Maxwell Street Blues, by Marc Krulewitch ****

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Maxwell Street Blues is an entertaining first of a series by Marc Krulewitch. Set primarily in present-day Chicago, it has a noir flavor that takes the reader back about 60 years, despite the presence of meth as a key storyline component. Picture it all in black and white, the fog, the halo of the street light, the only thing missing are the fedora and the trench coat. We even have a mystery woman; no, make it two. And pay attention or you will lose track of which is which.

A brief change of setting, from Chicago to Los Angeles and suddenly the noir feeling evaporates and all is neon. Back to Chicago again; black and white, shadows and light.

The ghost of organized crime has come to call. Were it contemporary organized crime, it would be scurrilous, but it is from long ago in protagonist Landrau’s past. This struck a note for me; I have family mobsters two generations back. It’s rendered innocuous by the distance of time.

I very much enjoyed this read, which came to me free courtesy of Net Galley. There were a couple of moments that verged on the trite, and unfortunately they showed themselves in the climax. But as for me, I will cheerfully continue to read the rest of the series as it appears and becomes available. This is only the beginning, and it’s a very good one.

 

The Splendid Things We Planned: A Family Portrait, by Blake Bailey *****

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Blake Bailey is one hell of a writer. In this memoir of a family that is first twisted and then broken, he has given of himself in a way that is impossible to measure. It is a powerhouse of a memoir, a beacon that starts out distant and becomes gradually more focused and immediate in a way only a master of the genre can do. I feel fortunate for having been lucky enough to catch a glimpse free and in advance, courtesy of his publisher and the Goodreads.com first reads program. If you are drawn to haunting, searingly evocative memoirs, I recommend you go out and get a copy for yourself. You won’t forget this one.

In the beginning, he is so droll that I mistakenly dropped this story onto my “humor” shelf. It begins light, as childhood tends to be in spite of everything, and gradually, not unlike the “Clouds” he uses to end his story, it darkens, at first almost imperceptibly, then in a way that builds until the reader sits up, sits back (perhaps like me) to say, “Oh HELL no!” or, “Did that just happen?”

It did. And when you think about it, how could it be otherwise?

It is not just a good read, but also a damning indictment of the so-called justice system in the USA. How much human potential has been wasted in funding and resorting to incarceration when mental health care is so badly needed for so many?

I have a couple of quotations I had considered using, but why should I do that when I recommend that you read it yourself? It would ruin part of the discovery for you.

The silence when he finishes is thunderous and deafening.

 

I Love a Man in Uniform: A Memoir of Love, War, and Other Battles by Lily Burana ****

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  This was one of the most unlikely things I’d ever have guessed I would read. I found it in my favorite home-town used book store, and I read the blurb on the back. Huh. Might actually be interesting.

Though I myself come from a family with lots of military folk, I have opposed every modern war in which the US involved itself, and I consider the American Civil War the last truly righteous US war. But I could see that this memoir had an outsider’s point of view, and from my (strangely many) friends who do come from military backgrounds, I had figured out that the military is a culture unto itself. So…how would a former stripper accommodate herself to a military lifestyle? And just how does a former exotic dancer end up marrying into the military…to an officer, no less?

See what I mean? It really does leave a swirl of question marks dancing in the air around it.

I can’t quote from the book, because I bought it, read it, and gave it to (who else?) a friend whose family was military, before I began writing reviews. But I will tell you this: it is a story like no other. And if, like me, you want to avoid smut in your reading material, relax. This story is not about sex. It’s about the fear many of us have of what would happen if someone important to us finds out who we really are, or at least, used to be.

In the author’s case, the problem is exponential. Not only is her marriage on the line (because she kept this nugget to herself until after they’d both said “I do”), but all of the new friendships she has found on the base may fold up around her and exclude her, talk about her if this thing becomes known.

It’s enough to drive a woman to a nervous breakdown.

Whether you are military, a peacenik, or just a person who loves an absorbing memoir, this is unique and very readable. Recommended for all, except children.

