tachyondecay's reviews
2024 reviews

Wait, this book isn’t by Naomi Wolf? Why did I even bother … jk. Although, ironically, I haven’t read anything by Naomi Klein previously, and I’ve read two books by Naomi Wolf (more on that in a bit). I don’t think I personally have conflated the two Naomis myself, but I’m sure that’s just the lack of opportunity. Doppelganger intrigued me because I wanted to hear about Klein’s deep dive into the world in which Wolf has immersed herself and what lessons that holds for the fragile state of our democracies.

Though this book is built on premise of people mistaking the two Naomis to a ridiculous degree online, Klein makes it clear that this book isn’t so much about Wolf as it is about the crowd she hangs out with these days. Klein is interested in this “mirror world,” as she calls it, and how Wolf went from third-wave feminist darling to conspiracy-theory monger and general alt-right poster woman. So she listens to Steve Bannon’s podcast, plumbs the depth of Wolf’s Twitter, and generally examines the ways in which the alt right and adjacent movements use, manipulate, and take advantage of media (both traditional and social) to sway people to their cause.

Because we are living in a unique tipping point in history. Mass literacy battles with mass media illiteracy. Even critical thinking doesn’t exempt one from falling prey to misinformation, of course. One of Klein’s key points is that Wolf is a smart person and a deep thinker—many prominent people in these movements are, and it would be a mistake to underestimate them or label anyone associated with them as less intelligent. Rather, Klein wants to figure out what makes the mirror world so enticing.

Doppelganger is one of an emerging genre of pop culture political books looking at the effect of the internet age on politics and society. Some of Klein’s most important takeaways come from reflection on how the internet encourages us to become doppelgangers of ourselves (in how we perform ourselves online). As someone who “grew up” on the internet—on Neopets and Geocities and message boards and live chatrooms and whatnot—I feel this. To this day, I might spend more time on any given day talking to people behind my “tachyondecay” username and an avatar than my real name and face. On an individual basis that’s fine. But when you scale this up to a societal level, Klein points out, cracks appear that leave us vulnerable to the misinformation that fuels conspiracy and polarization.

In this way, Klein scatters references to different forms of doppelganger throughout the book. She did a deep dive into doppelgangers in literature and film (she talks a lot about Philip Roth, shrug). I watched Dual because she mentions it here and it has Karen Gillan in it (it’s weird and not at all satisfying, IMO). Though there’s something amusing imagining Klein obsessively consuming all of these books and movies for research purposes, all in all I don’t know that she successfully connects her doppelganger discussion to her broader points about the mirror world. I understand that she’s trying to say Wolf is more a doppelganger of herself than she is of Klein, that Wolf’s trip through the looking glass has resulted in that kind of self-doppelganging. But it feels like a slightly contrived twist.

As far as Wolf herself goes, well … I read The Beauty Myth when I was 22, young, naïve (though I am pleasantly surprised to find I didn’t go gaga over it and therefore can honestly say I had my own reservations). Then five years later I read Vagina and criticized it for much the same reasons Klein criticizes Wolf: mistaking anecdotal evidence for science, confirmation bias, etc. Both of these reviews are real trips to read now, given that I was writing them back when I thought I was a cisgender man (oops). But I stand by my work.

I respect Klein taking the high road and refusing to dangle Wolf in front of us like a cautionary tale. Still … she is. Like Klein, I can’t speculate about the precise factors that galvanized Wolf’s slide towards authoritarian militancy and conspiracy theories—but I can watch it, judge it, and remind myself that we are all vulnerable here. That’s what Klein realizes as she canvasses for her husband in the Canadian federal election and visits with people who should be sympathetic to the NDP but are raving anti-vaxxers instead.

Doppelganger offers up some cogent and prescient (in the sense that even for a relatively recent book, it feels like Klein anticipated some of what has happened since it was published) analysis of the cracks in our media world. It stumbles a bit as Klein dances around her various topics of doppelgangers, propaganda, etc., and as a result it feels a little longer and more repetitive than it needs to be. This is a book that I would recommend if, like me, you are a sucker for discussions of media literacy, awareness of conspiracy theories, and how we can strengthen our democracy. It has enough substance to be worth the read—yet having read it, I don’t feel like I particularly learned much I didn’t already know.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This book worked its way into my brain. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I slept on this one, but when I finally started reading it, I did not want to put it down. So what did I do? I put it down to save it for a road trip later that week—but I immediately messaged my local indie bookshop so they could order the sequel for me, which I will read as soon as I get it. A Memory Called Empire isn’t a perfect book. I don’t even know if I would settle on “amazing.” But Arkady Martine’s storytelling did something to me, and that’s worth talking about.

