Fluttering eyelashes.

There is a moment that occurred during my high school Honors English class junior year—a moment that I’m sure stuck only with me, and none of my other classmates—that I’m pretty sure I’ll never forget.  We were explicating aloud some centuries old poetry, and there was a particular stanza, a love scene, that alluded to fluttering eyelashes.  When we reached that point in our analysis, my teacher gave us all a knowing look and said something along the lines of, “And I’m sure you all know what that means.”  Except I didn’t, which I did not hesitate to tell him, me being the zealous classroom participant that I am.  But rather than unravel that twisted prose for me, all he said was, “Come visit after you’ve graduated, and I’ll explain it to you.”

Granted, I did return to my old stomping grounds during my summer and winter breaks from college, and I even saw my old English teacher a few times during those visits, but I always forgot to have him explain that line of poetry to me.

But now, as I wrap up my junior year of college four years later, I realize that I don't need his assistance anymore.  I know what those fluttering eyelashes mean.  And so does Chilean author Isabel Allende, which she clearly demonstrates in her evocative work, Of Love and Shadows.

What's interesting about this novel is the areas in which you can determine what's important to the author, and what information is arbitrary.  I know, for example, that the protagonists (Irene Beltran, a beautiful and gutsy journalist born into the high class, and Francisco Leal, a sensitive psychologist-turned-photographer who comes from a family of hard-working intellectuals...oh, and obviously he's in love with her, but she's engaged to an equally-classed army captain) live somewhere in South America during the early-ish 20th century, and that a revolution against the newly established dictatorship is boiling in the pressure cooker, but nothing more detailed than that. At the same time, I can practically see Irene's long hair cascading down her back, and I get a lump in my throat every time Francisco's mother expresses her love for her youngest son. These are the things that matter to Allende, and as a self-proclaimed romantic (and a self-proclaimed Romantic), I don't hate her for that.

But there's more going on in this almost-300-page read than a south-of-the-equator Romeo and Juliet remake (although I must say, I literally cheered, out loud on the train no less, when "the moment of fluttering eyelashes" finally took place--it was poetic and emotional beyond articulation). Having dabbled in journalism herself, Allende injects the book with captivating mysteries that Beltran and Leal set out to uncover, including a young girl consumed by what can only be described as supernatural epilepsy; the numerous deaths of civilians suspected of resisting the dictatorship; and the ultimate price of seeking to reveal the truth and bring justice. One of my biggest pet peeves is a review or synopsis that gives away the ending, so I'll stop right there with the plot. All I'm going to add is that for me, reading Of Love and Shadows is the literary equivalent of those first moments of getting to know someone intimately. Every movement flows seamlessly into the next, but because it's all so new you absorb and store everything accurately and carefully into the banks of your memory. Her language is rhythmic, illustrative, and quite academic (I felt like I was studying for the GRE in some phrases!), but nonetheless a pleasurable, fantastical story that I can't wait to revisit.

Same blog, slightly different girl.

Hello again! It's been just over a year since that torrid Sacramento summer when I sat hunched over my laptop in the library with dark chocolate and cranberries and gave life to this book blog. Needless to say, a lot has happened since then! I still have an affinity for the fruit-chocolate thing, but my literary tastes have undergone a bit of a metamorphosis that I can only attribute to the crazy couple of semesters I've had. I remember when I used to shudder at the thought of reading non-fiction for leisure; not so much the case anymore. That change actually began with a book I read last summer, The Purity Myth by Jessica Valenti. Her book also ignited within me the fires of feminism and ultimately led me to change my minor from French to Women and Gender Studies (this is going somewhere, I promise). That, combined with my exposure to such prolific and inspiring writers as bell hooks, Truman Capote, and Katherine Boo convinced me of something that you'd think, as a journalist, I would have known for awhile now: real life has every potential of being as captivating as fiction.


Enter my first review of the summer.

