publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/5591141

> In this very long essay (or very short nonfiction book, depending on what framing you prefer), Casey Plett says she’s going to try to define community, then immediately makes it clear that it can’t be defined. > > >Take the phrase “the [X] community.” When I read that phrase, I think: How does this person know this about the [X] community? What are the borders of the [X] community? How is the writer deciding who counts within them and who does not? Is the writer a member of the [X] community? Would others dispute their membership? Whatever claim is made about the community, how many sections within it must the claim apply to in order to justify the term? Perhaps most importantly, How can that writer possibly decide who gets to speak for the community? And who are those not speaking in their place? > > And then, she tells us what it means to feel like you have a community, or none, or to be included or rejected of one community. She talks about « cancel culture », she talks about awkward trans picnics and of justice in the Mennonite community and of when you feel that you’re « from here » − a topic that I definitely relate to. > > > Communities welcome certain people and cast a suspicious eye on others. Communities lift up their valued members and ignore those they value a bit less. Sometimes those values are, shall we say, suspect. Communities can expel members when they choose, regardless of what that means for the member, and they stay communities no matter how heartless that expulsion might be. > > tldr: communities are a vague concept with good and bad things in them. > > …but I feel like it’s best to read the book, because that’s a pretty short tldr, huh?

In this very long essay (or very short nonfiction book, depending on what framing you prefer), Casey Plett says she’s going to try to define community, then immediately makes it clear that it can’t be defined.

>Take the phrase “the [X] community.” When I read that phrase, I think: How does this person know this about the [X] community? What are the borders of the [X] community? How is the writer deciding who counts within them and who does not? Is the writer a member of the [X] community? Would others dispute their membership? Whatever claim is made about the community, how many sections within it must the claim apply to in order to justify the term? Perhaps most importantly, How can that writer possibly decide who gets to speak for the community? And who are those not speaking in their place?

And then, she tells us what it means to feel like you have a community, or none, or to be included or rejected of one community. She talks about « cancel culture », she talks about awkward trans picnics and of justice in the Mennonite community and of when you feel that you’re « from here » − a topic that I definitely relate to.

> Communities welcome certain people and cast a suspicious eye on others. Communities lift up their valued members and ignore those they value a bit less. Sometimes those values are, shall we say, suspect. Communities can expel members when they choose, regardless of what that means for the member, and they stay communities no matter how heartless that expulsion might be.

tldr: communities are a vague concept with good and bad things in them.

…but I feel like it’s best to read the book, because that’s a pretty short tldr, huh?

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/5591085

> # Synopsis > > When Nar’s non-Armenian boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her in front of a room full of drunk San Francisco tech boys, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance. > Enter her mother: armed with plenty of mom-guilt and a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked Armenian men, she convinces Nar to attend Explore Armenia, a month-long series of events in the city. But it’s not the mom-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye—it’s Erebuni, a woman as equally immersed in the witchy arts as she is in preserving Armenian identity. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her wingwoman, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure. Who knew cooking up kuftes together could be so . . . sexy? > Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual. The clock is ticking on Nar’s double life—the closing event banquet is coming up, and her entire extended family will be there, along with Erebuni. Her worlds will inevitably collide, but Nar is determined to be brave, determined to claim her happiness: proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual, and proudly herself for the first time in her life. > > # My review > > Bisexual romance!! > > Bisexual romance is special. There’s your good old straight romance, also known as romance with no adjective in front of it. There’s your gay and lesbian romance, sometimes including a painful coming out, with recent examples including Rana Joon and the One and Only Now and The lesbiana’s guide to Catholic school. But bisexual romance? How do you make a character bisexual in the first place if they’re only going to have one romance, huh? > > Easy − remind us that they’re bisexual. Remind us that they’re looking to date and don’t really care about the identity of who they’re dating. Make them break up with someone and make up with someone of another gender. Tell us. It’s fine, you know − showing bisexuality can be hard. Telling us « hey by the way, I’m dating you but I also like guys! » is great. And very well done in this novel, too − although there are painful outing and coming out stories because, well, it’s 2024 and queer novels still don’t allow their characters to just be happy. > > And speaking of painful coming out stories: this one is based on identity. Like in the two books I quoted above, our narrator, Nar, is a second-generation American. Her Armenian identity is incredibly important in the novel: after breaking up with her very very white boyfriend, Nar allows her mother and auntie to rope her into Armenian-Armenian dating life and commits to trying to find the perfect boyfriend (or girlfriend, she adds silently) at one of the cultural events. Except, of course, 90% of the cultural events are about the genocide, which doesn’t make for great date material. > > Nar’s first thought of « I’m so tired of everything being about the genocide » gets revisited several times throughout the novel, with our girl getting closer to her own culture and understanding that history doesn’t have to only be about grief. I love the way she reconciles with her heritage and starts feeling like a real part of « the community», and every single one of the sometimes complicated and painful steps that lead to that. > > Also, the book is actually really good − I’m not just impressed with the theme, the romance was really nice and the characters were lovable or hateable or, in some cases, very much both.

