It’s ironic, that while so many are longing to safely travel these days, others are longing to stay put and continue to safely reside in their homelands. On the page, throughout last year, I travelled to twelve different cities, prompted by a local artist’s desk calendar, which inspired a variety of themed expeditions in print. But, increasingly, what interested me even more was the sense of being between places. Refugees’, emigrants’ and immigrants’ experiences embody that urgently and poignantly.
A Map Is Only One Story, edited by Nicole Chung and Mensah Demary, includes Twenty Writers on Immigration, Family, and the Meaning of Home (Catapult, 2020). “Launching remarkable writing” is Catapult’s tagline and this anthology serves as an excellent ambassador. It puts paid to the idea that all immigrants’ stories are the same. What is consistent, however, is the direct and engaging tone; throughout the volume, these writers (emerging and with multiple publications to their credit) command attention. These are personal stories, most in the first person, but culminating in Porochista Khakpour’s “Iranian America; Or, The Last Essay”, which is told as though from one part of the writer to another part of her. “Begin by writing about anything else,” she begins. “Go to the public library in your Los Angeles suburb and ask for all the great books people in New York City read, please.” (And it’s true that any essay which mentions a library immediately pulls my heart into its tentacles, but I truly enjoyed this one for so many more reasons besides.) Other favourites: Say It with Noodles (the graphic contribution by Shing Yin Khor) and Kenechi Uzor’s “This Hell Not Mine”, which ends “And if I am better off I cannot tell.” But the volume as a whole would make a great addition to your bedside table: read an essay every few days and allow the varied experiences to unfold with time and attention.
The Globe & Mail, while I was reading this memoir
The title of Samra Habib’s We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir (2019) led me to expect a different kind of narrative, one with a community focus as the backdrop. Instead, this is a very personal story which presents her childhood memories in Pakistan in the Ahmadiyya community, followed by her struggle to reorient herself when her identity shifts dramatically. With her family’s immigration to Toronto, new possibilities emerge for her: queer communities, romance and sexuality, and studies in journalism. The latter influence her tone and style, and the emphasis on a psychological journey means that the reader is consistently in step with her later-life evaluation of earlier experiences. So, readers don’t inhabit earlier scenes; we hear that she felt it was her job to “put her [mother] at ease, to help her make sense of this new reality” after their family immigrated. The emphasis remains on the kind of searching that young readers and seekers will find particularly resonant: “But for most of my twenties, Islam felt like a parent dishing out conditional love.” And as a bookgroup selection, it would spark discussion. (How, for instance, does the sense of conditional love as a child later transfer into a string of romantic detachments.) For me, however, the balance between “me” and “we” is struck perfectly in this next essay collection.
Laila Lalami’s Conditional Citizens: On Belonging in America (2020) contains eight essays worked up from previous publications in The Nation, The Los Angeles Times, The New York Times Magazine and The New Yorker online. Lalami invites readers into a personal situation (for instance, an author event, in which an attendee asks her to comment on ISIS) that leads to reflection against a backdrop of history, sociology and psychology. She concisely summarizes the development of political movements, electoral proceedings, and religious sects, and she illuminates patterns that affect her everyday life. “Conditional citizenship is not unique to Muslims in America,” she writes in “Allegiance”: “Millions of people in this country live with the terrible reality that their relationship to the state is at least partly determined by the color of their skin, the nature of their creed, their gender identity, or their national origin.” She writes about her relationship with her mother-in-law, about the differences between the policing of the northern and southern political borders of the United States; she writes about a nylon nightgown and an earthquake, as well as Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee. The personal experiences add an urgency and vibrancy to these pieces, and the broader context invites readers into the process, affording a degree of intimacy, with substantial endnotes and a list of resources in the back: she knits together searching and belonging.
The Eat Offbeat Chefs’ Book of Recipes and Stories from Refugee and Immigrant Chefs, The Kitchen Without Borders (2020), made for wonderful browsing one afternoon, with its photographs and proverbs, its anecdotes and memories. I loved reading about Chef Minata’s life in Kankan, Guinea before she came to the U.S. and began working at Offbeat; I loved drooling over her recipe for Boflot (Fried Dough Puff puffs, rolled in cinnamon-sugar dust). It’s interesting to read about Chef Rachana’s role as “Mami” in the Offbeat kitchen; she was born into a traditional Brahmin family in Nepal, with about 45 people in their well-off household, and grew up in a family where the girls competed to inherit the fryer their mother used for making sel roti (sort of like a doughnut, in a ring, made of rice flour). Her recipe is Chari Bari: Chicken Meatballs in Nepali-spiced cashew sauce. Meat/fish and dairy/eggs are integral to these recipes, which strikes me as ironic; with so many people forced to leave their homes now because of the climate crisis (and conflicts related to resource depletion and extraction), and with direct mention of starving families left behind, I’d like to have seen more than a nod to resource-conscious food production. However, the impetus for the collection is to highlight the chef’s childhood memories of food and feasting, so looking backwards also reflects an old-fashioned set of priorities.
