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by Karen Russell
The Antidote opens on Black Sunday, as a historic dust storm ravages the fictional town of Uz, Nebraska. But Uz is already collapsing—not just under the weight of the Great Depression and the dust bowl drought but beneath its own violent histories. The Antidote follows a "Prairie Witch," whose body serves as a bank vault for peoples' memories and secrets; a Polish wheat farmer who learns how quickly a hoarded blessing can become a curse; his orphan niece, a basketball star and witch's apprentice in furious flight from her grief; a voluble scarecrow; and a New Deal photographer whose time-traveling camera threatens to reveal both the town's secrets and its fate.
Russell's novel is above all a reckoning with a nation's forgetting—enacting the settler amnesia and willful omissions passed down from generation to generation, and unearthing not only horrors but shimmering possibilities. The Antidote echoes with urgent warnings for our own climate emergency, challenging readers with a vision of what might have been—and what still could be.
Karen Russell's new novel, The Antidote, is narrated in turns by four main characters. We first meet Antonina Rossi, a prairie witch who functions as a "Vault"—someone who absorbs the memories of others so they can forget past pain or indiscretion. She bills herself as The Antidote ("The Antidote to guilt! The Antidote to sleepless nights!...The Antidote to shame!") and is enormously popular in the small town of Uz, Nebraska, where she's set up shop, particularly with a corrupt sheriff who frequently uses her skills to wipe the memories of prisoners he's abused.
We are then introduced to dryland farmer Harp Oletsky and his fifteen-year-old niece, Asphodel, who has unexpectedly become his responsibility after her mother was murdered. Harp, a lifelong bachelor, is struggling to raise crops during the drought that has plagued the land for years, while simultaneously being baffled by the teenage girl. For her part, the grieving Asphodel feels untethered and pours herself into playing basketball with her high school team.
These characters' lives are upended on Black Sunday—April 14, 1935—by one of the worst dust storms in American history ("The sun sank into black cloud. Buried alive…by the duster to end all dusters," Russell writes). The Antidote's store of memories is suddenly drained, leaving her unable to return her customers' recollections when asked and threatening her livelihood. Harp's life, meanwhile, takes a turn for the better. His parched wheat begins to green up, the air around his property and his home itself are mysteriously free from the dust, and he appears years younger; Asphodel becomes a basketball phenom.
Cleo Allfrey, a Black photographer dispatched by the US government to document conditions in the Dust Bowl (see Beyond the Book), rounds out the cast. Shortly after the storm, she purchases a camera at a local pawn shop and quickly discovers that the images it produces don't depict the present. Sometimes the photos develop into portraits of the past, showing the thriving Pawnee community that once existed on the land; other times, the images that emerge are of the area's possible future. One such picture reveals the shocking truth about a recent crime.
These disparate characters ultimately join forces to expose the sheriff's wrongdoing and free an innocent man unjustly sent to death row. It's a captivating story; part of the fun of the novel is seeing how Russell ties the plotlines together, and the satisfying way she does so is a wonder to behold. The narrative is loaded with tidbits that will please historical fiction readers, and Russell's writing is, as always, exquisite. In an early scene, Antonina observes the dust storm move in while she is incarcerated:
"The Sheriff and his family lived in a two-story brick frame house facing the jail, parts and blueprint purchased from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. It sat on the free side of the property, five hundred yards beyond the bars of my two-foot-by-two-foot window. As the dust blew into my cell, outside things became less and less real. The Sheriff's house slimmed to a charcoal sketch. Erased, redrawn, and finally lost to sight. The sky was well and truly falling."
What makes The Antidote such a marvel, though, is the depth beneath the compelling plot. Russell explores not only environmental issues, but racism, the displacement of Native Americans by government-sponsored settlers, the perceived role of women in 1930s America, and much more. Above all, the book is a study of memory—what we choose to remember and what we choose to forget—and how cultural amnesia can affect future generations.
While I reveled in the novel's complexity, it may be the book's undoing for some readers. Russell packs a huge number of issues into her narrative, and some may feel she's taken on too much. Digressions and flashbacks further complicate the story, some of which may be more or less interesting than others, depending on one's historical knowledge (for example, lengthy passages about the Milford Industrial Home for unmarried pregnant women may not interest those who already know about such institutions). And there are several plot elements that seem nonsensical until the end of the novel, such as an increasingly sentient scarecrow. Once everything is tied together, I suspect the majority of readers will find the book unforgettable, but getting to the end may require a bit of effort.
