Reviews from Bookshelf minority-voices

I ended up staying up until 3:30 the night before a busy day because I just couldn't stand not to finish this book. It follows a Mexican-American family as they make the move from a working-class neighborhood in Fresno to a middle-class neighborhood in small-town Oregon. But it's really about an impressionable boy, Billy, and how the tendencies of his childhood self--and the influence of his brilliant but deeply disturbed father--shape him into a youth who wants to do right but finds himself adrift on the winds of his own lack of resolve.

There are melodramatic moments throughout the book, but the ending takes things to a level of crisis and failure so extreme that I fell right out of the dream that the rest of the book had spun for me. Just too over-the-top.

But this is still an important book, one that I think would be worth reading for anyone interested in Latino literature or looking for a spin on the typical "ethnic" coming-of-age story.

This is a very special book, and not just because it received a starred review from Kirkus Reviews calling it "a stirring and thought-provoking account of an unsung figure in 20th-century American history." In these pages, Lewis Michaux emerges as both a flawed human being living in difficult times and as a player in some of the most important events of African-American and American life over 30 years.

As a novel "in documents," No Crystal Stair weaves together actual materials (articles, FBI files, pamphlets, bits of poetry) with journal-type entries from Lewis Michaux, his family members, prominent authors, and many other figures (some historical, some imagined) that he crosses paths with in the pages of the novel. For example, we hear from the banker who turns him down for a loan when he wants to start the bookstore; from his sister-in-law who disapproves of his politics and doubts his faith; from authors on the rise, like Nikki Giovanni; from reporters; and (my favorite!) from teenagers who get turned onto books because of his recommendations.

Not all the voices in the novel are perfectly distinct, but that's okay. Because by the end, we've got a gorgeous portrait of a life that's full of nuggets of wisdom, little-known facts about life in Harlem, spot-on portrayals of debates on race and civil rights (integration or independence? accomodation or confrontation? violence or patience?), and anecdotes that you'll want to tuck into the pockets of your heart. A few of my favorite quotations from the book:

Lewis: "If a sexy book gets them in the door, I'll show them a sexy book. Then I'll show them Douglass or DuBois or something else of value. If you're in the book business, you've got to sell books."

Lewis: "I found out who the real Lord is. That is the landlord. He comes to see me every month. So praying doesn't get it. Work gets it. And I'm working hard."

Elder Lightfoot, Lewis's brother: "If there's no devil, who gets the credit for raising all the hell?” and “Be willing to help anybody who is down, but don't go down helping him.”

Snooze (teenage male): "Man, how does Hughes know this stuff? It's like he's inside my head. Like he's reading my mind. I, too, sing America. I read it over and over. It carves itself deep in my mind 'til it sticks. I can't shake it. Don't want to."

Lewis: "Until the neglected and the rejected are accepted and respected, there's gonna be no damn peace . . . nowhere! Only a tree will stand still while it's being chopped down" (after assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.).

This is a book with much, much heart. In addition to being lovingly executed, it's flawlessly researched. It's a beautiful example of multi-genre research that teachers can share with students of all ages. Tom Romano--the guru of multi-genre research--would be thrilled with this book.

There are a lot of things I like about this book. I like that (as with Sáenz’s Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood, which I loved) the speaker is Mexican-American but that this isn’t an “issue” that the book is trying to work through in any intentional way. I like that the age and situation of the protagonist is unconventional—Zach’s already 18, and he interacts almost exclusively with older people at the treatment facility where he’s recovering from his alcohol addiction and learning to remember the secret that’s cutting him off from the world. I like Zach’s voice, which is distant and intimate almost at the same time, shying away from emotive language (because Zach is a pro at finding ways not to feel) in such a way that we, as readers, feel for him.

Some people were annoyed by the tics in Zach’s private language; he says “tears me up” and “wigs me out” often. But I read this as a way of noting that he’s had an emotional response while evading the need to be responsible for the specific feelings. While others might object to the (unbelievably) sunny ending, I share my friend Alisa's conviction that part of the point of the book is that you ought to believe in this kind of ending, that nothing is more improbable yet necessary to believe in than an addict’s recovery.

The things that bothered me had to do with character and plotting. Part of this comes from Zach’s situation: there’s a muted, flattened affect in the narration because he’s determined not to feel anything and a lot of vagueness in what he narrates because he’s determined not to remember anything. But somehow, as the novel progresses, it undercuts its own drama. I come to know without knowing the source of Zach’s trauma, and even though it’s built up as THE revelation, I have trouble caring when I find out because I still know so little about the particulars of Zach’s family life.

Also, I get that Zach’s self-esteem issues keep him from seeing himself as others can see him, but I had trouble swallowing all the well-meaning interventions, not just by Zach’s therapist, but also by many of his fellow addicts. This was least convincing in one particular case, which illustrates in part my broader objection. One of Zach’s roommates, Sharkey, quits the facility, only to be replaced by Amit, who functions virtually identically to Sharkey in Zach’s life. Now, the similarity of their characters is bad enough: both are sleepwalking coke addicts with street smarts, sharp attitudes, and a passion for sunglasses and shoes. But what really gets me is that there is nothing that motivates Amit’s concern for Zach. He shows up, and suddenly he’s all caring and concerned. It’s as if (and the cynic in me wonders if Sharkey and Amit weren’t originally one character) Amit has just taken over Sharkey’s role.

Still, this is a thoughtful novel that may especially appeal to male readers and those who feel disconnected from family and peers. In terms of tone and development, LAST NIGHT I SANG TO THE MONSTER reminds me of Greg Galloway’s AS SIMPLE AS SNOW. I like Sáenz’s book much more, though.