The Wrong Carlos: Anatomy of a Wrongful Execution, by James S. Liebman ****

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Has anyone ever been proved to have been executed in the USA for a crime s/he did not commit? I would have thought this was a no-brainer, but then, I have watched the so-called criminal “justice” system ruin basically good kids and incarcerate exponentially larger numbers of people—primarily people of color—for doing small things that would never touch a white person of material substance. I’ve seen it unfold in multiple cities and in diverse situations. It’s endemic. It amazes me that anyone felt a study needed to be done in order to demonstrate what is naked before our eyes in any major city and a lot of smaller towns, too.

However, apparently some academics at Columbia University believed the answer was less than clear, and so in the chillingly clinical writing of the intelligentsia, they lay out, sometimes minute by minute, sometimes hour by hour, the entire case of the murder of Wanda Lopez. Wanda was a convenience store clerk; Carlos Hernandez appears to have been a sadistic sociopath who enjoyed using his knife on human beings. (After being sent up once for using a gun, he drew the only natural conclusion: in the future, kill people using a knife, not a gun. Logical, right?)

There is testimony; there are photographs; and if you want to go online and watch videos (heaven help us all), you can do that too.

DNA tests should hypothetically be definitive in capital murder cases today, but they are very expensive and (as the recent Amanda Knox trial in Italy demonstrates), they can also be ambiguous. For example, one can argue whether a person’s DNA is present in a given place for a good reason; then too, DNA must be matched to someone who’s on file, and if the person in question has never been in trouble and got away clean, you might as well be holding yesterday’s newspaper as the DNA of who-knows-who.

Ultimately, as this case demonstrates using eerily dry language rather than the kind of compelling narrative one might generally expect, the courts spend more time and effort on those who are in a position to hire competent counsel, garner community support, and have others actively advocating for them. On the other hand, those who are alienated and dispossessed; those who fear law enforcement too much to come forward in someone else’s defense; those who don’t have the funds for transportation or who fear taking time off and losing the hard-won job that represents the thin, dim line between barely scraping by and being out on the street; these folks get sent up easily, and a case is closed.

Neither Carlos was an angel, goodness knows. The innocent-of-murder Carlos was a convicted rapist who pleaded no contest and admits that he tore a woman’s clothing off her body so he could force her to have sex. With the inclusion of such facts, the man who was executed becomes a much less sympathetic character, but the point of the Columbia scholars is not to restore the good name of Carlos DeLuna or to excoriate the memory of Carlos Hernandez (also dead now); it is to prove the point they set out to prove: at least one person has been sent to his death when he was innocent of the crime for which he was executed. If anyone doubts the truth of this statement, I invite them to read this cold, horrible indictment of the US “Justice” system.

For some of us, there was no doubt to begin with.

Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina, by Misty Copeland ****-*****

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lifeinmotionI rate this four stars for general audiences, five for those interested in the ballet.Misty Copeland, star ballerina with the American Ballet Theatre, wants us to know that when she enters a stage, she thinks, “This is for all the little brown girls.” And rightfully so. She is the first Black ballerina to rise to this level of prominence in twenty years, and the first ever to star in The Firebird.

I read this book free courtesy of Net Galley. I approached it not as a fan of ballet, but as an avid reader of autobiographies and memoirs. When I rate this book a five-star read, I do so not for a niche audience, but for anyone who enjoys reading stories of personal struggle, triumph, and success.

Copeland, who is racially mixed but identifies primarily as African-American, is famed for her work on the stage, but she can really write, too. I kept half an eye open to see if a byline or as-told-to would crop up somewhere. Copeland’s education was often disrupted by a chaotic childhood; her mother, a loving but apparently capricious individual who seems to have had terrible taste in men, had trouble staying in one place. Dramatic departures that took all of Misty’s “tribe” (her loving term for her siblings) in as co-conspirators, became a pattern, but they never seemed to leave the first “daddy” until Mama had a second one already waiting for them. How does a young woman whose life—and education—are tossed up and thrown down into increasingly tenuous situations , become this literate?

I can only conclude that the label of “prodigy”, one she heard from an early age, did not apply solely to her dancing talent, but also to her intellect and capacity to pick up information quickly.

Copeland begins her ballet training in California, in a working class neighborhood at the local Boys and Girls Club. Her ability is breathtaking, and a mentor arranges for her to receive further, more advanced training.