Book reviewed by Kim Kovacs
One of the protagonists in The Antidote is Cleo Allfrey, a photographer dispatched by the Resettlement Administration to document life in Nebraska's Dust Bowl. She and others in the book mention a similar, real-world project: a documentary titled The Plow That Broke the Plains.
The Plow That Broke the Plains was a controversial, federally funded film that explored the causes behind the Dust Bowl. In the time of the booming demand for grain during and right after World War I, Midwestern farmers looked for ways to improve their land's yield. In the Great Plains in particular—a grassland prairie ecosystem that stretches across the middle part of the United States—one method was to plow up native grasses so more wheat could be planted. By 1930, some 5.2 million acres of grassland had been converted to farmland.
However, these years of prosperity were followed by a crash in wheat prices, as well as an intense, eight-year drought. No longer anchored by prairie grass, the now-exposed soil blew away into dust. It's estimated that 850 tons of topsoil were lost to the wind in 1935 alone. Crops failed and dust storms—aka "black blizzards"—became more common, making it nearly impossible to live in the region.
Part of FDR's New Deal, a series of reforms to provide economic relief during the Great Depression, was a proposed program that would help farmers move West to more prosperous lands. However, this program was expensive and not well-supported in Congress. The Resettlement Administration subsequently began a propaganda campaign to photograph the devasted land and its people, using the bleak images to influence Congressional votes to approve it. One part of this campaign was the documentary that would become The Plow That Broke the Plains.
The RA recruited author and film critic Pare Lorentz to direct the documentary. The project ran into problems right from the start. Lorentz, who had never made a movie before, hired professional camera crews but gave them little direction, which led to conflicts between cinematographers. Lorentz had estimated the film would cost $6,000 to produce, which the RA agreed to, but quickly went over budget. He paid farmers in cash to drive their tractors while he filmed but neglected to get approval for the expenditure. He'd planned to use Hollywood stock images, but the studios were uncooperative, which forced him to do more filming than planned. He hired opera composer Virgil Thompson (who'd never written a movie score) to write the background music, and hired the New York Philharmonic to record it. Metropolitan Opera baritone Thomas Chalmer was chosen to read the narration, which was written by Lorentz. Expenses eventually totaled $20,000. Lorentz and his wife paid the overage.
The 28-minute documentary was first played to President Roosevelt in March 1936 and had its public debut at Washington's Mayflower Hotel in May. It received great reviews and considerable press coverage, but many theaters dismissed it as government propaganda and refused to air it. Lorentz got around the Hollywood snub by holding screenings across the country for local press, who in turn often hyped the film. It was eventually booked in 3,000 movie houses and was seen by an estimated 10 million people in 1937 alone.
The film was instantly controversial. Throughout the documentary, Lorentz blamed mechanized agriculture for the Dust Bowl and indicated grasslands in general were unsuited for agriculture. Those who felt the farmers themselves were to blame for exploiting the land for their own greed, with no concern for the environment, thought the director's focus was misguided. On the other end of the spectrum, some felt the farmers were being unfairly targeted. They saw them as good stewards of the land, but victims of an unusual drought. Still others criticized the movie for making it seem the entire Midwest was a vast dust bowl when only a certain portion of the territory was actually affected.
Regardless, the documentary went on to become one of the most widely viewed films in American history. Importantly, it focused discussion on the future of the Great Plains and underscored the need for a comprehensive soil conservation program. The Plow That Broke the Plains was removed from circulation in 1939 but made available to the public again in the 1960s, and in 1999 it was named to the National Film Registry. It's still shown across the country today to illustrate the economic and environmental disasters that struck the Great Plains in the 1930s. You can view it online.
by Sarah Harman
Florence Grimes is a thirty-one-year-old party girl who always takes the easy way out. Single, broke and unfulfilled after the humiliating end to her girl band career, she has only one reason to get out of bed each day: her ten-year-old son Dylan. But then Alfie Risby, her son's bully and the heir to a vast frozen food empire, mysteriously vanishes during a class trip, and Dylan becomes the prime suspect. Florence, for once, is faced with a task she can't quit: She's got to find Alfie and clear her son's name, or risk losing Dylan forever.
