there are many things I missed the first time around.

Perhaps my favorite thing about this book was the way it took me out of my comfort zone, transporting me to a world that resembles our own but seems almost like a really bizarre dream. Many of the elements (such as pumpkins turning into glass) don’t make a lot of sense, but the story itself hearkens back to old folklore and cultural practices. One such practice is the idea of bacha posh, “a cultural practice in parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan in which families who have daughters but no sons dress a daughter as a boy. This daughter then acts as a son to the family. As an adult, a bacha posh traditionally returns to living as a girl, now a woman” (McLemore 2016, p. 272). I was absolutely fascinated by this phenomenon, as I know very little about Afghani culture and couldn’t imagine growing up as a boy. Samir, who comes from this culture, imagines himself as a bacha posh, but feels he can never go back to living as a girl after being a boy for so long. McLemore goes on to explain that “often a bacha posh has difficulty adjusting to her role as an adult woman after years of living as a boy” (p. 272). Though I don’t believe the word transgender is ever uttered in this book, it’s very clear that Sam is undertaking a very powerful journey towards understanding his identity throughout the novel. I thought it was interesting to see this very personal journey tied into the practices of another culture, as it adds to the diversity and stylistic nuances of the book.

In addition to the elements of Pakistani and Afghani culture, there are also elements of mestiza culture. Miel and Aracely (the woman who takes Miel in after she is found) not only use Spanish phrases throughout the book, but portions of the mythology (such as the mother trying to drown her child to expel dark spirits) come directly from this culture (as the author explains in the author’s note at the end). I can only imagine the sheer amount of research the author did into both of these cultures, and how much work it must’ve taken to portray them accurately. I’m honestly not sure if roses growing from someone’s wrist or curing someone of love-sickness through magic are traditions from any particular culture’s mythology, but I have a feeling they’re connected in some way to the traditions McLemore  is pulling from throughout the novel.

Another thing this novel helped me to understand was the plight of two teenagers who love each other coming to terms with their sexual and gender identities. Before I realized Sam was transgender, I had no issue with the (very tastefully written) sex scenes in the book. Once I knew he was physically a girl, however, I’m ashamed to say that I felt a bit uncomfortable reading about their romance. I kept wondering, “Well how does that even work?” and my curiosity was piqued. Even though I felt I was already pretty open-minded about LGBT issues, this story helped open my eyes and my mind a little bit more, and for that I’m grateful to McLemore. It’s entirely possible to feel like a certain gender without having the genitalia to match, and it’s entirely possible to be attracted to someone who doesn’t have the genitalia you expect for that gender. I generally avoid thinking about what sex and dating might be like for someone who is transgender, mostly because I understand that it’s none of my business but also because I don’t want to think too hard about it. This fictional tale of two teens fighting to be together despite these circumstances allowed me to examine these issues without hurting anyone else or invading personal space, and I think this novel is a great way to help explain gender and sexuality to someone who has a very close-minded view of these concepts. This book taught me that, despite my progressive views, I don’t know everything about the LGBT community, and that this is perfectly okay. The important thing for allies to understand is that we don’t know everything, and we need to make our best efforts to listen to the plights of others in an effort to understand their feelings better.

As Miel herself explains in the novel, “[E]ven if they were the same inside their jeans, he was so different from her that she could not imagine his body as her own… No matter what their bodies had in common, she and Sam were not the same” (p. 182). If this book could help me to understand this sometimes difficult concept, I can only imagine how much it might help someone struggling with his or her own gender identity, or someone questioning their own sexuality because they happen to love someone who is transgender. Though Miel loves Sam, and is constantly teased by the Bonner sisters for “liking girls,” she does not consider herself to be a lesbian. She sees Sam as he wants to be seen, as a boy in every way. To me, this creates a beautiful love story, as it shows that the right person will accept you no matter what, despite your deepest flaws and insecurities. This book explores love and gender identity in very meaningful ways, and I think it could do a lot of good for a teen who is going through some of the same issues.