At one critical juncture, Copeland’s mother pulls another rip-up-our-roots-and-leave number, and the family, now nearly destitute, lands in a motel room in a seedy area. There are six children and their parent (and boyfriend, at first) living in a single room, and Misty survives emotionally by compartmentalizing her life, fronting at school as if her home is the same as everyone else’s, avoiding prurient details, and doing the same, more or less, at her beloved ballet lessons. (Her mentor is covering some expenses for her, but she does not know this at the time; she thinks it is all free.) Misty ‘s sisters and brothers are increasingly finding other places to spend the night; the integrity of the family is unraveling. Misty survives those nights in the grungy motel by looking forward to school and above all, ballet, the following day. That is, until her mother tells her to quit.

The mentor is having none of it. She confronts Misty’s mother and asks to bring Misty home with her instead. And with a poignant note of pain, Misty tells us, “She let me go.”

Turns out, it isn’t so bad that way. Life in the middle class opens up new possibilities for her, once she is in Cindy’s condo with her husband and toddler. She learns which fork to use, how to set a good table, and watches ballet on video. She has nice clothes and a full belly. Her confidence increases.

But visits back to the motel room to see the family are tense. She is perceived by her siblings and mother as arrogant. She has a new hairdo, and this sets off all sorts of bells and whistles. (Those of us who have been through foster parent training were told: never mess with the kid’s hair without checking with bio-mom first; for some reason, it is a button-pusher.)

After years in the bosom of a new and loving family, in which she is included to the extent of having studio portraits of a family of four framed on the walls, herself, the two new (Caucasian, Jewish) parents, and the little brother, her mother decides to take her back.

This reviewer has been there, and nearly wept at this juncture, though the author puts a professionally polished distance between the feelings she had then; those she had subsequently; and those she has now. Social workers will tell you that a parent who is more than ready to see a child go, a kid who is one more mouth to feed at least, and at times, maybe creates extra work or trouble, often sees their newly-acclimated offspring when they are successful and happy, and they suddenly want them back, as if they can pull a little piece of that success back to themselves. Maybe that’s what occurred here.

Perhaps other, less subjective reviewers may feel differently, but I was surprised to see Cindy wiped out of the story, more or less, once Misty went back to live in the motel, and then not brought back except peripherally at the end. I get it; this is a ballet memoir, but it’s also an autobiography, and when she tells us that she had “been seeing” Cindy and her family off and on, I wondered what kind of interactions took place, and whether she felt turmoil at such times.

One thing was sure, though: just as she took to ballet with remarkable speed and talent, she also took to Manhattan in a New York minute. Though it was expensive and hard to afford an apartment with any natural light or air, she hooked into the city, once invited to study, then perform there, and claimed it as her own.

But culturally and economically, she felt the disparity between herself and other dancers:

“Ballet has long been the province of the white and the wealthy. Our daily, toe-crushing exercises made pointe shoes as disposable as tissues, and they can cost as much as eighty dollars a pair. I came from a family that didn’t always have enough food to eat…[her peers] summered in Europe…their families had weekend homes.”

At one point in her development as a ballerina, when a bigoted reviewer indicates that she doesn’t fit in with the white dancers, members of the Harlem cultural community ask her why she doesn’t come there to dance instead. Why does she put herself through it, they wonder. And in time, she is formally invited to jump ship and come on board the Harlem dance organization.

But she has learned the negative lessons of her mother’s tendency to cut and run when adversity strikes, and she decides she will fight to maintain her position in the USA’s premier ballet company.

International fame follows, along with the opportunity to work with the musician Prince. And there is more, but I should leave a thing or two for the reader to discover.

I appreciated the author’s deft juggling of her personal story and her professional one, although of course they mesh in many places. There is never a point where the story drags or too much information (old grudges or love life details) make me want to skim.

Like the ballet, the story is lean, trim, and full of joy, despite hardship. You should read it.

The Trials of Lenny Bruce ***** by Ronald K.L. Collins, David Skover

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 thetrialsoflennybruce I cannot remember the last time I felt so strongly about a book I had bought. I have never, ever felt this strongly about a CD! I found, by a rare bit of luck, this hardcover book in brand new condition, in a used book store. The CD inside the cover was still sealed. It is not just an actor on the CD; it is actual footage of Bruce’s voice performing (along with narration by someone else). It cost me all of five bucks. Unbelievable!