Synopsis

When Nar’s non-Armenian boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her in front of a room full of drunk San Francisco tech boys, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance. Enter her mother: armed with plenty of mom-guilt and a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked Armenian men, she convinces Nar to attend Explore Armenia, a month-long series of events in the city. But it’s not the mom-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye—it’s Erebuni, a woman as equally immersed in the witchy arts as she is in preserving Armenian identity. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her wingwoman, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure. Who knew cooking up kuftes together could be so . . . sexy? Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual. The clock is ticking on Nar’s double life—the closing event banquet is coming up, and her entire extended family will be there, along with Erebuni. Her worlds will inevitably collide, but Nar is determined to be brave, determined to claim her happiness: proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual, and proudly herself for the first time in her life.

My review

Bisexual romance!!

Bisexual romance is special. There’s your good old straight romance, also known as romance with no adjective in front of it. There’s your gay and lesbian romance, sometimes including a painful coming out, with recent examples including Rana Joon and the One and Only Now and The lesbiana’s guide to Catholic school. But bisexual romance? How do you make a character bisexual in the first place if they’re only going to have one romance, huh?

Easy − remind us that they’re bisexual. Remind us that they’re looking to date and don’t really care about the identity of who they’re dating. Make them break up with someone and make up with someone of another gender. Tell us. It’s fine, you know − showing bisexuality can be hard. Telling us « hey by the way, I’m dating you but I also like guys! » is great. And very well done in this novel, too − although there are painful outing and coming out stories because, well, it’s 2024 and queer novels still don’t allow their characters to just be happy.

And speaking of painful coming out stories: this one is based on identity. Like in the two books I quoted above, our narrator, Nar, is a second-generation American. Her Armenian identity is incredibly important in the novel: after breaking up with her very very white boyfriend, Nar allows her mother and auntie to rope her into Armenian-Armenian dating life and commits to trying to find the perfect boyfriend (or girlfriend, she adds silently) at one of the cultural events. Except, of course, 90% of the cultural events are about the genocide, which doesn’t make for great date material.

Nar’s first thought of « I’m so tired of everything being about the genocide » gets revisited several times throughout the novel, with our girl getting closer to her own culture and understanding that history doesn’t have to only be about grief. I love the way she reconciles with her heritage and starts feeling like a real part of « the community», and every single one of the sometimes complicated and painful steps that lead to that.

Also, the book is actually really good − I’m not just impressed with the theme, the romance was really nice and the characters were lovable or hateable or, in some cases, very much both.

Thought this was thought-provoking and is once again making me want to create a short-track speed skating website with all the info that I have but that doesn’t have a solid source for Wikipedia.

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/4804207

> # About the book (official blurb) > > Lea Ypi grew up in one of the most isolated countries on earth, a place where communist ideals had officially replaced religion. Albania, the last Stalinist outpost in Europe, was almost impossible to visit, almost impossible to leave. It was a place of queuing and scarcity, of political executions and secret police. To Lea, it was home. People were equal, neighbours helped each other, and children were expected to build a better world. There was community and hope. > > Then, in December 1990, everything changed. The statues of Stalin and Hoxha were toppled. Almost overnight, people could vote freely, wear what they liked and worship as they wished. There was no longer anything to fear from prying ears. But factories shut, jobs disappeared and thousands fled to Italy on crowded ships, only to be sent back. Predatory pyramid schemes eventually bankrupted the country, leading to violent conflict. As one generation’s aspirations became another’s disillusionment, and as her own family’s secrets were revealed, Lea found herself questioning what freedom really meant. > > # My review > > This is the best book about Albania I’ve ever read, which doesn’t tell you much because it’s also the only book about Albania I’ve ever read (for now). > > It did make me want to read more, though. > > In this book, we follow young Lea as she goes to school in Albania, the Only True Communist Country™, in the 1990s, and as her family goes through the journey of becoming a truly independent country, followed by the joys and pains of embracing capitalism, which includes unbanning religion, trying to figure out what religion even means, watching ads on Yugoslav television, collecting Coca-Cola cans, and needing to choose between several political parties. > > There is so much going on, and following this one girl allows us to grasp how incredibly big this is while still keeping it to a manageable, understandable level. It’s extremely well-written, very engaging, reads very naturally and was a perfect first foray into Albanian culture and history for me. > > Oh, also? I love memoirs that have plot twists. You’ll have to read the book to understand that one. > > Read on my website: https://alexsirac.com/free-coming-of-age-at-the-end-of-history/