Magical realism is certainly an acquired taste, and it’s not right for everyone, especially reluctant readers (who might want to start with something easier to comprehend before diving into this work). This book seems more suited to people who feel as though they’ve read everything, and want to try something challenging or different. It’s perfect for people like me, who love the craft of writing and enjoy exploring new and poetic styles. McLemore is excellent at playing with language, and conveying the story in unconventional ways. The book starts slow and is pretty difficult to get into, but if you can stick with it, the story will pay off ten-fold. This was a truly beautiful work of fiction, and one that I’m very glad I gave a chance. If you’re ever feeling adventurous, or just want to give something new and unusual a try, then this is a perfect story for you. It also explores sensitive issues in an extremely real and heartfelt way, and I think it could do a great deal to help teens feel more comfortable in their own skin. In the end, I leave you with the author’s words, from her dedication at the beginning of the book:

“To the boys who get called girls,

the girls who get called boys,

and those who live outside these words.

To those called names, 

and those searching for names of their own.

To those who live on the edges,

and in the spaces in between.

I wish for you every light in the sky.”

(McLemore 2016)


McLemore, A.-M. (2016). When the moon was ours. New York: Thomas Dunne Books.

Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson


I do not know if these hands will become

Malcolm’s – raised and fisted

or Martin’s – open and asking

or James’s – curled around a pen.

I do not know if these hands will be


or Ruby’s

gently gloved

and fiercely folder

calmly in a lap,

on a desk,

around a book,


to change the world…” (Woodson 2014, p. 5).

I absolutely adored the flow of Woodson’s poetry, which left me feeling inspired and ready to conquer my own world. Much like Kwame Alexander’s The Crossover, this book is written in free verse poetry, playing with words in a way that makes the story being told come to life. The difference with Brown Girl Dreaming, however, is the fact that this book is a memoir rather than a work of fiction, detailing Woodson’s childhood growing up in both North Carolina and Brooklyn. I loved getting a glimpse into the mind of a talented writer; her personal poetry was a creative and unique way for her audience to see what growing up during the Civil Rights Movement was like, and her stories will leave every reader relating to her very human struggles.

In this personal, poetic account, Woodson begins by describing the moment of her birth, the details of which have been lost to memory over time. She then goes on to talk about what it was like to grow up in the South during the Civil Rights Movement, learning about peaceful protests, sit-ins, Malcom X, the Black Panthers, Rosa Parks, and the Freedom Riders. Though we all know this part of history existed, it becomes all the more real when someone writes what it was like to live through it in her own words, making this memoir an incredibly unique look at both history and the early life of an individual who was once searching for her place in life.

What struck me most about this book was just how relatable Woodson’s stories are. Not all of us have lived through the Civil Rights Movement, of course, but many of us have dealt with things like drifting friendships, the death of a grandparent, and having to move to a new, unfamiliar city. Many children, and even adults, can relate to these scenarios, as they are incredibly human experiences that resonate with readers of every age. Woodson’s words were inspiring, especially when you realize she lived in her sister’s shadow for most of her young life, feeling inadequate while harboring her own desire to write and tell stories. This memoir proves that you do not have to be at the top of your class to do great things, and that following your passion is important. Woodson wanted to be a writer more than anything else, so that is what she pursued, ignoring those who told her it was impractical. This was a small portion of the book, but crucial nonetheless, as kids need to see positive role models in their literature. Woodson’s poetry inspires children to follow their dreams, whatever those dreams may be, and reminds them that no dream is unattainable with enough faith and hard work.

As I mentioned above, this book also impressed me because of the way it plays with poetry. Woodson often quotes Langston Hughes in the work, introducing children to a famous poet while also sharing poetry of her own, poetry oozing with personality and character. I’ve come to realize that, while I appreciate traditional poetry, free verse leaves a lot more room for the author to play with language. I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing it, but Woodson’s free verse poetry was a joy to read from start to finish. When I started the book, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to follow Woodson’s story due to the poetry (as I sometimes have a hard time following poetry), but she made it abundantly clear (at least in my opinion) what was going on in each section. To me, this was an incredibly unique way to write an autobiographical work, as it mixes a simple story about the author’s past with her actual poetry, adding heart and substance to what would have otherwise been very straightforward. It was almost like reading the personal diary of a friend, getting a glimpse into the very heart and soul of another person; Woodson does not hold back her thoughts and feelings, even if those thoughts aren’t so nice. This made for an incredibly raw and real experience, and one that I think children will appreciate.