If you are a champion of free speech, you have to know that this amazing (though oh yes, profane) comedian broke new ground. It could be (and has been) argued that he paid with his life, that performing in a nightclub LINED with cops all up and down ultimately broke him, but he did not go gently.

The first time I heard the material was in the movie “Lenny”, starring actor Dustin Hoffman in the title role. I knew it was good, but I was also young, had very tender ears, and I think there were times when the one-two punch of some of the words that I hadn’t heard much, caused me to miss some of the point. Even then, I understood that this was a powerful thing, though.

This book and ESPECIALLY the CD, which provides not only the words, but the all-important inflections (transcribed, for those who miss some of what goes by in the snappy nightclub patter, in the book), is one of the most important pieces of primary evidence I have ever been privileged to hear, see, and own. I cannot believe the clarity of the sound! For those, like me, to whom the early sixties are not within the realm of memory, the book is essential for context. There are people who were well known at the time whose names go by like gunshots in his routine; two who come to mind were a cardinal and a bishop. The context that the CD does not provide is in the book.

The text itself is 442 pp. in length; the rest is meticulous documentation. Pictures of everyone…this is a treasure!

The Last Outlaws: the Lives and Legends of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid****, by Thom Hatch

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I read this interesting nugget on an e-reader. I found it fascinating, but for some folks it will be considered tmi. It depends how much detail you are up for, and how well you deal with ambiguity.

If you want a real cut-to-the-chase telling, you may do better to look for historical fiction, because the thing about famous outlaws is the whole not-getting-caught part. You can’t leave a broad, wide trail for historians to trace while remaining safely anonymous while the law is looking for you. Consequently, Hatch gives us what is believed to have happened at the end, along with a couple of other remote possibilities, and an outright case of fraud, just to cover the bases.

The story does not start with Butch and Sundance, but with their predecessors. Actually, the writer starts clear back in 1866 in order to set context. 50,000 people in the USA die from Typhus, and before the Latter Day Saints, or Mormons, head west, they first send missionaries to Europe to recruit amongst the mill workers. Hatch does a fine job of painting the setting for us: all those dirt-poor city slickers from England come over, desperate, ragged, and ready for a new start, but being city folk, they ignore the seventeen-pound-per-adult and ten-pound-per-child limit, and instead haul all sorts of stuff with them, so they are trying to shove four hundred or five hundred pounds across the plains and up the mountain sides in handcarts. Well, a lot of them die. Of course they do. There’s no Medic One. But the reader should be prepared to slog through a lot of detail in order to get to the shooting and the robbing. It’s not an action movie, it’s good solid history. Be ready.

The 1969 movie reawakened a certain amount of interest in the public, and so there were historians checking journals and anthropologists checking bone and metal fragments in South American graves. In short, the lives of two interesting thieves somehow inspired the expenditure of all sorts of money.

Hatch wants us to understand that neither of these men, nor the Wild Bunch with whom they often associated, was a Robin Hood sort. Whereas it is true that they avoided robbing poor folk (and where’s the margin in that anyway?) they mostly robbed from the very rich for their own benefit. They focused on the railroads at first, because stage coaches and railroads were, before technology reached in and touched us all to one another, incredibly easy to rob. Unlike most of the Wild Bunch, neither Butch nor Sundance approved of the use of gratuitous violence. They tipped generously and were kind to children. Who can say whether it was heartfelt sentiment motivating them, or good sense? The neighbors are much less likely to point their finger in your direction when the sheriff comes calling if they remember that you helped put up their fence or paid for your drink.

One way or another, I found myself cheering them on as they boarded a ship with the Pinkertons darting around, one step too many behind them. But guys like this don’t settle down and become gentleman ranchers for life. Their whole lives have been adrenaline rushes; they become addicted to being in a perpetual state of emergency.

If you want to know more, you can get the book and read it yourself. Our local library had a digital version available. But roll up your sleeves, and be prepared to dive into an in depth version.,

Run, Don’t Walk: The Curious and Chaotic Life of a Physical Therapist Inside Walter Reed Army Medical Center, by Adele Levine *****

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I loved this memoir. It came out in May, and you should get a copy. You don’t have to be even slightly interested in reading about physical therapy to enjoy this book. It is a stellar memoir, entertaining and informational in a way that everyone can access and enjoy.

