Book Review: Fighting Words

I will say it again. (I said it on social media already.) And again and again and again. Holy Snow. 

I love books. I enjoy most books. I read fun books, mostly, with some element of depth to them, but let’s call a spade a spade. They’re mostly about entertainment and empathy. But this book. Holy snow. 

Fighting Words by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley is a powerful, heart-wrenching work about more than its premise, which is weighty and deserving in itself. Although statistics vary, data shows 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 13 boys fall victim to sexual abuse at some point in their childhood. Yet, I cannot think of a single middle grades book (other than this one) that deals with the topic at all, let alone as tactically and expertly as Bradley’s Newbery Honor Book. 

Della informs you that she’s ten from the start of Fighting Words, the story she narrates. She begins with the simple facts and builds to the difficult narratives and sub-narratives. From the beginning of Della’s account, she and her older sister Suki find themselves in foster care. Their mother, whom Della barely remembers except for one explosive incident (literally), is an incarcerated meth addict. The man with whom they were left at her incarceration, well, that’s where some of the difficulty resides. It was his inappropriate assault of Della that led to their removal from his care. The scene gets told, once Della is ready to tell it, leaving the reader with a sense of horror and revulsion without feeling the scene crossed a literary line for the target audience. How can a scene be appropriately inappropriate? I don’t know. But I read one in this book.

The quality of the writing and the voice is worthy of the topic here. It would have to be to have the audacity to attempt to deal with sexual abuse, abandonment, and the aftermath. Importantly, Bradley writes from experience, and confesses to such in the author’s note. But this is not a book about trauma; it’s a book about healing. 

Like any healing process, Della and Suki do not have a clear and easy path to follow. Della has trouble with a boy named Trevor at school. She pushes people away with her use of four letter words (which, in the book, she substitutes for snow, snowman, snowflake, etc.) both deftly and intelligently. Suki is the only person Della could rely on to take care of her. But Suki has had to parent Della since she was herself six. Now that they’re in foster care, and preparing for court with their abuser, there are plenty of proficient adults to care for Della. And for Suki, too. But Suki and Della don’t always know how to let them or how to trust them.

The characters grow in themselves as the narrative progresses. Della tells you the hard parts. Even the hardest part. (Read with tissue nearby. She’ll warn you it’s coming.) And show you their courage along the way.

There are multiple characters with “bad stories” in this book. Some of which you hear, some of which you don’t. (Even Della and Suki shy away from the explicit and ugly details of everything– making it both tasteful and challenging for a middle grade audience, yet better to be read with someone to talk to through it.) Some of those bad stories relate to poverty, some to abuse, some to mental health. What Bradley makes clear is each character has a story whether they tell it or not.

Fighting Words embodies its title. This is Della. Telling you her story. In her words. With courage. With bravery. With love. With fight. You may not hear many ten-year-olds tell you about their abusive experiences. I pray you don’t (not because they won’t tell you but because they don’t have them to tell). Listen to her voice. It may inspire you to use your own.

You’ve gotta read this book. It’s the kind of book I live for because it’s not just literature. It’s art. 

Rating: 5/5
Target: 6th grade and up for general audience, younger for children of abuse

Parents, please read this book with your child. Do not send them off to read this and struggle through its content on their own. Better yet, you read it first. Then read it a second time with them. There’s nothing easy about it. But, much like parenting itself, it’s valuable and important. No one said it would be easy. For snowflake’s sake. 

Readers, don’t scoff at the target audience. This book is for older readers as much as it is for middle grade readers. Snow. I could use this in a college course curriculum. It’s that well done.

Shop local bookshops.
Shop Amazon.

Add on Goodreads.

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

Vlog: Happily Every Afters

Not your capital “L” Literature, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth the read. It’s light and fun and I love this protagonist (who is supposedly a lot like the author).

Read the review of the other book mentioned in this vlog here. And tell me if you pick up Happily Ever Afters by Elise Bryant.

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

The Days of Our Pandemic: episode i

a pinkyandthebrainhomage by KZ Rochelle (of course)

K and Z, stuck in the lavender home with blue violet trim on Wonky Way Lane were last seen in the bathroom where K was cleaning up her own throw up.

See what happened in the previous episode of The Days of Our Pandemic.

And now, for today’s episode of The Days of Our Pandemic! Featuring K, Z, and Rochelle.

“I cleaned it up, Z!” K reported.

“Good job, K,” Z said without a morsel of awe or intonation.

Z stared through the looking glass at the mess of a woman before her. Her hair disheveled off her face. Roots reaching down her scalp. A single lined eye.