Mahit Dzmare is a citizen of Lsel Station. Stationers are humans born into the lower gravity of a space station and fiercely independent from larger, sprawling political entities like the Teixcalaanli Empire. However, Mahit has been fascinated by the empire for years, and her proficiency has led to her selection as Lsel’s next ambassador. Her first mission? Find out what the hell happened to the previous ambassador—the Teixcalaanli just sent a ship demanding a new ambassador with no explanation. In addition to her enthusiasm for Teixcalaanli literature and language, Mahit brings with her an out-of-date imago of the previous ambassador—a memory recording of his personality that should, in theory, integrate with her own personality, augmenting her. Everything goes wrong, of course, and Mahit finds herself in the middle of a political crisis, maybe even an attempted coup, relying far too much on the questionable largesse of an important player in the empire.

This book hits like a Charles Stross novel with even less infodumping. Don’t get me wrong—I love a good Strossian exposition—but Martine plays a lot of the empire’s culture and history close to her chest, and I’m cool with that. However, I really like how the main character, while competent, gets thrown into the deepest of ends without even a lifejacket. The entire book is a scramble from start to finish with nary time for Mahit to catch her breath. In a lesser author that might feel exhausting—who doesn’t love a protagonist finally hitting their stride?—but Martine makes it work.

Teixcalaan itself is a lush mixture of Byzantine, the Mexica, and others from history (which is Martine’s profession). Probably the most obvious cultural difference is in their naming: all Teixcalaanli have a two-word name comprising a number and a noun, like Six Direction. I have to say, the moment that crystallized how much I would enjoy this book came when Mahit bonded with her Teixcalaanli liaison, Three Seagrass, by laughing at someone who had named themselves “Thirty-Six All-Terrain Vehicle.” I laughed too.

But seriously, the ways in which Martine contrasts Teixcalaan with Lsel (the two main human cultures we get to experience in this book) is so well done. Lsel is obviously meant to seem closer to our baseline experience as readers, though there are plenty of hints it would feel alien too—stringent population control, a heavy focus on scholastic tests and test-based career determinism, etc. Teixcalaan, on the other hand, is portrayed as intensely alien (but still definitively human, unlike actual aliens). And in some ways it is more recognizable than Lsel—whereas Lsel is built on hereditary memory and function, Teixcalaan is about literary memory and cultural institutions, something far more familiar to most of us. It’s a very “Homer, but art deco” kind of vibe.

To that end, it’s clear that in many ways this book is a love letter to language and storytelling—so naturally I am a sucker for that. Yet it avoids descending into ponderousness, mostly through slick humour and characters like Twelve Azalea. Martine knows how to balance banter with moments of tension, and the result is something truly straddling space opera and planetary romance. In addition to Stross, I detect notes of Asimov, Reynolds, Le Guin, and other science fiction heavyweights here. Standing on the shoulders of giants, Martine reaches far—and, more impressively, doesn’t overreach.

Much of the book meditates on the nature of mortality and aging. I’m turning thirty-five this year—not old, I know, but of an age where I am starting to notice age in a way I didn’t when I turned thirty. Starting to look back and realize certain eras are truly behind me. Whether it’s Mahit bantering with the younger Yksander or Six Direction’s desire to preserve himself (ostensibly, of course, for the good of the empire), A Memory Called Empire can be very solemn at times in acknowledging that the good times do, in fact, end.

On a broader level, this is a book about the continuity of civilization. Like so many empires, Teixcalaan is vast and has, in its vastness, conflated its size with civilization. Mahit is a “barbarian,” albeit a nearly tolerable one. Teixcalaan’s annexation of Lsel, culturally if not politically, is spoken of as nearly a fait accompli, for that is the power of empire, here and now as well as in the future—just like at how the United States flexes imperial muscle and quite literally distorts other countries as a result. Martine portrays outsize imperial influence, the conflicts that spring up around colonization as well as from it, with admirable deftness.

I don’t know what else to say. Again, this is far from a perfect book—I can totally see some people putting it down for feeling “difficult” or having too much narration and internal monologuing and not enough dialogue or snappy action sequences. This is a book in which you immerse yourself—I’m glad I saved it for a summer read—though I wouldn’t call it difficult or challenging in the way Dhalgren or Too Like the Lightning is. I think the actual narrative and characterization here are quite straightforward, though if you are not in the mood for political machinations and speculations thereof, you won’t enjoy it.

Fortunately, I was in precisely that kind of mood, and A Memory Called Empire was decadence itself. What a fulfilling read.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Women are some kind of magic, to quote amanda lovelace, so it’s no wonder the patriarchy thinks we’re witches. The metaphor (and, for parts of history, literal belief) of woman-as-witch is a potent one. In Defense of Witches seeks to connect contemporary feminist struggles with the legacy of the witch hunts and trials that ran through Europe and America. Mona Chollet, translated here by Sophie R. Lewis, looks at a number of themes, like beauty standards, or the decision whether or not to have kids. I’m not sure how much I learned from this book, but it has some good synthesis of second- and third-wave feminism and presents a more European perspective than I’m used to.