Paul Yoon’s Run Me to Earth (2020) opens in 1969 and contains stories of starvation and torture, pistols and prisons, and animals taken to slaughter—in Laos, where fields become gravesites. There’s also a fountain pen hidden in the eaves, a tiny ceramic teacup in a soldier’s pocket, and a dusty, out-of-tune piano. Two men—one twenty-something and one nearly forty—fresh from captivity, barely recognize themselves in a mirror, with their faces gaunt, their bodies all bones; they order multiple dishes from the menu of a hotel, feast and drink Fanta together. It’s about past and future, but also about feasting when you can. “All this time, it had never occurred to him that if he lived long enough to reenter the world, this new country, it would be empty.” It’s a plotty story, presented from different viewpoints, with subtle artistry, like the echo of motion near an ankle or a small creature’s motion in and out of sunlight or moonlight. Some different life, yet, through it all, the sky “enormous and unbroken”. Miriam Toews’ blurb is spot-on: “fierce, tender, wise earth-shattering, pulsating with love and hope.”
At the end of this year, I expect that Ai Weiwei’s Human Flow (2020) will appear on my list of most remarkable reading and viewing experiences. As a film, the viewing experience captures an artist’s perspective, including moments of beauty amidst hardship and devastation. As a collection of interviews, the book presents more than one hundred individuals’ perspectives—refugees, aid workers, politicians, activists, doctors and others—from twenty-three countries. This is not comfortable reading. It is compelling reading, however, and for me that’s due as much to Ai Weiwei’s (and his team’s) dedication to the project, as to the inherent urgency of the situation. His manner and his compassion are ever-present as are the vulnerability and desperation of the participants, though these are expressed in contrasting ways. The film is heartfelt but not sentimental, clear-eyed but not brutal. The book is direct, with its Q&A format and journalistic line of questioning, but it’s the uncluttered, ordinariness of it all that leaves an indelible mark. Ai Weiwei is renowned internationally for his art and the human rights issues raised by his installations and imagery; this is where I begin to explore his dedication, and I expect to delve deeper this year.
“…like the echo of motion near an ankle or a small creature’s motion in and out of sunlight or moonlight.”
What have you done there, BIP? I read that three times, and I haven’t stopped thinking that’ it’s utterly beautiful. Thank you for sharing. Your writing always inspires me.
I want to read ‘Run Me To Earth’. But I do want a break from animal slaughter. Because I have recently finished reading ‘We’re Briefly Gorgeous On Earth’ and ‘Spaceman of Bohemia’, I feel like I need to read something written by Katherine Applegate. In her books, they are subjected to some amount of torture, but they come out victorious. I need them to win now, more than ever. So, I will wait for a while before I pick up ‘Run Me To Earth’.
You’re very kind, but I can’t take credit because that was all Yoon’s. On the surface, the book is a pretty quick read (and, though not easy, one is left with the feelings that Toews describes–quite a feat, with a war story) but there are motifs that echo that way and reveal that he’s crafting even while he’s entertaining (there were more too, but often related to events and I didn’t want to spoil anything).
Yes, I would wait on this one, but not as long as I would wait on some others, if you know what I mean; the sway is towards resilience rather than despair (I love a lot of books with the other sway, and I know you do too, at times). I’m reading Sanjena Sathian’s Gold Diggers today, which is definitely a nice change of pace (but it’s too early to say much more than that) with another Yiyun Li story (which will likely tend the other way).
I’ve added A Map is Only One Story to my TBR and I’m happy to say that my library system has it! Reading an essay or two a night appeals to me. These all look good, though.
I hadn’t thought of it this way before but, now that I look at the first and last book in the post, I think that and the Ai Weiwei make great bookends on the topic, because the Catapult collection is mostly reflections and memories, from people who have reached some sort of haven, whereas Human Flow is speaking directly from within the experience. Together, they assemble a powerful truth.