I got my copy through the First Reads program on Goodreads.com. All that means these days is that I screened it before applying for a copy. I have a steady stream of free books coming in the mail, the wonderful symbiosis of retired-teacher-who-likes-free-books-and-writing versus publishing-houses-that-don’t-want-to-pay-for-a-review. I have become fairly persnickety about what I’m willing to read and review–because to my way of thinking, it is not fair to accept the free book and not finish or review it, and I don’t want to poison the well by asking for something I already suspect is not well written or that I may not be entertained or fulfilled by reading. So the publisher chose me, but first, I chose Levine’s book.

I’ve been through physical therapy for things like whiplash from car accidents (yes, some folks really do get whiplash), but nothing like the scale experienced by the veterans and soldiers that Levine treats. And so the first sign of expertise is in the title (where she wisely excluded any reference to amputations), and the fact that it was dropped into the “humor” section of the Goodreads.com giveaways.

Ask yourself: is there a tasteful way to laugh about amputations and amputees, as well as the people who work with and/or visit them?

Amazingly, there is. She’s found it. And at first I could not accept that this was Levine’s first book, because the amount of synthesis and development of characters is not in any way rookie work, and I don’t care how brilliant the writer might be. The book says “experienced writer”. Everything clicked into place when I read that she had been writing a weekly humor column (though what kind of over-achiever can work the hours she works, maintain a relationship, indulge in extreme sorts of physical exercise, write a column, and eventually even become a parent, is beyond me).

Sometimes people write a first book and they get insecure. They pass out free copies to friends and relatives and beg them to get on various readers’ sites and post glowing reviews. So I will prove to you (assuming you are not someone who has read any of my other 500+ reviews) that I am not one of them. I FOUND A FLAW in the book! I did! Here it is:

Levine claims to own only two pieces of furniture during the time frame about which she writes. She has a futon sofa and a lamp. BUT!!! She rushes home to watch her favorite television program. AHA! If a lamp is furniture, then so is a television set.

I rest my case. I am entirely unbiased in my book reviews.

I didn’t set out to learn anything here–it’s not as if I am considering becoming a PT. And as stated, this should not be viewed as a niche book just for medical folk or military types, but for the general book-loving public. It would even make a good beach read.

But I learned some things, nevertheless. I didn’t know that anyone who loses both legs ever has a shot at walking on two prostheses, for example (and indeed, some don’t, but the possibility is strong). I didn’t know some prostheses have computers. And I groaned at the obstacles put in place by the fishbowl atmosphere: deliberately limited computer access so that anyone, celebrities, congressional staff, or John Q. Public, will see the therapists ONLY working with patients, and then they have to stay after their paycheck ends in order to enter notes about progress registered, because people who come to see the circus don’t want to see more than two people using a computer at a time. The banning of coffee for the same reason; nobody wants to see your cup! And I loved reading about the guerilla response to said ban.

There are a number of places I’d like to quote, but I read a galley, so I am not supposed to do that in case they make changes, and this review gets posted TODAY. Characters Cosmo and Major Dumont were favorites (and I will let you find out for yourself how they were developed). And I loved the Jim-quote and how it is used at a party full of insufferable assholes who think that they are really something because they went to Walter Reed and WATCHED the patients and therapists for awhile. (The punch line is awesome. Again: get the book.)

And I really loved the Miracle reference.

I was on my third day with this book (I generally read 4-6 at a time, so it was getting rotated with the others) when someone in my family died. It was a total fluke, someone younger than me whose time should not have been up yet, and it hit all of us in the solar plexus. The writer’s chapter on the bone marrow transplant proved really cathartic. It wasn’t written for that purpose; I just had the right book at the right time, and so I sat with the book in my hand and cried awhile. Thanks; I needed that.

Are you still reading my review? You have another window open too, right? Because you should buy this book, and if you get the chance to pre-order it, then you should do that so you won’t accidentally let it go by once it’s available. May is Mother’s Day; what a great gift for the mother who likes to read!

To sum up: order the book for yourself. Order another copy for at least one of the mothers in your life. I promise you won’t be sorry.

Buck: A Memoir by M.K. Asante *****

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There are spoilers coming. There’s just no other way to review this one.