About the book (official blurb)

Lea Ypi grew up in one of the most isolated countries on earth, a place where communist ideals had officially replaced religion. Albania, the last Stalinist outpost in Europe, was almost impossible to visit, almost impossible to leave. It was a place of queuing and scarcity, of political executions and secret police. To Lea, it was home. People were equal, neighbours helped each other, and children were expected to build a better world. There was community and hope.

Then, in December 1990, everything changed. The statues of Stalin and Hoxha were toppled. Almost overnight, people could vote freely, wear what they liked and worship as they wished. There was no longer anything to fear from prying ears. But factories shut, jobs disappeared and thousands fled to Italy on crowded ships, only to be sent back. Predatory pyramid schemes eventually bankrupted the country, leading to violent conflict. As one generation’s aspirations became another’s disillusionment, and as her own family’s secrets were revealed, Lea found herself questioning what freedom really meant.

My review

This is the best book about Albania I’ve ever read, which doesn’t tell you much because it’s also the only book about Albania I’ve ever read (for now).

It did make me want to read more, though.

In this book, we follow young Lea as she goes to school in Albania, the Only True Communist Country™, in the 1990s, and as her family goes through the journey of becoming a truly independent country, followed by the joys and pains of embracing capitalism, which includes unbanning religion, trying to figure out what religion even means, watching ads on Yugoslav television, collecting Coca-Cola cans, and needing to choose between several political parties.

There is so much going on, and following this one girl allows us to grasp how incredibly big this is while still keeping it to a manageable, understandable level. It’s extremely well-written, very engaging, reads very naturally and was a perfect first foray into Albanian culture and history for me.

Oh, also? I love memoirs that have plot twists. You’ll have to read the book to understand that one.

Read on my website: https://alexsirac.com/free-coming-of-age-at-the-end-of-history/

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/4804182

> The original title of this book was Maryam Was a Dyke, as Lamya H said in their interview on the podcast Gender Reveal (if you speak English, grab the episode or transcript, if you prefer French, the translated transcript will be on this blog soon). They then changed it because some friends said that would alienate more traditional Muslim readers, who would be feeling defensive before even starting to read. > > Makes sense! > > I, however, am not a Muslim reader, regardless of tradition. My main relationship to Islam is that every year for about a month, I feast on pastries and dried dates thanks to my local supermarket’s Ramadan aisle. (Okay, I do have a bit more knowledge and personal relationship to this religion, but it’s not relevant to what I’m about to say and I was reminded yesterday by Auchan that Ramadan aisle time has come again). > > For reasons that have nothing to do with my faith, I still don’t think I would have picked up this book if it had been called Maryam was a Dyke. And I would have missed out on something incredible. > > Hijab Butch Blues only has the butch in common with Stone Butch Blues, from which it gets its name. Everything is else is new and shiny − especially to me, a person interested in religion and faith, interested in queerness, interested in anti-racism, but with wildly different experiences and characteristics as Lamya H. > > This read was both engaging and instructive − I related to so much, and learnt so much about what I did not − cannot − relate to. It’s respectful of everyone and tells a story that needs to be heard again and again by people like me. I think Hijab Butch Blues is a memoir that works for absolutely everybody, always holds you by the hand without ever being condescending, and beautifully mixes the concrete, easy to grasp anecdotes and the more philosophical thinking that goes behind how these little stories were perceived and how they affected Lamya H to this day. > > Honestly one of the best memoirs I’ve read, and one of my best reads of 2024 so far.