The chapters are long: in addition to the introduction, there are only four: “A Life of One’s Own,” “Wanting Sterility,” “The Dizzy Heights,” and “Turning the World Upside Down.” Averaging fifty pages, each chapter packs quite the punch. Chollet begins by examining the desire for independence beyond the home. From there, she talks about the pressure to procreate, followed by the idea that women have an expiration date, that after a certain age we just can’t be successful or desired anymore. The book finishes on an optimistic note, referring to progress Chollet sees through movements like #MeToo, and a reminder that we can take control of our bodies without being essentialist about gender.

If I am disappointed in In Defense of Witches, it’s only because I was expecting more … witches? Like I kind of thought this book was about witch hunts and trials. Chollet really only references these in passing, however. There are a few juicy quotes from primary sources and researchers’ materials. But mainly she’s using the idea of women as witches as a lens to examine the tension between feminist writings of the twentieth century and broader society’s pushback. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, but the way the book’s title, subtitle, and design lean so heavily into it, I feel like I’m sensible for expecting there to be more of a connection.

As it is, I really enjoyed how many French writers and thinkers Chollet mentions and quotes. My feminist reading (most of my reading, let’s be real) is in a bubble of American, British, and occasionally Canadian authors. I don’t recognize a lot of the names Chollet drops—and that’s a good thing. I commented to a close friend of mine who is French that I felt like I was getting a window into what it’s like to come up into feminism in France. On top of this, of course, Chollet’s view itself is informed by French culture and standards—as evidenced by the very casual way in which she discusses wanting to have a lot of lovers, lol, and takes shots at American culture for being far less tolerant of this attitude among women.

Chollet’s attitudes and arguments are firmly rooted in segments of second-wave feminism; indeed, In Defense of Witches can in many ways be viewed as a love letter to Gloria Steinem, whom Chollet quotes and praises interminably. On one hand, I appreciate this because my view of second-wave feminism is a little jaded and has been coloured by its appropriation by TERFs. On the other hand, although Chollet’s analysis makes offhand noises towards inclusion of queer and trans identities, it stops short of a full-throated attempt to integrate trans and nonbinary people. So in this respect, I ran up against the limits of this book’s analysis fairly quickly: it pulls together some interesting ideas, but it also doesn’t bring up anything all that new or radical.

Probably the most enduring theme here is rationality versus irrationality and the way the former is inevitably masculine-coded, the latter, feminine-coded. Chollet argues that irrationality and emotionality are not the same. Patriarchy’s attempts to restrict women’s power and influence are rooted, in part, she maintains, because male-dominated institutions feared the power, creativity, and efficiency of women’s emotions. Hence the attempts to paint us as “hysterical.” Chollet makes the case that emotionality, while not an essentialist quality and something that many men can possess as well, is key to a more compassionate and just future in our society—something with which I am sympathetic. If there has been any theme to my overall arc, it has been moving away from the highly rational, academic mindset I cultivated in high school towards a mindset that embraces the irrational when needed (is it any wonder I found my true gender along the way?).

In Defense of Witches is an all right book, and for others, could very well be revelatory. For me it was a fine way to pass the time, and it exposed me to writers and ideas that I might not have otherwise heard on this side of the pond. However, it wasn’t quite the book I was looking for, and in some respects, it doesn’t go as far as I wanted it to.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

What’s worse than not having a place in the world? Finding your place only to feel like it might be ripped away from you. Claudie Arseneault dangles this prospect in front of readers with Flooded Secrets, the second book in her Chronicles of Nerezia series of novellas. I was impressed by Awakenings because it felt so cozy. This book builds on that success while also revealing the first layer of even more potent themes Arseneault has cooked up.

No spoilers for this book but some for the first one!

Horace believes e has found eir place, guarding Rumi’s wandering wagon and protecting the mysterious Aliyah, who has no memory of their life beyond some flashes of forest—oh yeah, and the ability to turn into a tree. Horace isn’t a very good guard yet, but e has a growth mindset. That comes in handy when the wagon is waylaid by Keza, who pilfers their food stores before running afoul of her own people’s laws. Her life, and the lives of Horace and eir companions, weighed against the survival of her village.

Flooded Secrets, much like the first book, opens with a fair amount of action, then settles down to let us spend time with characters. For a novella, it packs a punch in terms of plot. I’m enjoying this decision of Arseneault’s to parcel out these stories in a more serialized format than a novel or two might allow. It more closely mimics the sensation of playing a session of DnD, echoes of which reverberate throughout this universe.