“My goodness, K. At least make yourself presentable.”

“Ooooh! Do we have a Zoom today? I love Zoom days.”

“Would you like a Zoom today?” Z spoke down to K as to a puppy.

K responded as though a puppy. Her tongue splayed itself outside her mouth, moving like a Coronavirus case line graph.

“We shall see, Z. We shan’t let it get in the way of our plans.”

“Yes, K. Our plans.”

K looked expectantly at Z in the mirror.

“What plans, Z?”

“Our plans, you dimwit!”

“Right-o. Our plans.” K touched up her eye shadow. She stroked on mascara.

“What’re our plans?” K asked Z.

Z sighed. “Same as our plans every day, K. Escape the world enclosed by these four walls.”

A cackling echoed through the room.

“Enough, Rochelle!” Z declared.

The cackling stopped.

“Yeah. Our every day plans,” said K. K stared expectantly at Z. “How will we escape these four walls, Z?”

“We will use the technology of the Zoom call to transport ourselves from our side of the screen to another screen. The jumbo screen at Ray Jay Stadium.”

“Ooooooooooh. Ahhhhhhhh.”

Z rolled her eyes at K.

“Where’s Ray Jay Stadium, Z?”

“It’s in Tampa Bay, K.”

“That’s a long ways away, Z.”

“The longer the better, K.”

“Right-o. How will we do that, Z? How will we get from one screen to the other?”

Z unrolled a scroll. “Behold! The Internet Transportationonometeration Machine!”

K gawked at the image.

“We will build it and use it on the internet to jump on the information highway and surf it along the copper wires that travel under Wonky Way Lane all the way to Tampa Bay.”

“Oooooh.”

Z interrupted K before she could ah. “Yes, and before anyone knows to look for us, we’ll be far, far away.”

Rochelle’s cackles burst through the walls and calmed themselves like a breaking wave. 

“Z, I’ve been wondering…” said K.

“Yes, K?”

“It’s just that….” K trailed off, head cocked considering her thoughts.

“You were asking, K?”

“Yes. If I were to swallow all the phones and computer screens, would I have all their information inside me? Would I be as smart as you, Z?”

“No, K.” Z sank with disappointment. She didn’t know why she always expected K’s questions to be pertinent. 

“Have you tried it?”

“No, K.”

“Then how d’ya know, Z?”

“Because most information these days is hardly digestible.”

K looked pensively into the blank air just beyond her face. “Makes sense, Z.”

“Now! My Internet Transportationonometeration Machine! Here are the directions, K. Let’s get to work.” Z held the scroll so that K could see its contents.

What is a Transportationonometeration Machine? And will it help K and Z make their pandemic pining a reality? Can they escape their four walls? Find out next time in The Days of Our Pandemic.

Vlog Book Review: Amari and the Night Brothers

Check out the book trailer referred to in today’s vlog.

Overall rating: 3.5/5 —- 4/5 for adventure enthusiasts

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

The Days of Our Pandemic: episode z

a pinkyandthebrainhomage by KZ Rochelle (of course)

Outside the lavender home with blue violet trim on Wonky Way Lane, a pair of peregrine falcons chased each other out of a rabbit den, squawking and combating mid-flight. Prior peoples may have seen a harbinger herein, but those who roamed the land had long since considered ancient omens.

In front of the bathroom mirror in said Wonky Way Lane home, the following scene took place. Observe, Reader, from your safe distance on the far side of the screen lest you spiral into what you discover…

“What shall we do today, Z?” K asked the figure in the mirror.

“The same thing we do every day, K,” Z responded. “Escape the world enclosed by these four walls.”

Before K could agree with the brilliance of such an idea, cackling emanated from the walls and reflected off the toothpaste-coated tile floors. 

“Rochelle? Rochelle? Stop that!” K hit the wall with the outside of her fist. 

The cackling continued.

“RO-Chelle!” K pounded. 

The cackling ceased but K already felt regret blooming in the form of a bruise on her wrist.

“Damn you, Rochelle.” K returned to Z’s fresh face in the mirror. She coated it with concealer. “Where were we, Z?”

“Where we always are, K. Escape.”

“Of course, Z. You’re rather a smart one, aren’t you?”

“Always dapper, yes,” Z said, petting down any lingering wrinkles on her sweater.

“Oh, you’re so witty. Smart. Dapper. Good one, Z.” K threw her head back in a chortle, knocking the back of her head on the hospital white wall behind her. “Ouch.” She rubbed the point of impact. 

“Enough of this nonsense,” said Z. 