The only problem? Florence has no useful skills, let alone investigative ones, and all the other school moms hate her. Oh, and Florence has a reason to suspect Dylan might not be as innocent as she'd like to believe…
Hilarious and twisted, propulsive and furious, All the Other Mothers Hate Me is the must-read book of 2025.
Thirty-one-year-old Florence, a former pop star, is going through an identity crisis. Things don't get any better once her 10-year-old son's bully goes missing. Florence would be lying if she said she didn't feel a smidge relieved by the horrific situation, but she is on edge, and reasonably, her heart hurts for the boy's mother. Maybe Florence doesn't feel as bad as she "should," but she can keep up appearances by teaming up with a fellow mom, Jenny, to investigate the case — just as long as her son isn't implicated and the police aren't involved. Sarah Harman's All the Other Mothers Hate Me is a darkly funny exploration of maternal existential dread, loneliness, aging, and identity that had me equal parts barking out laughter and holding my breath. Harman's ability to wield playful humor without undercutting the seriousness and grave circumstances of her subject is something I absolutely loved.
I really enjoyed Florence's irony as a character. On the one hand, she scrutinizes people who are obsessed with keeping up appearances and reads them as disingenuous. On the other hand, she is consumed with how people perceive her, and critical of everyone around her. Harman's writing reflects this trait very well throughout, no matter how distressing any given situation is. A great example is the initial meeting of all the parents, faculty, and police on the missing student case. During that scene, Florence paints a vivid picture of how everyone looks, as that is what she is the most preoccupied with. Not only are these descriptions visceral and biting, but there is commentary on how she looks in comparison. In what ways does she look the same, better, or worse? How does Florence's dissection of these people's appearances affect how she views their quality of life? Harman writes:
"Karl Thedor is one of the Old Dads, a group of melted-looking men on their second or third wives who rarely show up at school events and when they do they look vaguely confused and start handing out butterscotch candies. You can practically hear his arthritis as he hoists himself into a standing position."
Even on the car ride to the meeting, Florence notices superficial details while in conversation with Jenny, one of the only other moms who talks to her: "Jenny's face lights up…Her earnestness knits a deep divot between her eyebrows. I know someone who can fix that for you, I think, but decide not to mention it. We're not friends yet."
Readers can't be too quick to dislike Florence. After all, you understand how she came to be. You would be lying if you said you never found jokes about people's appearances funny, one aspect of the humor integral to the novel. Undoubtedly, this is because a great amount of social currency comes with how people perceive each other, and the easiest way they can analyze one another is by building associations with certain visual characteristics. Florence's entire life has been constructed around this painstaking judgement: as a pop star, her image was everything to her. As a mother, how her image is scrutinized has shapeshifted, but the intensity to which she feels judged remains just as high. Is she a good enough mother? Does she have a good enough job? Does she participate enough at her child's school, where she feels like all the other mothers hate her? Is she meant to let go of her dreams? Is she washed-up? While navigating the answers to these questions, her anxieties lead her to isolate and constantly, internally pit herself against other moms. The overarching question is: am I good enough? The answer seems to be an insatiable "no." And no matter what, Florence seems to self-sabotage.
As much as I enjoyed the ridiculousness of the novel, the ending is so very strange. I love an oddball ending more than anyone: my ability to suspend disbelief is pretty unbelievable. That being said, the resolution comes out of nowhere. The story has many red herrings, which are appreciated and typical in a mystery thriller. Though I was fine with none of those tense avenues becoming what "really" happened to the missing boy, I felt like most of them would have made a lot more sense than the reality. Not only that, they would have felt scarier and more interesting. The red herrings are also more fleshed out compared to what actually happens, and even going back, looking for signs of what was to come, I was confused and disappointed. I think the novel could have maintained its sinister but generally upbeat ambiance with a different ending, though the resolution didn't put me off so much as to make me write off everything else I loved about the story as a whole.
All the Other Mothers Hate Me is a deliciously strange novel, though not too cerebrally strange for the more casual reader. It caught me at a good time between some of the more distressing reads I've come across lately, especially since everything in the world feels set on fire. If you're trying to break out of a reading rut and could use equal parts mystery, suspense, existential thought, and humor, this is the perfect solution.