What makes this book stand out, of course, is how Keza meets the wagon crew. Rumi, Aliyah, and Horace joined together amicably, if reluctantly on Rumi’s part, and in their short time together, the three of them (four, if you count the wagon) have forged a strong bond. Keza, her personality irascible to start, is sharpened by the actions she has had to take to protect her village, not to mention what happens as the story goes on.

So of course Horace, lovable embo that e is, has to make friends, right?

This is, of course, what makes Flooded Secrets and this series as a whole so valuable. Arseneault’s story is not by any stretch of the imagination conflict-free. However, she goes out of her way to construct conflicts that belie one’s typical expectations of sword and sorcery. The set pieces are there, from the overarching mystery of the Fragments to the cornucopia of species populating Nerezia. But this is a story about found family, about putting right wrongs even when you aren’t the one who caused them—not for credit, not even in exchange for commutation or pardon, but simply because it’s the right thing to do.

In a world that seems darker by the day (at least some days), books like these are valuable because they remind us that hope comes from within. From ourselves and from each other. From working together, mutual aid, and community. If these ideas comfort you, this will be a comfort book. Even if they don’t, Flooded Secrets still has its share of action, intrigue, and of course, the games.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

The Poppy War left me more, and fortunately my library was able to deliver (well, I went and picked it up, but you know what I mean). The Dragon Republic is the continuation of R.F. Kuang’s fantasy reimagining of twentieth-century Chinese history, mixed in with meditations on magic, gods, and monsters.

Spoilers for the first book but not for this one.

Rin is now the effective commander of the Cike following her genocidal actions at the end of the first book. Sworn to depose the Empress of Nikara, Rin and her ragtag band of god-empowered misfits at first align themselves with a pirate queen. When that backfires, she finds herself meeting up with an unlikely frenemy from her past, whose father has plans to take down the empress for his own reasons. You know what they say: the enemy of my enemy….

The same character flaws that made Rin such a nuanced protagonist in The Poppy War come roaring back in this book. They are complicated by Rin’s newfound impotence: pretty early in the story, a confrontation with the empress leaves her without access to her god, the Phoenix, and the fiery power it grants her. This doesn’t alter Rin’s overall goals, however, just stokes the fires of her desire for revenge even more. However, as with her time as a student at Sinegard, Rin once again finds herself in a position of relative powerlessness. Despite her ostensible value as an avatar of the Phoenix, Rin is shut down and shut out—relegated to being experimental fodder for the fundamentalist, monotheistic Hesperians and cannon fodder in the Dragon Warlord’s army.

Several things save this from being a recapitulation of the first book, however. First, Kuang continues to flesh out the series’ mythology. We get to meet the Hesperians. We learn more about the Hinterlanders/Ketreyids and their connection to the god-powers Rin and the other Cike have, along with their role in the empress's rise to power. Most importantly, Rin reconnects with old friends and rivals (not saying who, but I loved it), and for once we see her recognizing that she might actually need (shock, gasp) help to achieve her goals. Rin changes, albeit frustratingly slowly.

It’s been a few weeks since I read the book, however, and other particulars have evaporated. I enjoyed it, especially the way it builds on the mythology, but it didn’t feel as revelatory as The Poppy War. Maybe that’s to be expected with the second book in a trilogy. Maybe I’ll feel differently when I get to the third book. As it is, I still recommend The Dragon Republic. As long as you’re OK with continuing to watch Rin laid low by pretty much everyone she meets with an iota of ill will towards her, you’ll be fine.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Darcie Little Badger is one to watch. That’s what I say to myself anyway, as I pound back endless cups of tea and anyone else reads these words on the internet. But if you are reading these words, then you ought to know Sheine Lende is a fantastic experience all around, just like my experiences with Elatsoe and A Snake Falls to Earth before it. At every turn, Little Badger crafts a narrative so compelling and compassionate that I’m left satisfied and awestruck.

A prequel to Elatsoe, Sheine Lende is the eponymous story of Elatsoe’s grandmother. Set roughly during the 1970s, I think, the book follows Shane’s quest to rescue her mother. Shane and her mother work as trackers of missing persons, and one day while tracking two missing siblings, Shane’s mom disappears. Shane locates one of the siblings, but the other remains missing, presumably with her mother. Shane has no choice but to work with a ragtag team: her younger brother, the retrieved sibling, her best friend, and her drifter grandfather. Her quest will take her far afield from home, even perhaps into the land of the dead.

