Young person comes to America with nothing. They leave everything including their family and home. They make a better, more prosperous life here. That is how the American Dream is supposed to work. But what happens when you achieve your dreams against all odds, and still lose? Charles Wang is that person.

A Chinese immigrant raised in Taiwan; Charles came to America as a young adult with “just a list of urea in my pocket”. With this surprising secret weapon, he was able to use this ingredient to enhance cosmetics, the reason behind his multi-million-dollar makeup brand. Charles seems to have achieved the American dream; he has a beautiful home, beautiful family and successful career. However, this dream is shattered when he makes a fatal business gamble that costs him everything.

In a rushed flurry of panic, Charles sets out with his second-wife Barbara to collect his children from various points across the country. First, his youngest daughter, Gracie, who goes to a boarding school in Santa Barbara, California. Next, his son, Andrew, who’s in college in Arizona. With this rag-tag of reluctant adolescents, Charles and Barbara take a cross-country road trip to eldest daughter, Saina’s house, in hopes of getting the family back together. Saina is also the only one with an active trust fund her father left her. With that money, Charles hopes to travel to China to claim the land his grandparents lost to communist ruling. A plot as ludicrous as it sounds, the Wangs have many adventures on their way to Helios, New York, facing outrageously impossible situations and even bigger-than-life characters.

First off, as a book featuring an Asian family, written by an Asian author, I appreciate how decisive their race is throughout the story, without it being the catalyst to the plot. The family uses family pet names in Mandarin (Meimei, gege, jiejie, etc.) and even sprinkle some other phonetic Mandarin in there. It makes the novel feel more realistic to the Wangs and Chang does an excellent job of making her character’s meaning clear. However, this can be tedious in excess for those who do not understand even the bare minimal of Mandarin. The decision to make the main cast Asian also plays into the traditional mindset of emphasizing wealth and success. There is a keener sting of losing everything when you had everything, even for a moment. I empathized with Charles’ plight and shame. To have a story that tells of material downfall instead of an uprise makes for a more compelling, albeit saddening story. Unfortunately, even this initial empathy for Charles is not enough the entirety of what feels like a never-ending story. And not in a good way.

The novel is also crass with casual vulgarities flung every other page and countless sex scenes that do little to advance the plot or develop characters. It is a style but not one that I am overly fond of. The author takes too many pains to be clever and witty, when really it is infuriating and worse, boring. The unbelievable circumstances the Wangs faced, unlike Where’d You Go, Bernadette?’s charm or Crazy Rich Asians’ connection with its audience instead falls flat and unfunny. Somewhere between Texas and New Orleans, the book hits the dreaded middle. Saina’s separate story is only mildly interesting but too drawn out. The story tries to make itself significant with clever wording and existential questions but lacks real substance. Andrew’s fling is disturbing and uncomfortable. Splitting everyone up with separate storylines distorts the familial aspect the novel rides on and loses its most powerful weapon, the family unit. Just like the Wangs, the fiery ball of energy the story began with, slowly but surely dissipates until it’s all but gone. Even the last-minute grapple to make meaning of everything is not enough to save this story.

Over night, Japanese Americans went from citizens to “enemy aliens”, regardless of whether they were born in America. World War ll was a horrific period, marked by violence, prejudice, and genocide. Although we tend to focus on the placement of Jews in concentration camps, history should never forget the more than one hundred thousand Japanese sent to internment camps right here in the U.S. And neither should we.

When the Emperor was Divine takes an unflinching look at history through the eyes of an average family surviving extraordinary times. From the newly-posted guidelines following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, to the removal of the family patriarch, the story is viewed from five perspectives, each with a unique voice. The journey from home to the unknown.

Writers have a saying, “the bigger the subject, the smaller you write it”. Otsuka runs with this idea. Simple scenes and gestures make up the story, creating vivid but sparing imagery. Minimalist prose gives the reader just enough to grasp the meaning. It is the children’s limited understanding and flexible mind that conveys the larger metaphors at play. The novel is dystopian, a surreal experience. However, despite being written with multiple perspectives, the continuous use of third person never allows readers to grow too close to the characters on a personal level. It can be distant and cold at times with confusing time jumps. “The boy” describes the people in the internment camp as “inscrutable”, meaning they are impossible to know. And that is exactly what the book is because we will never fully know or understand the experiences of these people and the profound racism that lost an entire generation.

How would you feel if your parents left you at fifteen, for a different country? Scared? Elated? Ambivalent? Eun Ji is both terrified yet resigned when she discovers that her Korean immigrant parents will be returning to their homeland for her father’s job. They decide to leave Eun Ji, who has grown up a California
girl, with her nineteen-year-old brother in America, convinced that they will be better off, despite being an ocean away.