I'll admit, when I removed candy-colored tissue paper on my 21st birthday to uncover a paperback copy of Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide, I was slightly confused. Maybe it was the quizzical look my roommate shot me; maybe it was the mimosa. Don't get me wrong, I'm ALL for women's rights, but I just couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of receiving a birthday gift with the word "oppression" emblazoned across the cover. Then I did my research, and found out that this book, written by Nicholas Kristoff and Sheryl WuDunn, both New York Times journalists and the first couple ever to receive a Pulitzer Prize (yeah, I know), is a national bestseller, has been voted one of the 10 Best Books of the Year by the Washington Post in 2009, etc. So as summertime set in and my library fines prevented me from utilizing its services, I cracked it open and began to read.


You know how friends sometimes know you better than you know yourself? Yeah, this was one of those times. Currently eating crow, be back soon.


Half the Sky focuses on three major ways in which women and girls are globally oppressed: sex trafficking and forced prostitution, gender-based violence, and maternal mortality. Although these issues occur on every inhabited continent, they are particularly prevalent in developing countries in Asia and Africa, the locations upon which this book focuses. Having recently done a project on commercial sex trafficking in New York City, I was emotionally prepared for the testimonies I read about 13-year-old girls from Cambodia who think they're going to another country to pick fruit and make money for their families, but end up in a brothel where they are systematically beaten and raped. Same goes for the distraught tales of gender-base violence, which is so deeply embedded in some conservative religions that some surveyed women actually agree that husbands have a right to beat their wives. But the rate at which maternal mortality occurs in countries like Niger (1 in 7 girls and women will die during childbirth here), and the causes of these deaths (enter obstetric fistulas, caused by failed childbirth and results in holes forming between the rectum and vagina, or the bladder and vagina. I considered sparing you the graphic details, but then I realized, that's exactly the problem), truly shook me. I can only imagine the contorted facial expressions I displayed on Muni as I read the visceral tales of young girls left, essentially, to die in huts because the cultures in which they were brought up place women's medical needs at the bottom of its priority list.

But the book isn't all sob stories and sobering statistics. In fact, every chapter concludes with a feature of some phenomenal woman who dedicates her life to combating issues that continue to haunt women. From opening hospitals in East Africa to establishing microcredit programs in Pakistan, these women come from all walks of life (although there did seem to be an initial focus on White, Western women as "the rescuers," which I took a slight issue with) and are united by their lifelong dedication to elevate the status of women worldwide. One of the underlying themes in the book is the idea that to ignore women and their potential to become scholars, doctors, businesswomen--anything they want to be--is to attempt to run a country having only tapped into half its valuable resources. Half the Sky is a call to action like no other, truly a work that transforms how you view the world long before you reach the back cover.


On deck: a heart-wrenching and poetic tale written by an esteemed Latin American author (See? I still love me my love stories!)

Ooh la-literature!

If you know me at all (and by that, I mean if you’ve ever been present during one of my sexual innuendos or are familiar with my fascination with the French language…because to know these things is to, essentially, know me), you shouldn’t be surprised that I selected the book Vanina Marsot’s Foreign Tongue  for purely titular reasons.  By the time the buzz words “Paris,” “delectable pastries,” and “translating,” jumped off the back of the book, I was already halfway through my library card transaction.

Turns out, I was pleasantly surprised at how much substance this book has, especially given the central plot.  Anna, a sensible 30-something PR writer from LA, suffers a broken heart and, on an impulsive whim, decides to run away to Paris to live in her aunt’s apartment until she can find repair her battered emotions.  (And let me quickly insert here that if every American girl had the means to whisk herself away to a foreign country and indulge in buttery croissants and beautifully unattached men every time she got dumped…well, let’s just say there would be absolutely no hope for American men!)  During her stay she’s employed as an English translator for—brace yourselves—an erotic French novel (and yes, you will be privy to the text she had to interpret, should you choose to embark).  Add to this the prospect of the exotic yet sensitive Olivier, who quickly becomes Anne’s love interest, and I thought I had all the makings of my official trashy summer read.