As with Elatsoe, this story is set in a world much like ours, except that humanity acknowledges magic—and the fairy realm—exists. Magic isn’t common, however, and aside from some people being able to use fairy rings for long-distance transport, most people who practise it keep it on the down-low. That’s the case for Shane and her mother, who have the ability to summon the spirits of dead animals and even use their ghost dog, Nellie, in their tracking business. Shane and her mother are Lipan Apache, displaced by a rich white man from their ancestral lands, and just getting by. Little Badger expertly conveys Shane’s existence: life with her mother and her little brother is tough sometimes yet also full of love, and Shane, at seventeen, is a mature young woman burgeoning with creativity and ambition.

This is key to the book’s success: Shane is an excellent protagonist. As soon as her mom goes missing, she shifts gear into leader mode. Lots of people older than her—mostly men—doubt her (though shout out to her grandpa and others who eventually cast aside their doubts and get on board). Really, Shane’s best allies are her best friend and her new friend, Donnie—these three young women showcase the power of female friendship (and you can bet I enjoyed the queer vibes as well). Shane is so focused on getting her mom back, and while she has her own moments of self-doubt, it is her grit and her determination that makes her such a formidable figure.

Combine this with Little Badger’s attention to pacing and how to unspool the mystery, and you have yourself an exciting read. Although I felt like the middle third of the book lagged a bit, the intensity of the third act more than makes up for it.

My favourite part was probably the ending, however. I won’t go into spoilers, but basically we get a flashforward to Shane as an older woman (and Elatsoe is there). Shane has been waiting for something for decades. It’s really neat, seeing the older Shane, seeing her reflect back on the adventure we just witnessed. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, as I approach thirty-five, how I’m aging and how I might feel in the decades to come, as I look back at my earlier life. So something about this scene, about seeing an older Shane, really just … hit me. In a good way. Little Badger reminds us that we all grow old—if we are lucky—and there is a beauty inherent in just having lived one’s life.

That’s really what Sheine Lende comes down to. This is a book about the beauty of being human, of building connections to family and friends, of getting angry or sad or distraught and fighting and hugging it out. Of pushing on past what you think are your limits. Of trusting others. This is a fun novel with serious themes (including resisting colonialism), and it’s definitely worth your time.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I was so hyped for The Undetectables for no particular reason. It just seemed like a neat premise, and who doesn’t like the tagline, “Be gay. Solve crimes. Take naps”? Courtney Smyth promises a queernorm paranormal mystery involving witches, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, and fairies. For the most part, she delivers, although the mystery part of the novel is perhaps the least satisfying.

Mallory and her two best friends, Cornelia and Diana, ran the eponymous onetime amateur detective agency in their hometown of Wrackton. After failing to solve their first and only case, the Undetectables started to drift apart as they each pursued their own goals in life. Mallory feels the most stuck: fibromyalgia has inhibited her social life and her career goals. She has spent the last several years halfheartedly staying on that first case while befriending the ghost of its victim, Thomas, condemned to exist forever wearing cat ears foisted upon him as a practical Halloween costume joke. Then someone starts brutally murdering residents of Wrackton, and the Undetectables reunite.

I love the setup and first part of this book. Smyth does a great job establishing the four protagonists and their defining traits. Similarly, she doesn’t waste time getting us into the main mystery and challenges our gumshoes will face. The Undetectables is set in a magicnorm world where magical and mundane beings have a cordial, if occasionally complicated, coexistence. I appreciate how Smyth avoids the temptation to infodump. Yes, I desperately want to know more about the different supernatural species, their histories and forms of government, and how they coexist with mundane humans—no, we don’t get much of that, and it’s for the best.

I wasn’t expecting but really appreciate the focus on disability and chronic illness in Mallory. I myself don’t have a chronic illness and don’t know what it’s like to deal with something like fibromyalgia. I can only imagine how little those who do feel represented in novels like this. From my limited perspective, Smyth seems to do a great job of sharing the complex way Mallory’s disability influences her life. I especially loved the exploration of Mallory’s anxiety about how it affects her friendships (something I can relate to): it’s so understandable, the small conflicts that result among her, Diana, and Cornelia, as a result of Mallory’s worries that her friends are leaving her behind. This is a great example of how no one is really “in the wrong” here, yet inadvertent ableism or poor communication results in friends letting each other down. The way that these three women deal with conflict in general, whether it’s over Mallory’s disability, Thomas, or Cornelia’s boyfriend, is laudable.

Where The Undetectables starts to lose me is in its climax and conclusion, as well as its tone. Tonally, this book is a mess. I can see what Smyth is trying to go for: a mix of quips and high stakes, which is possible and often enjoyable. Unfortunately, this feels more like a mash-up or pastiche than a successful combo of the two tones. The protagonists vacillate wildly between humorous or jovial and sombre.

I just also never really vibed with how the Undetectables go about their sleuthing. I guess they are supposed to be inexperienced, but they just don’t come across as very good detectives. I seldom like to brag that I figured out whodunnit long before the reveal (I don’t really think that’s a good litmus test for the quality of a mystery), but, uh, it was kind of telegraphed?