Many children find it hard to understand “classic” poetry, so I think introducing them to a book like Brown Girl Dreaming or The Crossover would be an excellent way to warm a reluctant reader up to the genre. Jumping headfirst into Robert Frost or Walt Whitman might be too difficult for someone who isn’t used to poetry, but showing them a narrative (fictional or otherwise) written in a modern style makes poetry much more accessible and far less scary. It might not teach proper poetic style (as both books are written in free verse), but it could show a child that poetry doesn’t have to be hard to understand. Poetry, much like prose, is very diverse, and telling a story in prose can show children that they don’t necessarily have to follow strict rules when writing from their heart; the most important thing is writing what you feel as it comes, making the words authentic. Woodson’s poetry comes from a very intimate place, and flows organically without being forced. A teacher could easily have a child read this book and then write his or her own free verse poem about a specific event or emotion, helping them to really connect with her words in a way that regular prose might not.

Though this book is simple, I think it has the power to resonate with a large audience, as it is accessible, short, and full of moments that many children (and adults) can relate to. The story blends a little bit of historical context with Woodson’s personal trials, making for a highly entertaining and thought-provoking read that will make you want to quickly binge the rest of Woodson’s work. I highly recommend it to any fan of either poetry or autobiographical works, as it’s a rare treat that is more than deserving of its National Book Award.


Woodson, J. (2014). Brown girl dreaming. New York: Nancy Paulsen Books.

The War That Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley


“I knew Susan wasn’t real. Or, if she was a tiny bit real, sometimes, at the very best she was only temporary. She’d be done with us once the war was over, or whenever Mam changed her mind” (Bradley 2015, p. 202).

“She was lying. She was lying, and I couldn’t bear it. I heard Mam’s voice shrieking in my head. ‘You ugly piece of rubbish! Filth and trash! No one wants you, with that ugly foot!’ My hands started to shake. Rubbish. Filth. Trash. I could wear Maggie’s discards, or plain clothes from the shops, but not this, not this beautiful dress. I could listen to Susan say she never wanted children all day long. I couldn’t bear to hear her call me beautiful” (Bradley 2015, p. 214).

I’ve read many books in my day, but none have made me angrier than this one. I wasn’t angry with the book itself, of course; the book was beautifully written and full of wonderful, engaging characters. From the very first page, however, I developed an unrelenting hatred for “Mam,” wishing the novel would take pity on its readers and end her in a brutal way. I know; these are strong words for a fictional character in a children’s novel. I just absolutely cannot stand to see child abuse in any form, even if I know it’s only fiction. Sadly, there are many children out there who have faced (and are currently facing) the abuse Ada and Jamie must face in this book, a thought that made the abuse in this novel all the more real and infuriating. Mam simply serves as an easy target for the rage I have towards anyone who would harm a child. That being said, I absolutely loved this book, and found it to be another incredibly moving work of historical fiction.

The War That Saved My Life is set in London, England, during the very beginning of World War II. The story follows a little girl named Ada, who has been locked away her entire life due to her clubfoot, which her abusive mother finds shameful and humiliating. Ada’s “Mam” frequently beats her, locks her away, refuses to feed her properly, and forces her to spend the night in roach-infested cupboards for minor offenses. Though her “normal” brother Jamie receives slightly better treatment, the two are highly abused and living in complete filth and squalor. This changes when an order is sent out, requiring all of London’s children to be sent to the countryside for safe-keeping during the war. Though Ada’s mom refuses to let her go, Ada decides she’s finally had enough of her horrible circumstances and runs away with Jamie in tow. The two feel unwanted at first, but eventually end up in the home of a lady named Susan Smith, who treats them with the kindness and compassion they’ve never had from their mother. Though reluctant at first, Susan soon grows to love the children as her own, showing Ada that she might be worthy of love after all. The War That Saved My Life is a beautifully told story of love, courage, and how it’s always possible to find freedom and peace… even in the middle of a war.