MK Asante was born in Zimbabwe, but the first time we meet him is in “Killadelphia, Pistolvania”. His family is out of control, and consequently, so is he. His brother is deep into gang life, running guns and drugs. By the time he is 12, MK has “favorite” porn artists, is sexually active, and doesn’t think twice before leaping into a stolen car alongside his brother, who goes by “Uzi”. He adores his brother. His brother is 16 and assumes that he won’t stay long behind bars for the things he does because he is a minor. We never learn for sure whether he is sent to live with a relative in Arizona to keep his influence from affecting MK (too late) or because the local heat has a real itch for him. Once he is there, however, he is tried as an adult for rape, for having sex with a 13 year old Caucasian. He thought she was 16. It’s a huge blow to everyone when he draws hard time.

Let’s pause here a moment. If you know absolutely no street lexicon (USA), and if you regard the Philadelphia police force as brothers and comrades, keep your wallet in your pocket. If you aren’t sure, or have seen the cops in major metropolitan cities do low-income teenagers (and even those from the middle class) irreparable harm and no good (or not much), you might be in the right ballpark.

I hope you are, because this is a powerhouse of a memoir. But there is no glossary, so for example, if the word “blunt” means something that is not sharp-edged, and nothing else, you may get dizzy and give up. If you don’t know the difference between “nigga” and the N word, and who can say it and who can’t, move on to the next selection on the shelf. But if these things have become either part of your own lexicon, or are familiar because of young people in your life who say them, you can read this just fine and Google any parts where you have difficulty. It’s well worth it.

Oh, and lest I forget, here it is: YES! I got this book free, from the Goodreads giveaway. If this had been a lousy read, my gratuity would have been withholding my review. Nobody gets five stars out of me unless I think what they have to offer is worth five stars.

The one question I have about this one, is where this urban jewel has been hanging for the last several years. All of hip-hop lyrics, the songs of urban protest, are from the 90’s. It is true that Tupac lives on forever, but in 2013, it seems to me that some years have gone missing nevertheless. I hope Random House hasn’t bought the rights to this book and then parked on it for awhile, and I hope it comes out soon.

I began reading within 48 hours of the Trayvon Martin verdict. My own large family is multiracial, and my youngest son, who is African-American and 25, was just packing to move out of the house and in with some friends. Reading the first chapters of this book gave me such an anxiety attack that the man did well to get out of the house before I started sewing name tags into his hoodies and packing him a plastic lunch box to take to school and work. I’m exaggerating, but only a small amount. I think this is a time when family members of young Black men are watching their own closely and holding their breath.

Carole/Amina, the mother who provides counterpoint to Malo’s (MK’s) narrative, is anxious too, but mental illness and a deteriorating marriage have deprived her of her voice. She loves her son, but has lost all authority and communication with him. She begs him to take care of her, and he recognizes, when his father leaves, that he is the “man of the family”. He has been deprived of his childhood somewhere along the way.

He learns his mother’s thoughts only by reading her diary. He is chronically truant from the private Quaker school she and her husband have sent him to, but she isn’t worried about that. She isn’t worried about the fact that he and a friend regularly steal her car and ride around in it until dawn, even though he is way too young to even have a learner’s permit.

I want to scream at her, “Why the hell not???”

That’s the easy part.

The school principal wants to talk to his family, but nobody is available. Ultimately, MK’s mother attempts suicide (not for the first time) and is institutionalized, as her daughter has already been. When she comes home, Malo’s father, a man known and respected as a civil rights activist and scholar, leaves her. His sole remaining child is enraged by his abdication. Every time his father loses control of the household, his response is absence.

The hard part is to say, “What would you do here?”

Can you correct the problem with social workers and foster homes? I don’t think so. Most foster kids vote with their feet. They stay for dinner, maybe try to round up some cash, then hit the bricks and don’t go back.

Can you fix the problem with a good school?

Yes, no, and maybe.

I send my own children to a really wonderful alternative school. It has made a huge difference for my kids who were at risk, and also for the child who was always the perfect example. But if other things get bad quickly enough, the school can’t do a damn thing.