Through poetic prose, Koh reveals the slow unraveling of her young life, starting with her crumbling new house, the death of her beloved pet bird, and her developing eating disorder. Caught between college life and family life, her brother is given a responsibility beyond his years that often leaves him sullen and antagonistic. Perhaps more interesting than Koh’s visits to Korea are her mother’s letters, which she translates. Affectionate, bubbling letters that express a longing for her daughter and wishes of a happy life that she is seemingly unable to provide; a hypocritical demand for Eun Ji to be happy despite her circumstances while her mother reunites with long-lost siblings.

At first glance, Mrs. Koh is an easily detestable mother figure, another evil woman keeping her children in deprivation. However, as Koh takes a step back, looking first to her mother’s childhood, and then that of her paternal grandmother, it is impossible to unsee the connections, the intergenerational trauma passed on from one woman to the next. It is a vicious cycle that threatens to destroy lives and families.  It is also a shining light on the experiences that parents, particularly mothers, endure in their lifetimes. Parts of them that came before us and perhaps are so well hidden away that we may never see them.

Fast-forwarding to college, Eun Ji’s parents have renewed their contract a staggering three times, and it will not be until she has finished grad school, that they will eventually return to America. Despite this, she has made strides in carving out a life for herself, separate from her family, one that is unremittingly her own. A political science major who is short of the required math, her classes are shuffled and reorganized so that she is given the opportunity to take poetry instead. It is a bold move but one that may just be her saving.

Poetry becomes an outlet, not only for self-expression but as a form of therapy, “of letting go”. Forgiving is a skill that is undeniably one of the most difficult that a person can learn. It is also one that gives the peace of mind to the forgiver.  Ultimately, this powerful art is what allows Eun Ji to make peace with her parents and begin rebuilding their relationship together. 

Never Let Me Go follows best friends Kathy, Ruth, and Tommy at their boarding school, Hailsham in late 90s England. It is a tranquil, almost idyllic school where the students are educated in everything from poetry to painting and their artwork is highly sought after by a mysterious woman named Madam. Unfortunately, like many seemingly good things, it harbors a dark truth, and the very purpose of the students’ existence is put into question.

Through a retrospective lens, we learn the importance of past events in real-time from narrator Kathy – however, even then, her assumptions are not always correct. As we learn of Kathy’s school days, the story slowly unravels like an unsettling ball of yarn, spilling out the uncomfortable truths and things unsaid that haunt her present.

The characters are given realistic, albeit dislikable qualities with the caprices that plague all humans. These distinct personalities result in complex dynamics among the protagonists and strictly adheres to the old adage that “every person in a story, along with one other character, must create enough conflict between the two to sustain a scene”.

Piece by piece, the reader is asked perhaps too much – too much thinking, too much rereading, too much grappling. It is enough to make anyone chuck it in the garbage, only to retrieve it five minutes later. The plot is disturbing and compelling. Ishiguro reflects the “human” in all of us even during the most un-human circumstances; gracefully capturing the quiet heartbreak that is having friends slowly disappear from our lives, as well as our profound desire to have purpose and meaning in this world.

Never Let Me Go is not for everyone; with its disturbing ideas, slow narration, and subtle nuance, many may give up in vain. It is a thought-provoking story that will have you reflecting on the themes days after you’ve finished, or else completely and utterly bumfuzzled – or both. However, Ishiguro does not write for popularity, and for that, I have all the respect in the world.

Adolescence is trademarked by hanging with friends, dealing with the stresses of school, and learning to nurture relationships outside of family. Sometimes, even romantic relationships. This is common in western countries like the US, even expected, but what happens when a natural part of growing up is suppressed? When sneaking out with boys cannot only get you grounded but arrested?

Born in India but raised in Saudi Arabia, sixteen-year-old Zarin Wadia lives with her masi and masa (her maternal aunt and uncle) after her single mother dies and her father disappears. She shares a complex and often hostile relationship with them, even if it is borne out of love.  A mix-race child in a foreign country, Zarin has always been the outsider but matters are only exacerbated as she grows older and gains a reputation for hanging with boys – despite Masi’s admonishments and attempts to keep her home. Classmates Abdullah, Farhan, and Mishal seem light-years away, each fighting their own battles at home. Although they are never best friends, they weave into Zarin’s life in unique and profound ways.