Ada was such an easy character to root for. My heart broke for her, just as it has for many of the protagonists in the books I’ve read this semester. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could be so cruel to her own child, denying her necessary treatments and hiding her away like some sort of “freak.” Part of me wondered how a child like Wonder‘s Auggie would have fared in such conditions, without a supportive and loving family willing to help him through his medical conditions. This, of course, was even more heart-breaking, as I know there are parents out there who would abandon any child who wasn’t “perfect” from birth. What Mam does to Ada is, arguably, much worse than abandonment. She locks Ada in cupboards for trying to get food, beats her relentlessly even for looking out the window, and constantly belittles her because of her clubfoot, calling her a “freak” and a “lousy cripple.” There were times, while reading this book, that I got so angry I had to put it down. I honestly wouldn’t have minded if a bomb had dropped on Mam while the children were away, leaving them free to live with Susan forever. It was a horrible thought, of course, but would’ve been a fitting end for such a cruel, nasty character.

I also loved the theme of freedom throughout this novel, and the irony of a character gaining peace and freedom during one of the world’s most tumultuous times. Though World War II was raging around her, Ada could only focus on her own personal war, the war being waged against her by her own abusive mother. The title of this novel is extremely appropriate, as Ada is only able to see what a real, loving family looks like after fleeing bombs in London. Susan is eccentric and brash, but caring, teaching Ada to read, write, and sew. While in the country, Ada also learns how to ride a horse, making her feel alive and free as she never has on her own two feet. The novel incorporates elements of the real life war into the plot effortlessly, adding moments that make Ada reflect upon her own life with new eyes. For example, in one scene, Susan makes Ada a brand new dress, and Ada feels so guilty wearing it (still feeling like she’s nothing) that she has a complete breakdown on Christmas Eve. The next day, air force pilots from a nearby air base come to visit and play with her and her brother, pilots who later end up dead as the war intensifies. When Ada realizes this, she comes to a stunning realization:

“I understood why I’d been upset on Christmas. I’d felt overwhelmed; I really couldn’t help myself. But now, thinking back, it seemed a little silly to be unhappy about a dress when the pilots were dead. If I had it to do over, I would at least have learned their names” (p. 285).

Though Ada has suffered a number of cruelties in her own life, she holds a great deal of compassion for those fighting in the war. It gets to the point where she has to step out of the theater during the newsreels before the movie, unable to stomach the horrific images of men losing their lives to the war. At one point, Ada volunteers to help bring water to refugee soldiers, and can hardly believe her eyes when one man asks her to write a letter one minute and is dead the next. Though many people know the terrible tragedies of the Holocaust during this time, few stop to think about the horrors taking place in other countries. As the novel progresses, the war becomes worse and worse, the death toll rises, bombs are dropped nightly, and food must be rationed off to citizens. What had once been a distant concept for Ada becomes very real, leading her to fear for her safety and the safety of those around her. This novel does an excellent job of focusing on an individual’s story while relaying the horrors of the time period, including details and specific historical events (such as the Battle of Dunkirk) to add to the realism of the story.

Though it might seem terrible for a child to witness the horrors of war, this was sadly the reality of the time period. This novel does not shy away from the fact that WWII was a nasty, bloody war, but it chooses to focus on a very different kind of injustice, one that might’ve taken place anywhere and during any time period. Framing the story of an abused girl with a clubfoot with the events of World War II add historical detail to an incredibly human story, helping the reader to see this time period in an entirely new light. For Ada, the war might be horrifying, but it is also a blessing, as it allows her to escape her own personal nightmare in order to find a better life. In the end, she’s able to see her own worth and value, and realizes the beauty and warmth of having friends and family, people who support and love you. Though many parts of this novel (especially the abuse) had me fuming, I was so happy to see Ada get her happy ending, and I’d love to see what happened next. I imagine the townspeople helped Susan to rebuild her house, Ada got her foot surgically repaired, and her and her brother were officially adopted. This is certainly a book I wouldn’t mind reading a sequel to, however.