Book reviewed by Lisa Ahima
In Sarah Harman's All the Other Mothers Hate Me, Florence, an ex-pop star, clings to a notion: that one day, just like Mariah Carey, she will have what she calls her Emancipation of Mimi moment. I immediately knew what she meant, because The Emancipation of Mimi was one of my most impactful musical albums; it was the first CD I remember scraping money together to buy that I didn't have to share with anybody else. Florence and I weren't the only ones who found this album particularly powerful. But what made The Emancipation of Mimi so special to millions? What does it mean to have an Emancipation of Mimi moment?
The Emancipation of Mimi was released in April of 2005 in the United States. Of the 14 original tracks, seven were released as singles. According to Billboard, it was the best selling album of the year in the US. Carey also received 10 Grammy nominations for it. And though it helped, this was not all just because "We Belong Together" played at least five times an hour every hour on the radio in 2005. Emancipation was a comeback album, but it was so much more; it was a testament to artistic and creative freedom, and how the fruits of an artist's labor can build something beautiful after perceived failure.
In the midst of a musical identity crisis, Carey experienced growing pains as an artist who no longer wished to fit into the mold created for her throughout her 14-year career. The pressure on Carey's shoulders before Emancipation seemed absolutely crushing: after becoming a '90s sensation, collaborating with the likes of Aretha Franklin, Celine Dion, and Whitney Houston, she was seen as an icon-in-the-making balladeer and the "Queen of Christmas." She had a very carefully curated image, though she yearned to try something new in her artistry. In fact, 25 years after release, Carey revealed her secret work in 1995 on an alternative rock album. Its production was simultaneous with Daydream, which was more aligned with her image.
Her public pivot at the turn of the millennium almost felt like the beginning of the end. A 2002 New York Times article described Carey's mental breakdown and burnout amidst a flurry of personal life-changing events as she worked through her commercial failure Glitter. The next year, Charmbracelet, another pivot in Carey's self-exploration, was also disregarded by critics pretty harshly; AllMusic editor Stephen Thomas Erlewine wrote, "If it didn't follow Glitter, the gold standard for diva implosions in the early 21st century, Mariah Carey's Charmbracelet would simply be her worst album…it's a botched attempt to restore a career after a botched attempt at a crossover…[H]er tired voice becomes the only thing to concentrate on, and it's a sad, ugly thing, making an album that would merely have been her worst into something tragic." At the time, even Mariah Carey fans were not so sure of Mariah Carey. But the one person who did not give a dime and always stayed true to her was Mariah Carey.
Carey frequently describes Emancipation as, more or less, an experience that reflects the album's title. With full creative liberty, she experimented with collaborations and genres — from '70s soul to gospel, ballads, dance-pop, and R&B. She was able to establish her own voice without feeling shackled to the past. Reflecting on making the album, down to the details of shooting the cover photo, she muses, "When I went in to work on [Emancipation]...I got to have fun and do things that people weren't expecting…I was just in a moment where it's like, 'Look, people may have written me off, but I will never write myself off, and this is an important time for me.'" Carey never gave up on her visions. Instead, she continued to push her work. She wasn't afraid to fail, understanding that just because something commercially failed, that didn't equate to her being a failure.
At the time I'm writing this, it's about two months shy of the 20th anniversary of this album. Mariah Carey's The Emancipation of Mimi inspired millions around the globe, and to this day, its legacy continues to inspire people across generations — all because she didn't give up on herself.
Mariah Carey in 2005
Photo by Steve Gawley, cropped and retouched by Truu, CC BY-SA 3.0
by William Boyle
Gravesend, Brooklyn, 1986: Risa Franzone lives in a ground-floor apartment on Saint of the Narrows Street with her bad-seed husband, Saverio, and their eight-month-old baby, Fabrizio. On the night Risa's younger sister, Giulia, moves in to recover from a bad breakup, a fateful accident occurs: Risa, boiled over with anger and fear, strikes a drunk, erratic Sav with a cast-iron pan, killing him on the spot.
The sisters are left with a choice: notify the authorities and make a case for self-defense, or bury the man's body and go on with their lives as best they can. In a moment of panic, in the late hours of the night, they call upon Sav's childhood friend—the sweet, loyal Christopher "Chooch" Gardini—to help them, hoping they can trust him to carry a secret like this.