A Girl Like That is a breath fresh of air in a genre oversaturated with poor writing, weak storytelling and melodramatic romances. The novel begins after the death of its main characters, a bold decision that is both compelling and frustrating.  In medias res, Latin for “in the middle”, refers to a story that begins during the action. However, this approach can be isolating and almost had me putting the book down. There are also parts of the epilogue that seemed uncharacteristic, an excuse for some semblance of a happy ending.

As the first story I’ve read set in the Middle East, I went in having no expectations. The book may not sing the praises of Islam, but Bhathena’s careful sprinkling of terminology, attitude, and language is enough to pique any reader’s interest. Any negative portrayals are staunchly aimed at a problematic culture and government, not religion or individuals. It is asystem that fails to protect girls and women, while failing to teach boys accountability and how to handle rejection. The author also highlights how strict laws do not erase these problems but often result in harsher consequences of sneakier, riskier, and less trusting people.

The characters are multi-faceted and their actions, though not always admirable, are for the most part, justified and understandable. From playboy Farhan, whose father sleeps around with other women, to siblings Mishal and Abdullah, who practically raise themselves, to Porus, whose father dies, leaving him to care for his mother, these teens are not just characters but people who feel as real as your neighbor next door. They bare their thoughts, feelings and souls in an intimate way that feels raw and painfully relatable. Multiple perspectives create a more well-rounded story and foster the reader’s connection.  Zarin may be the main character but she is not the only interesting one.

A Girl Like That is a beautiful reflection of race, identity, prejudice and growth. We may not all face the challenges unique to Zarin and her situation, but we all share the universal feeling of longing, love, and heartbreak. Bhathena skillfully brings together five classmates and reminds readers what it is to be young and feel like an outsider.

“All you need is faith, trust, and pixie dust!” These iconic lines were just for the movie. This is just one example of the way Disney changed the story of Peter Pan. And before he was the adventurous, mischievous boy “who never wanted to grow up”, he was the baby who fell out of his pram.

Peter Pan, originally titled Peter and Wendy, was a play written by J.M. Barrie, but it was not adapted into a novel until 1929, twenty-five years after its theatrical release. The story follows the young character, Peter Pan, who flies to the Darling’s house, convincing siblings Wendy, John, and Michael to fly back with him to Neverland, an island filled with only children. And most importantly, no adults. The boys are swept away in the idea of being pirates while Wendy’s fantasy of playing “mother” to the Lost Boys is what draws her to the mysterious land. Along with Peter’s trusty and opinionated sidekick, Tinker Bell, the crew sets off for an adventure of a lifetime.

Although many people think of Peter Pan as a children’s book, the original story is far more sophisticated than it leads on. It explores the meaning of childhood, how long it lasts, and what it means to be a child, as well as the wonder and pitfalls of imagination, and the role Mothers play. These ideas are explored in such a way that the reader may come back time again to relive the magic and explore the deeper meaning hidden in plain sight. If you thought you knew Peter Pan, then I invite you to rethink that idea.

Four red cars in a row means it’s a Good Day. Five red cars in a row means it’s a Super Good Day. So goes the thinking of Christopher Boone.

Whip smart, observant, and Sherlock-Holmes obsessed teen, Christopher Boone, must solve a classic crime of who-dunnit when his neighbor’s dog is killed in the night. Despite his father’s protests, he’s determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. Even if it means venturing out of his frightfully small comfort zone.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime promises more than it can deliver. The premise is interesting with a clear narrative and fresh, thought-out observations that stay true to the story’s voice. However, too many unnecessary descriptions and random trivia make the pacing seem drawn out and tedious rather than clever. Despite the writer’s attempt to explain Christopher’s unique behavior (due to his autism), he never breaks beneath the surface, and Christopher’s classmates are nothing but freakish fill-ins. Even the honest, flawed father-son dynamic is not enough to save this book.

What would you do if you had a terminal illness? How would you face death? These are the questions Paul Kalanithi grapples with in his memoir, “When Breath Becomes Air”.

Talented, kind, intelligent and funny, Paul was always destined for success. The reader follows him on his journey from a precocious and angsty teen to a thoughtful man asking some of life’s biggest questions. He brings seemingly diametrically opposed fields such as philosophy and literature together with science, medicine, and neurosurgery. Although it is the relationship between mind, body, and self that makes up a person’s personality, it is up to the individual to define exactly what that means. Are you still “you” if you cannot speak or write? Or do simple sums or use your hands?

With grace and wit, Paul tackles these questions head on. Life and death are never simple topics, yet he writes with such passion and humility that the readers may dare to see the same beauty in these abstracts as he did. A truly unforgettable story, Paul’s legacy is immortalized with the people he loves and his shared wisdom that lives on.