If you’re a fan of historical fiction, or if you simply enjoy stories of bravery, courage, and hope, you will absolutely love this book. It shows the events of World War II from the incredibly unique perspective of a crippled little girl in England, a perspective I’ve certainly never seen before in literature, much less children’s literature. It has moments that will make you laugh, cry, and rage at the book, and will ultimately take you on a miraculous journey through the life of one very special little girl.


Bradley, K. B. (2015). The war that saved my life. New York: Dial Books for Young Readers.

George by Alex Gino


“As the principal spoke, George’s eyes scanned the wall behind her… A sign in the far corner showed a large rainbow flag flying on a black background. Below the flag, the sign said SUPPORT SAFE SPACES FOR GAY, LESBIAN, BISEXUAL, AND TRANSGENDER YOUTH. Reading the word transgender sent a shiver down George’s spine. She wondered where she could find a safe space like that, and if there would be other girls like her there. Maybe they could talk about makeup together. Maybe they could even try some on” (Gino 2015, p. 125).

I had no idea this book existed before I found it on my reading list for my children’s literature class, but I’m so glad that I was able to read it. This book was surprisingly hard to find at my local public library. Whether that’s because of the sensitive subject matter within or the fact that it’s so new, however, I’ll never know. Regardless, I was able to snag a copy from the university library I work in, and I’m thrilled to have the chance to talk about it here on my blog.

George, as the title implies, follows the story of a young boy named George. Though she was born a boy, George knows in her heart that she’s a girl, but is terrified to tell anyone around her for fear of being teased or called a “freak.” At the beginning of the story, George’s class has just finished reading Charlotte’s Web, and will be putting on a play for the rest of the school. George wants nothing more than to play the role of Charlotte, the wise spider with whom she most identifies. George’s teacher, however, refuses to let a boy play Charlotte when there are so many girls eager for the part. Throughout the story, George struggles with the fact that she is secretly a girl, even afraid to share the information with her own mother and brother. George is ultimately the story of a little boy who knows she’s a girl, and must find the courage to show the rest of the world who she really is.

Surprisingly, this is one of the few stories (this and If You Could Be Mine) to feature transgender issues. Though books with gay and lesbian characters have existed for a while, transgender issues have only recently come to light in the world of literature. When I learned that this book would be about a little boy struggling with the possibility of being transgender and transitioning, I was ecstatic; it’s wonderful to see diversity in children’s literature, as children often need to see characters like them. Though I’ve seen young adult books deal with transgender issues in the past, I have yet to see a children’s book tackle them. George, though a simple story, is ground-breaking in that it shows a young child struggling with her self identity and dealing with problems (such as bullying and self-doubt) that plague many real children who might benefit from reading this book.

Though it might not always be realistic, it was nice to see George’s family support her once they found out that she wanted to transition. There are so many parents out there who would kick their child out of the house for even thinking about being gay or transgender, so I think showing a child with a supportive (though worried) mom and brother was very positive representation. George’s mom seems upset at first, but we later learn that it’s because she’s worried about what the rest of society will do to him. She does her best to be supportive at the end of the novel, however, simply asking George to take things “one step at a time” as she adjusts to the new information. It was also wonderful to see that George had an incredibly supportive best friend, one who was willing to let him play the part of Charlotte and defend him against the school bullies.

Speaking of bullies, I was surprisingly okay with the one-note bullies in this story. Usually, I’d take issue with characters who exist solely to be awful, but I think this story needed them in order to convey the severity of George’s decision to transition. While many of his classmates are supportive when he plays Charlotte, the bullies (Jeff and Rick) torment him simply for crying over the spider’s death in the book. Though I obviously cannot climb into the author’s head, I feel that these characters were added to foreshadow how some members of society will treat George later on in his life. The sad reality for many LGBT children is that they are often bullied to extremes, pushed until they see suicide as the only way out. Just as I’m glad Gino gave George supportive friends and family members, I’m glad he chose to show a glimpse of the cruelty of others, as this is important for children to realize. The author was able to convey a sense of hope for children in similar situations (one of George’s teachers even promises to be there for her), while also warning them that not everyone will be so accepting.