The Undetectables has a lot going for it, from original characters and premises to strong disability and queer representation. It’s just a somewhat messy, uneven novel, making it far less memorable and significant than I had hoped it would feel after reading. A good summer mystery though.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

We have all heard the tired refrain “boys will be boys.” Challenging this adage has been one of the main undertakings of feminism in the past half-century. Yet how successful have we been in dismantling rape culture and teaching consent? More broadly, what messages do boys and young men receive about sex and sexuality, and how is that influencing their behaviour as they navigate their first intimate relationships? In Boys & Sex, Peggy Orenstein explores these touchy subjects by going to the source: interviewing young men in high school and college.

This 2020 book is a follow-up to Orenstein’s 2011 Girls & Sex, which I haven’t read. I might go back and read it someday. I chose to read Boys & Sex because I feel like I have a strong grasp on how girls and women are told to deal with sex. Despite living the first thirty years of my life as a man (I realized I am trans in 2020), I don’t have any clear idea of what is expected of men when it comes to sex. Reading this book was a revelation in the sense that it confirmed this feeling: none of the experiences described in this book remotely resemble anything I thought, felt, or did during my adolescence or young adulthood. I don’t know how much of that to attribute to being trans and how much to attribute to being ace, yet here we are. What an affirming read in that sense.

Orenstein covers a lot of broad themes chapter by chapter. Some of these include porn, hookup culture, queer men, race, consent, compulsory sexuality, toxic masculinity, and how to talk to our boys. She editorializes a lot, interjecting with her own opinions and estimations of her interview subjects. I think this is a good thing; it is a poor journalist who uncritically reports on what her sources say without offering context, correction, or in some cases, rebuttal. At the same time, Orenstein does her best to “get out of the way” of her subjects, seeking not to tell their stories for them but instead share their unique perspectives.

She has a whole chapter on queer and trans men, noting in her introduction that she regrets Girls & Sex overlooks trans women. I found this chapter in particular super interesting. Although the experiences of trans women and trans men are often thought of as inverses, they are not symmetrical. So it wasn’t so much that I was like, “Oooh, this person is ‘going the other way’” as I was fascinated by the idea of a person who had the experience of compulsory sexuality from a young woman’s perspective before ultimately transitioning and looking at it as a man. In contrast, as I said above, I feel like I noped out of that from the start, so I’m tabula rasa in that regard.

The same was true of the chapter on hookup culture. As Orenstein shares subjects’ stories of feeling the intense pressure to hook up and how many of them regret it as they have aged or are glad they’ve moved away from such behaviour, all I could think was, “That was not me.” Not in a superior kind of way, just a bemused, “Was this happening all around me in high school?” (It was!) and “Is this what I was ‘missing’ in university?” In this respect, Boys & Sex is enlightening for me because I never talked to my peers about this stuff back when we all thought I was a boy. Orenstein reminds us that boys and men are, contrary to stereotypes, incredibly thoughtful when it comes to these subjects. They’re just often discouraged from talking about it.

The book finishes with an intense chapter around how to have difficult conversations. Orenstein shares the story of a young man who eventually realizes that he was the perpetrator of assault on a woman he hooked up with in college. At the time, he didn’t see it that way and saw himself as a “good man” who respected women and looked for consent—but as he started to understand how she remembered that night, he was ashamed. Orenstein shares how he and the woman have undergone a kind of restorative justice process. It’s a fascinating story because it speaks to something I think we often overlook.

Lots of people say, “Men are trash,” and then the defenders of our young men say, “Hashtag not all men.” Which is true! But if that is where we stop, without doing anything about the men and boys inculcated into rape culture, then we aren’t changing anything. Orenstein points out that our current system is raising really flawed (and fucked up) boys and men, and they need compassion and grace as we deprogram the toxic parts of their masculinity. That doesn’t mean unconditional forgiveness or freedom from consequences—but it has to mean a more nuanced conversation.

Boys & Sex is a valuable contribution to that social conversation. It’s thorough yet not too long. It does its best to be intersectional—I didn’t talk too much about it, but I really liked the chapter on race—I think the one lens I really noticed was missing was disability. Obviously, Orenstein’s is not the last word on this subject. This is one important contribution among many others that have come before or since. But if, like me, you feel particularly out of the loop when it comes to how boys and men in Canada and the US are raised to think about and act on their sexuality, this book will open your eyes.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Some good reviews by people I trust brought this new standalone novel from Ann Leckie to my attention. Translation State, similar to Provenance, is set in the universe of her Imperial Radch trilogy but tells a different story. This one enlightens us ever so slightly as to the nature of the Presger, but really, of course, it’s about what it means to be human.