And not to say that I didn’t indulge a bit myself in selecting this book (especially given the more sobering one I read prior to it).  But because this is basically a Harlequin dipped in French culture, I learned a lot about their views on love, and I’ve got to say (and forgive me for sounding cliché here) that I understand now why they're considered such experts on it.  Without giving away too many juicy details of this delightful read (which I would recommend you enjoy at a coffee shop with—what else?—some chocolate dipped madeleines!), I will try to sum up their philosophy in one quote, a word of advice given to Anna from one of her French girl friends:

“I think, dans la vie, en général, you should be romantic, even impetuous, about falling in love, and pragmatic about getting over it, and not l’envers…This idea of caution, it’s stupid.  As if you can control it.”

I don’t know about you, but the slightest idea of romance is like injecting my brain with about 30 of those five-hour energy shots.  But really, there should be little to no thinking required when it comes to love.  In addition to learning how to talk dirty to someone in French, I’ll take that lesson away from this book as well.  Here’s to hoping that someday, both will come in handy.

Impure (but crucial!) Thoughts

Warning: the following book review may result in a burning obligation to adopt feminist ideals.  This sensation will be felt in at the epicenter of the ribcage, and will likely persist until the reader takes a step toward activism.

Seriously.

I originally happened upon Jessica Valenti’s book, The Purity Myth: How America's Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women, while researching for an article in my journalism class.  The book had been reviewed on Marie Claire’s website, and even in the heat of an approaching deadline, I made a mental note to actually read it once I got the time.  Fast forward about a month, and the book was glued to my hands everywhere I went—nail and hair salons, Starbucks, en route to the mailbox.  It’s nonfiction, so to say that I couldn’t put it down implies that I was hooked by endearing characters and a wicked climax; rather, the horrific facts and statistics Valenti outlines had an effect on me that was part disgust, part unexplainable intrigue.

Valenti—a grad student whose heavy resume includes co-founding the popular blog feministing.com —states her purpose very clearly in the book’s introduction: “There is a moral panic in America over young women’s sexuality—and it’s entirely misplaced.”  Throughout the book, she targets the organizations and institutions (namely, devout Christian groups and far right-leaning conservatives) she feels are the most responsible for trying to reinforce traditional gender roles and manipulating young women into believing that their entire worth lies in their remaining chaste until marriage.

But let me assure you, this book is not a secular/political bash-fest.  Aside from those factors, Valenti insightfully delves into the harmful effects of abstinence-only sex education (which is federally funded, mind you, and teaches students that it’s against the law to have premarital sex); the porn industry as well as other popular culture that hyper-sexualizes women (even something as seemingly innocent as a Bratz training bra); the incredibly complex yet damaging social concept of masculinity (which makes men believe that women are inherently nonsexual and they are "innately ravenously sexual," which potentially justifies sexual violence and "disallows female sexual expression"); and even how past and present legislation inadvertently control women’s bodies and attempt to minimize rape.  One example of the latter?  In 2004, a Nebraska judge  would not allow the word “rape” to be used in a trial in which a man was accused of (you guessed it), for fear that it sounded “too prejudicial.”

Don't worry; my jaw hit the floor too.

Now, before this passionate yet painfully verbose blogger gets too carried away, I will just say that the characteristic of this book—other than the relevant subject matter, of course—is the wonderfully relatable style in which Valenti writes.  At least every other page is marked with an asterisked footnote in which she inserts her witty reactions to topics raised in the book, and there is a wealth of back-of-the-book features—from discussion questions to notes to resources on how to join the movement . 

Please do not sleep on this book, or turn the other cheek on this issue.  Right now, women are in grave danger.  We are more than our sexuality, more than the disenfranchising virgin/whore dichotomy. Thankfully, inspiring women like Valenti and the countless other activists she mentions throughout her book provide much-needed doses of hope and motivation to fight for change.