The Quaker school was majority Caucasian at a time when the author of “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria” says is actually when Black teens need an immersion experience to foster their sense of self. The Quaker school, though some of the staff appeared to mean well, either wrote Malo off as a bad seed (and face it, how many academics want to hear “fuck you” from an angry student?), or decided that he could not produce, as the high school basketball coach gives him permission to spend his class time shooting baskets if he’d prefer.

A gym is a safer place than the streets…but what kind of education is that? Is this really the best a gifted young Black man can expect? Not only no, but hell no!

The alternative school is one his mother finds after he has been arrested. He agrees to give it a try, and for (amazingly) the first time, he is asked in a friendly, personal yet not invasive environment to write something–anything.

As a retired language arts and history teacher, I find this dreadful. Every kid should be given this type of opportunity. I am appalled by the public school teachers who flatly tell the students they don’t want to be there and only show up for the paycheck. Are they expecting the students to react with understanding? I taught in high poverty schools, too, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I apologized to my students if there wasn’t a desk for everyone, and I found a spot for everyone to sit down until I could rectify the situation. Malo was robbed both by the Quakers and the public school system.

The alternative school helps him find his own voice. He discovers that until he has begun to read, he has no vocabulary, and without a good vocabulary, he wasn’t able to express himself.

But the other critical factor is the reemergence of his father, who to be fair has been trying to call him, trying to get in touch with him, but Malo has been unable to forgive him for abandoning the family and leaving his mother to flounder unaided in an untenable situation. When Malo is arrested, he refuses to phone his father, not wanting to give into his own need, or to see his father’s disappointment. His father finds out and comes to pick him up anyway. And though I have given away a large part of his story, I will leave the climactic scene between the two of them for the reader.

Later, Malo performs at a spoken word session when his girlfriend signs him up. The poem “Buck” is one of his own. He tells us that he finally understands why it was illegal to teach a slave to read and write, because there is so much power in the written word. And he decides that he wants to be a writer.

He is.

 

John Wayne, by Scott Eyman *****

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johnwayneWhen I was young, John Wayne was everywhere. His new movies were in theaters, and his old ones were on television. I remember him primarily as the quintessential cowboy—his most oft-played role—and particularly as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, for which he won the Academy Award. I also remember him as the first big celebrity to announce on television that “I licked the Big C.” And then, oh damn, he died of it anyway…but not for some time. And I read this biography to fill in the gaps, since I actually knew very little.

Thanks go to Net Galley for letting me read it free.

There are two popular assumptions made about Wayne, I think, that this biography does a thorough job of smacking down in the dirt where they belong. The first is that he was playing himself in those movies, a big, dumb galoot of some sort. In fact, he was very bright and well read. A journalist makes the error of talking to down to him, asking if he is familiar with the work of Eugene O’Neil. Wayne says that he has been to college, and yes, he has read O’Neil.

The second popular notion is that he emerged from nowhere as this enormous star, as some indeed did. Wayne did nothing to suppress such tales; in fact, he liked to pretend, our author says, that he was just doing props work and sort of fell into acting. But nothing could be farther from the truth. He wanted to act very much, and he put up with ten years of very hard work, in dust and heat and all kinds of environments, required to expend immense amounts of physical energy and strength (which he fortunately had). Ford, who most often directed him, was nasty and abusive toward most of the actors with whom he worked, including Wayne, who just took it. There was no stunt so dangerous that if his double was not available, he would not do it. But once he was in a position to do so, he went after the scoundrels in the business that underpaid him or cheated him in percentages that he was supposed to receive, but which they held onto for unconscionably long time periods.

His love life was as awful as his work was excellent. He was married three times, and all turned out badly. Like many people, he was married to his work, and the acting talent and magnetism that drew women toward him turned out to be one of the things that later alienated them. Hey, he was always at work!

I have to say I really enjoyed reading this biography, and I am glad someone put in what had to be an exhaustive amount of research to write it. I can’t imagine anyone doing a finer job.

Having said that, I must caution the reader that this is one long book, and it takes a similar attention span. That’s the joy of a well-researched biography: there’s a lot to put in it. It is well paced, with a zillion fascinating anecdotes, several of which I highlighted and then realized that since this is a galley, I can’t quote from them directly. But that’s all right; if you have the attention span to dive in and immerse yourself, it’s better to find those little treats along the way as you do so.

For the serious reader, highly recommended.