The story alternates among three viewpoint characters: Enae, Qven, and Reet. Enae (sie/hir) is young, recently bereaved of hir grandmother, a kind of family matriarch. At a loss for what to do yet utterly free, Enae cautiously undertakes a job that will take her away from everything sie has ever known. Qven is a Presger Translator: human in appearance yet alien in physiology, eir journey is one of defection and refuge. Reet has been living an unassuming life on a space station until one day someone tells him that he might be the long-lost, last living descendant of an important autocrat. When he meets Qven, though, everything changes.

It has been years since I read the other Radch books. This one benefits from the multiple perspectives—whereas the trilogy is largely Breq’s story, Translation State is a tripartite story featuring three very different protagonists. They don’t always want the same thing, which leads to some very interesting moments as the novel approaches climax. Each has a story worthwhile in its own right. When Leckie welds them together, she creates something that is just as complex, if more understated, as her original trilogy of self-discovery and self-actualization.

I probably identified with Enae’s character the most, despite superficially having very little resemblance to hir life. I liked how game Enae is. How sie doesn’t back down from a challenge. While far from a Mary Sue in terms of capabilities, Enae is no doormat, and hir combination of compassion and perspicacity proves enchanting. It’s easy to dismiss Enae, I think, because hir story seems the least connected to the overall theme of what it means to be human. Yet I would argue that Enae’s role as investigator is crucial. We needed a third perspective, beyond Qven and Reet, for us to glimpse why their struggle is so important without getting lost in the middle of it.

Qven and Reet were a bit harder for me to love—but I loved Reet’s family dynamics, and I really like how Qven and Reet bond after they meet. The chapters where Qven is growing up as a juvenile Presger Translator are fascinating and probably some of the most original, thought-provoking science fiction I’ve read in a while.

Indeed, Leckie showcases her incredible gift for writing about aliens and alienness here. The Presger have always been a cipher and, as is our nature, readers have always wanted to know more about them. Leckie doesn’t show all her cards here—which is a good thing. Nothing ruins an ineffable race more than discovering they are, in fact, effable! It’s clear the Presger’s nature transcends space-time in a way that we mere mortals cannot grasp. However, this book does provide more insight into the Translators, and through them, the Presger.

One thing that strikes me as fascinating is that the book never fully establishes why Qven becomes so attached to the idea of being human. The Translators are part human, part Presger. Alien in their being and nature, they nevertheless must have some human qualities so that they can move among us. Yet Qven is the first (second?) Translator to rebel against eir purpose, if you will, or at least on the first or second to live and tell the tale. Though some of this is a response to trauma, it’s still interesting that Qven can’t put aside eir individuality and assimilate into the role eir clade needs. Leckie’s commenting on the inexorable nature of humanity here: it appears our genes are always bound to gunk up the works.

If you have enjoyed Leckie’s other books, you will like Translation State as well. You might miss the grand space opera and associated battles—though there is some action here and there. But it’s clear that Leckie is enjoying exploring different corners of her universe while she asks big questions, and that is truly the best use of science fiction. If you are new to Leckie, this is a fine place to start. You might feel a little out of the loop, for the book refers to events that took place in the trilogy—but understanding this book doesn’t depend on a knowledge of those events, so they might as well be backstory inserted into the background as flavour text.

I’m here for the creativity and fun that Leckie is having as she expands the universe she started with her Radch novels. From cultures outside the Radch to actual aliens to everything in between, there’s so much to see here. You won’t get all the answers, and that might be frustrating at first, but it’s so much better that way.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I came across Marlo Mack’s podcast of the same name and listened to many of the episodes. She discontinued it for a time, at her daughter’s request, which spoke highly of her commitment to putting her daughter’s needs before any possibility of notoriety or listenership. The podcast briefly got an update last December, where Mack mentions she might podcast infrequently with updates about her life and less about her daughter’s, which makes sense. In any event, I knew immediately I needed to read this book. How to Be a Girl is

Just as heads up this review will be a little more personal than most, given how entwined this book’s subject is with my identity as a trans woman.

Mack tells her story chronologically, which makes sense, starting with her daughter’s insistence that she’s a girl. This occurs as Mack is in the process of divorcing her daughter’s father, who to his credit seems like a good dude in the sense that he accepts his daughter’s gender identity pretty willingly. Mack does not sugarcoat or suppress the anxiety, discomfort, and reluctance that she feels. She struggles with the revelation. Hopes it isn’t true. Tries to find any possible alternative, up to and including the idea that her son might a gay and effeminate boy—but still a boy. It’s a long road for her to come to terms with things, and she’s plenty critical enough of herself—I won’t judge her.