Looking for Love in a Concrete Jungle

If ever I had to select a hybrid word to best describe myself and my ideals, Feminista   (feminist + fashionista, for those of you who haven’t had your daily cup of coffee or green tea yet) would definitely make it to the top three.  Add to that the setting of this chick lit—New York City, the mere mentioning of which incites some mild Pavlovian drooling—and the fact that Sydney, the main character, is a Lanvin -loving celebrity journalist, and it was all I could do to not dance a jig in the middle of the fiction aisle at the library as I plucked it off the shelf.*

Now, at the risk of reducing 358 pages of laugh-out-loud literature (which is dripping with celebrity references and witty lines that could only be overheard in an eccentric city like New York) to a written version of “Sex and the City ,” I’ll offer a couple of differences between the book and the show/films:

1) Sydney, the multiracial heroine, is far from a WASP.  In fact, she admits to only having been hired at her prestigious magazine in order to fill an affirmative action quota (which, sadly, could be a reality in the publishing world).

2) As one of the few single and childless 30-year-old professionals in Manhattan, Sydney lacks the core group of likeminded, Chanel-donning sisters that form the foundation of SATC.  Instead, Sydney’s main companion is her gay best friend and makeup artist/stereotypically flamboyant diva, Jeffrey-James.  I understand that a Carrie-Stanford connection can be made here, but I’m choosing to overlook it for the sake of argument.

3) Whereas Ms. Bradshaw (or Mrs. Preston, depending on your preference) would rarely be seen in footwear with less than a 3-inch heel, Sydney conquers the streets of Manhattan in motorcycle boots, Adidas high tops, and ballet flats.  Needless to say, she’s a woman after my own heart!

The story centers on Sydney’s growing fear that her overpowering personality will turn her into a 30-year-old, feline-obsessed spinster.  She enlists the help of a renowned matchmaker, who sends Sydney on a whirlwind of—for fear of giving away too much information—“unforgettable” dates.  Meanwhile, Sydney’s non-arranged, organic relationship with Max seems too good to be true.  It is, but I’ll let you find out why for yourselves.

What I really enjoyed about this novel (which I recommend you throw into your beach bag with sunscreen and a chilled Vitamin Water) were the dry humor and Sydney’s smarts; she doesn’t take shit from any man, and as a budding feminista myself, I can only raise my glass to an attitude like that.  Part Something New , part Pride and Prejudice …and okay, part Sex and the City, this book is perfect for any independent woman who sometimes fears that her fierceness may be too much for a guy to handle.  I’ll give you a hint: it’s not.

*I promise, I don’t only read fictions about black female journalists!  These are actually the only two that I’ve read; I’ve just been striking gold in the library.

Deja Vu?

I’m going to go ahead and assume that you, dear readers, are like me in that you—sometimes, at least—judge books by their covers.  That’s precisely what drew me to Sugar vs. Spice , because in my experience, it is very rare to come across a contemporary fiction featuring a black female that contains not a single kinky sex scene (or any sex scene, for that matter).  Not that I have anything against that genre, but it’s uncommon nonetheless.  However, when I learned that Joan Skerrett ’s book was about Tari Shields, a short (like me), feisty (like I try to be), kickboxing/yoga fanatic (both of which I love) journalist (see “Aspirations” in my “About Me”) whose career and budding romance are brought to a screeching halt when she is diagnosed with breast cancer (the same disease my mother had 11 years ago and has thankfully recovered from), I was downright spooked.  Call me a narcissist, but how could I not have checked it out?

Tari’s wrestling matches not only with cancer, but with the pride and stubbornness that distanced her from her family and friends were all too relatable.  Her refusal to disclose her illness to her editor, potential boyfriend (whom I pictured had the face of Shemar Moore , but that's just a suggestion to sweeten the plot), and even her parents was met with my exasperated sighs, as I found myself telling her through gritted teeth to “just let them help you!” 

Easier said than done, of course.  Because black women—or any woman of color—must bear the brunt of two disenfranchised subcultures, which can result in the belief that asking for help or showing our vulnerability equates to weakness.  This touching novel (an easy read that goes well with a bar of dark chocolate…and maybe a couple Kleenex) taught me that it’s quite the opposite.  Anybody can refuse help to overcome obstacles.  It’s the ones who courageously extend their hands, who willingly acknowledge their vulnerability and let themselves be saved, who possess the true strength.