K snapped to attention. But thought about the back of her head. And wondered if her thoughts came from that spot on the back of her head that had taken a beating. And if her thoughts came from that spot on the back of her head that had taken a beating and now that part of the back of her head had been hit by the wall….wait, no….had hit the wall, then perhaps her thoughts could radiate out faster. Like the pain itself. Throbbing its way from a single point like a ripple. Or, perhaps she’d cracked the spot that held her thoughts and the thoughts that came from that spot on the back of her head would fall into an abyss so dark and lonely they’d never be found again. Or maybe her thoughts…

“K! Listen to me!”

“Yes, Z.”

“We must find our way out of this place. We have been in here for a year. Isolated. Quarantined. Our lives placed on pause while the world outside swims through a COVID-infested ooze.”

“Oooh. Ooze. Is it like slime? I like slime, Z. Maybe we could go swimming too?”

“Yes! But no. Not in the ooze. But we need to get out and into the world again.”

“How will we do that Z?”

Z motioned K with a solitary finger. She beckoned her closer. Closer. Closer to the mirror where Z resided. Until BAM! K knocked her skull against the glass.

“Ouch. That hurt.”

Z rolled her eyes. This happened every morning. K hit her head from behind. She hit her head from the front. They were lucky when she didn’t end up lethargic for the day in consequence, but, still, the continual impact had its effect.

“As I was saying!” declared Z with stentorian posture and a downward struck fist. 

K rubbed her forehead. And her backhead. 

“Yeah, Z. As you were saying.”

“We must escape the confines of these four walls again today the same way we do every day.”

“Right-o, Z! Same way we do every day.” K nodded her head enthusiastically. Then threw up. 

“You’ll have to clean that up before we escape,” said Z evaluating her cuticles. 

They were out of Clorox and bleach and dishwashing soap and detergent and vinegar, so while K cleaned up her mess with a dustpan and some febreeze, Z turned the other way to bake honey banana cupcakes. Again. They always had bananas to go on.

Will K and Z escape their four walls before they go bananas? Find out next time in The Days of our Pandemic….

Click here to read the next installment

Vlog Review: Mary Underwater

Watch the vlog, read the book, share your rating!

Rating 3/5

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

Vlog: One of the Good Ones

Watch the vlog. Then….will you read the book?

If you have read the book, what would you rate it (out of 5)? AND, are you ready for my spoiler question???

And, can anyone tell me how to pronounce the authors’ last name?

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

Poetry: Faustus in his Study

I like art museums, so call me a nerd. You wouldn’t be the first.

It started in Boston, like several of my hobbies, as an assignment to visit the MFA. While the art students sketched in their journals, I wrote. I lament, in this shut-down world, the ability to go to an art museum, to be in the presence of an original, to stare and study and consider every movement in it. And, of course, the story of it.

I came across this poem, written many years ago while at an art museum viewing Rembrandt’s Faustus in His Study, in my journal. Read it. Then comment:
a) What I could improve/what you like
OR
b) Where you most miss visiting (or maybe not most miss just miss — no judgments)

Faustus in His Study

Faustus, Faustus
Glowing grandly
Spreading soundly
Your own dark light
Watching, waiting,

Waxing impatient
By your soul’s own
Grand Delight.
Faustus, Faustus
Staring starkly
As the magic disk revolves
Never noting
Naught before thee

But your own design to grow.
Pride, Impatience
Desire for Greatness
You’ve wound yourself into
The disk that flows.
Spinning, it’s spun you
Woven, it’s won you
To its delights to keep you
Alone.
Alone, you are
Alone, you aren’t.
You are man
Caught among men
Guided by the same sin.

Get the print by Rembrandt.
Read my favorite Faustus, Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe.

Review: Siri, Who Am I?

A friend of mine used to pick up Emma (Jane Austen) every year in an attempt to finish it, but the character of Emma annoyed her so much that it took her well into middle age to accomplish the goal of finishing the book. I couldn’t relate. Emma’s (albeit irritating) naivete and inflated self-importance were necessary to her character development and the plot of the book. Same is true for the character of Mia in Sam Tschida’s Siri, Who Am I? — I promise: the Austen comparison ends there. 

I admit I picked this book up because I thought it would be a YA novel that undermined the image culture of social media saturating the world, and the teen world in particular. (Although I typically reach for the nonfiction work of Sherry Turkle or Jean M. Twenge in that regard, I’m open to bolstering confirmation bias through all genres. Let no one claim otherwise.) This is not a YA book. I was wrong on all my cover of the book judgements. And I’ll tell you why.