I really like the sound of those stories of immigration. A Map is only one story is such a great title. I am also really drawn to We Have Always Been Here. I love being taken to different places in my reading.
I wonder if another reason that many seem drawn to Map (besides the striking cover and the awesome title) is that it’s an anthology, so even if one isn’t always drawn to an anthology, in this case it would be a chance to sample a bunch of different kinds of experiences, before deciding which area(s) might be of particular interest. (Yup, me too.)
All of these sound great. The only one I’ve read is We Have Always Been Here. I think I feel most drawn towards Conditional Citizens and Human Flow. I have already been to the Human Flow site to see how I can watch it. But it might break my heart.
I borrowed the movie from another city branch; can you ILL videos? His dedication to bringing these stories out…it turns watching this into witnessing, which makes for heart-break that inspires action.
I just put a request on it! Yes, we can get videos through ILL. It will be a good one to watch with the kids, I think.
I’ll be really interested to see what they think because most of the people are closer to their age than ours (and plenty of children too). And don’t hesitate: it’s truly gripping and some absolutely beautiful cinematography (I mean, he is an artist!).
I really want to read We Have Always Been Here-didn’t it win Canada Reads or am I imagining that?
You’re right! And it’s funny, I also just wrote up a post about one of the other nominees for the same year, and I did mention that it was a contender for the same event. But even with the sticker on this one, I forgot that detail. Thanks, Anne. (If CBC sees this comment, I hope they give you a raise. LOL)
YESSSSS the chances of CBC ever giving me a raise are negligible, but I appreciate the motivation all the same hahaha
One of the truly great books of Australian Lit in the past few years has been No Friend but the Mountains, by Behrouz Boochani, a refugee from Kurdistan held for years in concentration camps by Australia’s ‘Border Force’. I wonder what it is about the refugee experience that produces such scintillating writing.
Oh, my–yes. That was an eye-opening read, for sure. I was just mentioning it in conversation on the weekend, actually (inspired by the NYT focus on Guantanamo). It was published by House of Anansi in Canada: what a story.
The Kitchen Without Borders sounds great, and I love the idea of the recipes being interspersed with personal anecdotes and stories. Food can trigger so many memories of various aspects of our lives, particularly those with various friends and family. I’m sure it must have been an absorbing read, especially in the current times when physical travel remains quite restricted.
Do you follow the series (online) from The Paris Review about the way that writers treat food in their fiction and recreating some memorable food moments from their pages? Here’s the one on Barbara Pym, for instance.
I always find Catapult’s releases appealing, and I’ve read whole books by Chung and Khakpour, so A Map Is Only One Story is probably the one here that I’d pick up first. Paul Yoon is an author I’ve always meant to try but have never managed to access — I think this is the only one of his books that has been published in the UK.
Immigration has come up in a few books for me so far this year, all of them excellent: America Is Not the Heart, How to Pronounce Knife, and A Feather on the Breath of God. I also recently reviewed a Syrian cookbook, Sumac by Anas Atassi, which reminds me of the Kitchen Without Borders strategy. He’s now based in Amsterdam, so is nostalgic for the food of his homeland.
And it’s such an eye-catching cover too, eh? I wasn’t aware of how many other books Paul Yoon’s written until I read this one; I like the sounds of his linked stories (thematically) in The Mountain.
It’s a recurring theme in my reading, too; one reason that I enjoy CanLit so much is that so many of the books are written by people who’ve immigrated here. Even so, there are definitely many more books in my stack on this theme for 2021. I’ll have to check out that cookbook!
For some reason I still can’t comment through WP, and can’t like through your site 😉
Run me to Earth sounds fascinating. And Lalami’s book will be probably the first of your recommendations I’ll read 🙂
The internet simply doesn’t want us to be friends. I can’t comment on your site through WP either. But watch out internet, we are wily and we will triumph!
I’ll be curious to see what you think of her essays; I’ve only read one of her novels, but this collection makes me want to make more of a point of seeking out her work.
This is a theme I often find myself drawn to, hence my enjoyment of How to Pronounce Knife, but the one that most appeals from your selection is The Kitchen Without Borders. Food is also an irresistible theme for me and one which unites us all!
I’m surprised how warm the response to cookbooks is here; you’d think we’d all be too busy reading to eat! (But, then, one can eat one-handed while reading. I mean, I’ve heard…)