Along with providing a “safe book” for children struggling with their sexuality or identity, George also has the power to evoke sympathy in those who have traditionally held anti-LGBT beliefs. Though George is a fictional character, she is impossible to dislike. I can’t think of a single person who would read her story and not feel sympathy for what she’s going through, and this sympathy could help them to see the LGBT community in a new light. Sadly, not everyone who holds anti-LGBT sentiments will give a book with such “controversial” subject material the time of day, but I believe it has the power to change the minds of those willing to give it a chance.

Though George is by no means high art (it’s written very simply and is incredibly short), it’s a wonderful little story that helps to shed light on a marginalized community that could really use more exposure and awareness right now. For that, I applaud Gino. As I mentioned above, all children need to recognize themselves in literature, especially children from marginalized groups. Seeing a character like George presented in such a respectful way could go a long way in helping a child who is struggling with the same problems feel less alone, so I think this book is immensely important. If it helps just one child to feel that he or she is normal and accepted, I think it’s more than worth any expenses required to put the book in that child’s hands.


Gino, A. (2015). George. New York: Scholastic Press.

Esperanza Rising by Pam Munoz Ryan


“‘The fact remains, Esperanza, that you, for instance, have a better education than most people’s children in this country. But no one is likely to recognize that or take the time to learn it. Americans see us as one big, brown group who are good for only manual labor'” (Ryan 2000, p. 187).

“Something seemed very wrong about sending people away from their own ‘free country’ because they had spoken their minds” (Ryan 2000, p. 208).

As I mentioned in my Goodreads review of this book, I didn’t enjoy it quite as much as some of the others I’ve read for this blog. Don’t get me wrong; I really love historical fiction, and I see this as an important part of America’s history to reflect on. This particular story, however, did not pack nearly as much of an emotional punch as some of the other historical fiction I’ve read. That being said, I really enjoyed the historical elements that were present, as well as the themes of family and perseverance that permeated the novel. It’s a decent read, but certainly not one of my favorites so far.

Esperanza Rising follows the story of twelve-year-old Esperanza, a young girl living an almost fairy-tale life on her ranch in Aguascalientes, Mexico. At the beginning of the story, Esperanza lives a charmed life, with a house full of servants who wait on her hand and foot. Most important in her life are her father, mother, and Abuelita, who dote on her and fulfill every request she might possibly have. The night before her thirteenth birthday, Esperanza’s father is murdered by bandits, leaving her and her family at the mercy of her two powerful and money-hungry uncles. When her mother refuses to marry one of them for money, the uncles arrange to have the ranch burned to the ground, leaving Esperanza and her mother to flee the country in search of work in America. Now living as penniless laborers, Esperanza and her mother must build an entirely new life in America while they wait to be reunited with Abuelita, who remains in Mexico due to failing health. Esperanza Rising is the story of courage, perseverance, and the importance of family in times of hardship and uncertainty.

Though I remember reading Esperanza Rising in school as a child, I remembered nothing about the plot before choosing to re-read it as an adult. After experiencing it for a second time, however, I realize this is simply because the book was not memorable enough for me  to really have any recollection of it. While it was a nice read, it holds none of the weight that books like Bridge to Terabithia and The Giver do, books I read for class that I will never forget. Part of this might be due to the main character (I found her intolerable for the first half of the book), but I also think it’s because it lacks the overwhelming depth and historical detail of some of the other historical fiction I’ve read.