Over the vast expanse of the next eighteen years, life goes on in the working-class Italian neighborhood of Gravesend as Risa, Giulia, Chooch, and eventually Fabrizio grapple with what happened that night. A standout work of character-driven crime fiction from a celebrated author of the form, Saint of the Narrows Street is a searing and richly drawn novel about the choices we make and how they shape our lives.
Gravesend, Brooklyn is the epicenter of Risa Franzone's Italian-American working class community. Her parents live down the street from the ground floor apartment where she and her husband Sav live. Her neighbors see her at church every week; they know about Sav's gambling and philandering, though they may or may not know about the abuse. One fateful night, Sav goes too far, bringing home a gun and using it to threaten Risa, their infant son Fab, and Risa's sister Giulia. In the heated scene that ensues, Risa accidentally kills Sav with her trusty cast iron frying pan—in which, moments earlier, she had been heating up cutlets like a dutiful housewife.
Rather than involve the police and plead self-defense, Risa, Giulia, and their neighbor Chooch decide to cover up the death. The rest of their community have no trouble believing that Saverio Franzone walked out on his wife and child, especially because his elder brother Roberto had done the same thing a few years prior, skipping town with Jimmy Tomasullo's wife after robbing his store. For Risa, Giulia, Chooch, and Fab, life goes on. Risa in particular wants to erase Sav from her life completely and prevent her son from following in his footsteps. But despite their efforts to move on, the four characters find the rest of their lives unfolding in response to the events of that night, and shaped by their attempts to avoid the consequences of their actions.
Told in four parts over eighteen years, Saint of the Narrows Street starts in 1986 with Sav's death and then skips forward to pivotal moments in 1991, 1998, and 2004, as various people start questioning Risa's version of that night and getting closer to the truth. Boyle's crime thriller has the drama and pathos of a Greek tragedy as each section introduces another complication to the cover-up. The first obstacle arrives in 1991, when Sav's brother Roberto returns to town. Most of the neighborhood had assumed that Sav went off to join Roberto, but Roberto knows that Sav hasn't contacted him, making him suspicious about his brother's disappearance. "I can smell a lie like a fart in a closed closet, and I'm gonna start shaking some trees around here and see what the fuck's really going on," he says. Nervous, Risa and Giulia call Chooch to figure out what to do; in addition to protecting herself, Risa wants to keep Roberto, an influence far too reminiscent of Sav, away from Fab, who is still so young and trusting.
As the book continues, Boyle switches between Risa, Giulia, Chooch, and Fab's perspectives and lives on Saint of the Narrows Street, where the four remain among their neighbors and community over the years. Risa—the book's protagonist, despite the four intertwined narratives—is largely motivated by her love and worry for her son, and her actions drive the twists and turns of the plot—starting, of course, with Sav's murder: her tolerance for his abuse finally comes to an end when he threatens Fab. After Sav's death, Risa goes back to school and takes on a nursing job, making money to send Fab to a good school. Over the course of the novel, she grows older, remains single, and devotes herself completely to motherhood, trying to ensure that Fab does not become like his father.
But for all her devotion and sacrifice, Risa is no match for what is passed down through blood, nor the force that is teenage angst when Fab reaches adolescence. "Fab's got his father's blood in him, no doubt about it. He's developed a taste for danger," Risa says. "[He] wants to find his father and know him, though there's no him left to find or know." Fab himself makes a life-altering decision as he turns eighteen, which Risa finds that she has no ability to control. (Really, parents, why do we even do it?) In this way, Saint of the Narrows Street is as much a deeply poignant narrative about family and our desires in life as it is a page-turning crime thriller.
William Boyle, a master of atmosphere, crafts a gritty world of tough-talkers, heavy-drinkers, and good folks just trying to make ends meet. As a child, Boyle was known to walk around with a tape recorder in hand, recording conversations between neighbors, friends, and family in Gravesend, where he grew up. He would later turn these into plays or stories, capturing the dialogue and speech patterns that defined Gravesend for him. This intimate knowledge of Gravesend is on full display in Saint of the Narrows Street, in which the details and dialogue all scream south Brooklyn. Take, for instance, Boyle's description of Widow Marie, the owner of Giulia's local bar, the Crisscross: "Widow Marie's lost a couple of inches over the years. She drinks diet cola from an empty ricotta container. She wears sweaters in the summer. She seems bent. Arms all bony. Voice gruffer…Giulia takes out her cigarettes—Widow Marie isn't frightened by the prospect of a fine—and lights one." One can practically smell the smoke in the bar, where people still smoke inside even after New York's indoor smoking ban in 2003, and feel the weariness of Risa's bones after a long day and commute back from the Coney Island nursing facility. Despite being a neighborhood in one of the largest cities in the world, Boyle's Gravesend feels insular and intimate, and readers may find themselves emerging from the novel, back into the real world, talking with a little bit of Brooklyn flair.