5 reasons why Siri, Who Am I? is not an anti-social media YA book

  1. The age of the protagonist.
    Okay, so the premise of the book is the protagonist (at that point, name unknown — see book title) wakes up in the hospital with amnesia. She doesn’t know her name, her age, her birthday, her address, who her friends are, what her life is like, or what she is like. As the book develops, it turns out she’s somewhere in her mid- to late- twenties. YA books are all about teens. The moment your protagonist ages out of high school or maybe even college, sorry. You’re off the YA shelf.
  2. Teenagers (AKA readers of YA) would rip Tchida a new one for regional anachronisms.
    Okay. It’s one regional anachronism. The story is set in Long Beach and travels all over LA and Orange counties — a region of the country, I happen to have grown up in and consider myself relatively familiar with…so familiar, in fact, that I can validate Tschida’s description of the Long Beach Museum of Art where Mia’s amnesia-inducing injury occurred. Spot on. (And, if you’re local to the area, go there….once the world opens again.) BUT, and this is a but bigger than the butts of any of the beautiful characters in this book — and they’re all beautiful characters…which works for LA — Mia repeatedly drives along Pacific Coast Highway. Every time she narrates that fact, she refers to it as the PCH. (Ex from ch.10 : “…we head north on the PCH toward Long Beach…”)
    I, a gracious and forgiving reader (don’t laugh), can overlook the fact that I have never heard any local refer to PCH as the PCH. Not once, let alone the forty to four hundred times Mia does in this book. (Too many? What? Did it stand out too much to me? Hit a nerve? Annoy me as much as Emma annoyed my friend? No way.) I’ve decided the author and editing team must have been fans of SNL’s “The Californians” thereby making the offense forgivable. The freeways are referred to as the 5, the 405, the 10 in Southern Cal vernacular. It’s a simple case of applying the pattern incorrectly like a child who tells you they runned a race.
    Teenagers, though, cherish the opportunity to mock adults who think they know what they do not. (Trust me, my day job is in a high school.) That is all they would take from this book. That, and how pretty the characters are. Which brings me to #3.
  3. The characters are all gorgeous.
    Not just attractive. Gorgeous. How do you enervate the image and filter saturated culture of social media (and Insta, in particular, which plays quite a role in Mia’s search for her true self — she uses her old posts to figure out who she is — not Siri)? You don’t. At most, you can prod it a bit from the inside of the box it built. That may be what Sam Tschida is attempting to do here, but the book falls short of the standard I’d set up for it before I’d cracked the spine.
  4. The inclusion of sex
    I’d like to say the sex, so I’m writing it as a reason but teenage sex occurs in YA (see Rainbow Rowell and so many more). So I can’t use sex as a reason this book is not YA. It’s more that the sex occurs between consenting adults. (see reason #1)
  1. The number of times Mia takes a selfie and posts it.

It never changes. From being let out of the hospital and onward, once Mia has her phone, it’s multiple selfies each day, every day. And you’ll get to read when she receives likes on those posts, even some of the comments. (Actually, this all sounds rather YA, doesn’t it? Damn it. Hmmmm. How to redeem this reason….Got it! YA is not my point on this one.) All this narration around social media and social media posts lack a tinge — or should I say filter? — of negativity. Mia likes social media and it plays an important role throughout the novel and the plotline. One might even say it’s her saving grace making the novel pro social media..

Siri, Who Am I? could be read by high school aged teens. And it does encourage honesty and authenticity on social media. I will give it that. But it is not the book I expected to be reading when I read it. Can you blame me? I claim being influenced by the cover art and title of the book. (Confession: I judge books by their covers. And you do, too.)

MY RATING: 2.5/5 …… Do you agree?

Shop the book on Amazon.

RATINGS GUIDE

٭ = DNF, would not recommend
٭٭ = would not recommend
٭٭٭ = enjoyable, would recommend
٭٭٭٭ = very good, would recommend
٭٭٭٭٭ = amazing, would definitely recommend

My Pestering (Encouraging) Husband

For years, my husband has been telling me to create a blog. His reasoning morphs with the seasons, but the seeds are always there.

“Publish your poetry,” he says.

“Your work could really help people,” he says.

“You read so much,” he says, “and could offer a lot in giving reviews.”

“You’re a talented teacher,” he says. “What about a vlog?”

And, so, he’s worn me down. (I jest.) Here I am. Beginning the blog that will be all those things, probably, and many more. Because, he also says…

“You’re very creative” and “No one can say you’re boring.”

Thank you, dear.