The Best We Could Do, by Thi Bui

 

The Best We Could Do is an adult graphic memoir relating the story of the author's family during the occupation of Indochina and their eventual escape as 'boat people' after the fall of Saigon, eventually ending in America. I've read reviews that compare it to Persepolis, but I found the story's structure and tone to be similar to Maus as well, particularly with the fraught relationship with the author's father. The illustrations, which are drawn by Bui (who appears as the small child in stripes on the front cover) are all in shades of black, white, and red similar to those on the cover; it's interesting how these same colors flow from conveying warmth at some times to danger at others. Although this is largely the story of her parents' lives from childhood to the family's harrowing escape from Vietnam and immigration to the US, it is also about the larger impacts of family history on relationships through generations, and weaves in flashes forward throughout the narrative to make connections. As someone who has almost no understanding of Vietnamese history, I both enjoyed the memoir and appreciated the history lesson inherent in its telling; the graphic historical chart at the beginning is very helpful in keeping track of the key leaders and events, and I referred back to it continually not because the text was confusing but because focusing on the historical context really brought a deeper level of meaning to the book. I also did a little research on a few of the events that the chart mentioned before I started reading, and I was glad I did. The narrative opens with Bui having her own child, and right away it's obvious that there is so much under the surface; her mother struggles to be present in the delivery room although she had had six children of her own, and although her parents are divorced, they all still live very interconnected lives. Bui uses conversations with her parents to propel readers back and forth through time, hitting on a point of contention in family relationships in the present day before sliding back into the tale of how the conflicts and pain rooted decades earlier. One particularly painful admission from her mother - who Bui notes will confide more in Bui's husband than in her - has been seeping through my brain like a mist since I finished the book about a week ago, as I wonder how many women have felt the exact same way, only to find themselves somehow entangled in an entirely different life. It was these moments that gave the book such realism, as not simply a memoir where everything has ended up tied up in a bow; I suspect that would have been an easier book to write. Instead, she lays bare the bumpy, scratchy truth that allows readers to gain purchase, making it a work that can stick.

Clap When You Land, by Elizabeth Acevedo

Clap When You Land is a narrative in verse, alternating in voice between two girls who do not realize they are sisters, one in NYC and the other in the DR, after a plane crash kills their father. It is beautiful, and uses wording and structure to just swallow the reader whole. I loved the frequent use of Spanish, the inclusion of a beautiful, same-sex relationship for one of the girls (which is presented not as a main dish of the plot but as a perfect side dish, the homemade macaroni and cheese of Thanksgiving - warm and inviting and exactly as it should be) and how their lives and experiences were mirrored and yet also individual. I particularly appreciated how occasionally the girls would even use the same phrases, but due to the structural presentation and the way each sister would incorporate the words, they felt entirely her own. For the bulk of the novel, Yahaira, who lives in NYC, accidentally learned what she thinks is the whole truth of her father's dual life in the year prior to his death, and copes with complicated, silent fury while also being buried in grief. Camino, in the DR, has no such knowledge, but faces her own devastation at the loss of a second parent while having the dangers he had protected her from in the barrio closing in around her in the wake of his loss. Acevedo depicts the difficult balance of maturity and naïveté that high schoolers experience, and that lead to decisions both completely understandable and wretchedly painful. The deeper details of each sister's experiences unwind slowly, so the reader's connection to the characters as well as their pull towards each other is almost magnetic. When the girls finally learn of each other, it's as if those magnets spin, pushing and yet silently, irresistibly pulling. While the ending is not a surprise, it is satisfying and leaves the reader full of anticipation. I wanted more.

CWYL is older YA, and does include a description of a form of sexual assault as well as references to issues surrounding sex trafficking. While neither is unnecessarily graphic or overlong, they really are the only things that make this novel inappropriate for middle school, so if you have a mature 8th grader, this may be OK. As an adult, it was compelling and absolutely worth the time. I will probably read it again.