That’s one reason I wanted to read How to Be a Girl. I came to my identity as a woman later in life, when I was thirty (though, in hindsight, I think I had inklings as far back as Grade 7 or 8, maybe younger). My coming out to my (supportive and affirming) parents was far more expository than beseeching: I was letting them know what I had decided, not requesting their help. In the case of M., as Mack refers to her daughter throughout this book, at three or four years old, she is so dependent on her parents’ good will. This is the first of many stark differences between my gender journey and M.’s, and it’s why I’m glad I read this book. Every trans experience is different, and even though this is not a memoir of a trans person, it is a transgender memoir of a kind, and I will keep collecting these stories as I live my own.

Mack shares some of the details of reconciling with M.’s identity: the visits to therapists and psychiatrists, the paperwork and sorting out of procedures at school. I can’t imagine what supportive parents go through as they navigate these bureaucratic and social hurdles on behalf of their trans children. This should be required reading for cis people in positions of policymaking power at school boards and similar authorities: there is a difference between being tolerant of trans and gender-diverse kids and actually working to dismantle the systemic barriers that make it harder for them to learn, grow, and succeed. Mack is great at crystallizing those barriers, both from her perspective as a mother and from what she shares of M.’s perspective.

On that note, the perspicacity and simplicity of M.’s understanding of her gender and how she relates to her friends is beautiful. I appreciate Mack’s willingness to step out of the way and repeat her daughter’s wisdom as verbatim as she can remember. Trans kids are, ultimately, kids. They just want to have a childhood, live their life. Mack marvels at M.’s resilience even as she bemoans M.’s precocious understanding that she is different from other girls and exists at a disadvantage in the system as it is set up. So we marvel and bemoan as well.

This was a hard book for me to read. “There but for the grace of God…” and all that. I often (like, weekly) contemplate how my life could have been different had I transitioned sooner. I likely would have had a much harder time, to be brutally honest. Transitioning at thirty, well into my career in a union job in a country with imperfect but progressive human rights protections for gender identity … I did it from a position of immense privilege. Transitioning at twenty-three just as I was moving to England? At seventeen, on the cusp of university? At ten, still in elementary school? Wow. Even as I mourn the childhood I didn’t have, I can’t conceive of what that childhood could have been like.

So it’s hard, reading Mack’s memoir, because even as I feel for her and M., I’m also incredibly envious. I want M.’s childhood. I want her life. No, that’s not precisely it—I don’t really want to be coming of age during this tumultuous time for trans rights. But I’m getting emotional as I write this paragraph because I’m reflecting on how the massive sense of loss welling up from within me. Even though my transition has been an exceedingly happy one. Even though my parents have both been unfailingly affirming from the moment I came out. Through no individual person’s fault but rather through the fault of the society in which I grew up, I missed out in a way that M. won’t, thanks to Mack and her advocacy.

That’s the power of this book. It’s a simple memoir told simply—Mack is not an exceptional writer, but her words are raw and honest. She avoids sensationalizing. She avoid being dramatic. When sucky stuff happens, she sketches an outline of the incident. Even those individual incidents are few and far between for the family, emphasizing how anti-transness and transphobia, much like racism, are more about systemic acts than individual ones. It isn’t the people in Mack or M.’s world that give them problems so much as it is the systems that make it hard for M. to live authentically—and, though this book was published just prior to the surge of anti-trans lawmaking the United States, the legislation or lack thereof to support transition, especially for trans kids.

I don’t know what else to tell you. This book is exactly what it says on the tin. It’s not perfect. If you have read other trans memoirs or memoirs of trans parents, you will recognize many of the themes here—though like I said, every journey is unique. Mack herself acknowledges the privileges she and M. have, being white in America, being middle class enough to afford (if barely) a private school that’s more inclusive and affirming. Racialized trans kids have it even harder. Privilege aside, though, Mack’s story—and her daughter’s story, but M. is not old enough to tell it from her point of view yet and may never want to tell it, which is totally valid—matters.

Would I recommend this to other trans people? Sure, though be prepared to find it provocative-on-the-verge-of-triggering like I did. More obviously, this memoir is for the cis folks in the room. You need to do your homework, especially if you’re a parent or becoming one soon—because, yeah, your kid could be trans. And that isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a thing, one thing among many that our society happens to make more difficult at the moment. So do your research. Read this book. Prepare yourself for the possibility, and if your kid doesn’t end up questioning their gender, cool—you’ll be ready to support your parent friends whose kids do go through this. The more we can do that, the more we can tear down these systems, the more kids who get to grow up like M.—or even more smoothly. And the fewer who grow up and realize later, like me—or who never grow up at all.

Sorry to end it on a downer. It’s a good book. It’s important. But that’s really what this comes down to: survival. How to Be a Girl is a story of trust, of believing one’s child, and of coming through to the other side stronger as a family.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.