While it might be unfair to criticize Esperanza (she is, after all, a product of her privileged upbringing), she says and does some incredibly rude things at the beginning of the book that make it heard to root for her later on. For example, even though she and her mother are penniless and in the same circumstances as many other peasants, Esperanza turns her nose up at them on the train, going as far as pulling away from a little girl and refusing to let her “dirty hands” touch her doll. She changes completely by the end of the book, of course, but it was hard to like her at first. In Laurie Halse Anderson’s Chains, I immediately rooted for Isabel, as she was an instantly likable character. Esperanza’s arrogance at the beginning of this novel might have been purposeful (she eventually learns her lesson and begins to understand that nobody should be placed above anyone else), but I still didn’t appreciate her attitude towards those she deemed to be “lesser” than her. It makes it all the more ironic later on in the novel, as she’s complaining about how others look down on her because of her race. While this obviously isn’t right, it would’ve been nice to see Esperanza reflect for a moment on how she once treated others exactly the same way she hated being treated later on. To me, this would have made that message come across even more clearly, and provided a powerful moment of self-realization that the novel seemed to lack.

I also wish there had been more detail regarding the labor camps and strikes. While Chains gives us a heavily researched, in-depth look at America during the Revolutionary War, Esperanza Rising feels more like fiction than something that might have actually happened. As I mentioned above, this story reads a lot more like a reverse Cinderella story (riches to rags) than it does historical fiction. While we get an idea of the injustices facing laborers and strikers during this time period (we learn that they were forcefully deported even though many of them were U.S. citizens, which was entirely unjust and wrong), these plot threads sometimes take a backseat to Esperanza’s personal story. While I understand that this story is ultimately about her, not the events taking place around her, it would’ve been nice to see more of the “history” behind this novel’s historical fiction categorization.

Despite my nitpicks, however, I did enjoy the theme of family in this book, and thought it was touching to see Esperanza make a personal change in order to help her mother. I might not have liked her much at first, but she grew to be an incredibly strong, level-headed character, one I was able to forgive for her arrogance at the beginning of the novel. I was also impressed with the way Ryan is able to write incredibly three-dimensional characters, characters I wasn’t sure how to feel about at times. For example, Marta starts off as a stereotypical jerk, but we later grow to feel sympathy towards her when we realize that she’s also just trying her best to provide for her family. Like Esperanza, she grew on me throughout the novel, and I found it hard to hate her despite her abrasiveness.

In fact, I felt conflicted about the strikers in general throughout the story, which tells me that this plot thread was done incredibly well. Part of me understood why they were doing what they were doing (after all, America was built on the idea of protesting peacefully against things you fee to be unfair or problematic), but I found myself worrying about Esperanza and her friends. I kept saying to myself, “Why would they sabotage their fellow immigrants? They all want the same thing.” It then dawned on me that this is one of many examples of how two groups can want the same thing, but disagree about how best to achieve that goal. The strikers felt it in their rights to demand better living conditions and pay, and I found myself agreeing with them from time to time (especially after learning about the new Oklahoma camp near the end of the novel). As can be seen when Esperanza helps Marta hide from the U.S. officials, the immigrants were more than happy to come together and help each other out when it counted, likely making them much stronger in the long run.

While this book wasn’t one of my favorites, I’m glad I gave it another shot as an adult. I appreciated seeing a small glimpse of a lesser known part of American history (I had no idea immigrant labor camps existed, but it makes complete sense now that I think about it), and I really was invested in Esperanza’s story. I would have liked to see more of the history, but I respect that this novel was meant to focus on the story of a fictionalized young girl instead of the history. If I was judging solely on the story itself, I’d give this book five stars. Because it is labeled as historical fiction, however, I had to bump it down a bit, as I’ve read much more engaging historical fiction in the last year alone.

If you love historical fiction, The Book Thief and Chains would probably be better choices, but Esperanza Rising is still well worth a shot if you have the time. I wish I’d enjoyed it more than I did, but I suppose it’s impossible for us to love every single book that we read. This book, for me, simply fell a little short. The things it does well (such as the elements of family and gray moral areas) are done incredibly well, but the lack of historical detail made it fall flat. If you’re still curious, however, definitely give this book a shot; these are only my opinions, after all, and you might find yourself enjoying it much more than I did. It’s still an entertaining and easy read, and one that reminds us of the importance of family in times of crisis. Though simple, I think that’s an incredibly important and powerful lesson, and one that can help us through even our darkest struggles.


Ryan, P. M. (2000). Esperanza rising. New York: Scholastic Press.