Book reviewed by Pei Chen
Gravesend is only an hour from New York City's Grand Central Station by subway, but Manhattan "might as well be Mars" to the characters of Saint of the Narrows Street. It is a small neighborhood in south Brooklyn, just north of the better-known Coney Island and Brighton Beach.
The name "Gravesend" sounds macabre, but its roots are benign, if somewhat debated. There are two competing origins—English or Dutch—of the neighborhood's name. The Dutch colonized what is now Brooklyn (then called "Breuckelen") in the 1640s, parceling the area into six different villages, including Gravesend and other, better-known names, like Bushwick and Flatbush. (The present-day neighborhoods bearing these names are about at the center of their original, larger towns.) Gravesend was the only one of those six that was founded by an English person, and also the only one founded by a woman—Lady Deborah Moody, who was fleeing religious persecution in England and the Puritan Massachusetts Bay Colony, and who had enough money and followers to create a new community of religious freedom in the Dutch territory.
Some speculate that Gravesend was named by Moody after a town in Kent, England, of the same name. Other historical sources indicate that William Kieft—the Dutch director of New Netherland—named it after the town of 's'Gravenzande (now 's-Gravenzande) in the Netherlands, which roughly translates to "Count's Beach" or "Count's Sand." According to a historical archeologist, the name was originally Dutch but "gladly accepted by the settlers, in whose minds it referred or came to refer to the English town. Both Dutch and English were satisfied."
In the 18th and 19th centuries, Gravesend was an industrial hub, known for shipbuilding, brick-making, and oyster farming. In the early 20th century, demographics began to change as a new wave of immigrants, including Italians and Jews, arrived in Brooklyn. Over the 20th century and into the 21st, Gravesend has remained a mix of working-class and middle-class families, escaping for now the gentrification that has shaped other Brooklyn neighborhoods, although the demographics have continued to shift. Italians, once the majority of denizens, still have a strong presence (a local amateur soccer team that plays in Gravesend is called the Brooklyn Italians); the Sephardic Jewish population has grown; and there are growing numbers of Chinese, Mexican, and Russian immigrants. A real estate agent in 2008 described the neighborhood as a "minestrone soup"—"a jumbled-up mix of ingredients that somehow fit together."
Map of Gravesend Brooklyn from 1946, courtesy of Brooklyn Historical Society
by Edgar Gomez
In Florida, one of the first things you're taught as a child is that if you're ever chased by a wild alligator, the only way to save yourself is to run away in zigzags. It's a lesson on survival that has guided much of Edgar Gomez's life.
Like the night his mother had a stroke while he and his brother stood frozen at the foot of her bed, afraid she'd be angry if they called for an ambulance they couldn't afford. Gomez escaped into his mind, where he could tell himself nothing was wrong with his family. Zig. Or years later, as a broke college student, he got on his knees to put sandals on tourists' smelly, swollen feet for minimum wage at the Flip Flop Shop. After clocking out, his crew of working-class, queer, Latinx friends changed out of their uniforms in the passenger seats of each other's cars, speeding toward the relief they found at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Zag. From committing a little bankruptcy fraud for the money for veneers to those days he paid his phone bill by giving massages to closeted men on vacation, back when he and his friends would Venmo each other the same emergency twenty dollars over and over. Zig. Zag. Gomez survived this way as long as his legs would carry him.
Alligator Tears is a fiercely defiant memoir-in-essays charting Gomez's quest to claw his family out of poverty by any means necessary and exposing the archetype of the humble poor person for what it is: a scam that insists we remain quiet and servile while we wait for a prize that will always be out of reach. For those chasing the American Dream and those jaded by it, Gomez's unforgettable story is a testament to finding love, purpose, and community on your own terms, smiling with all your fake teeth.
Colloquially, "crocodile tears" are false ones. But the emotion is all genuine in Alligator Tears. It's still an appropriate title for Edgar Gomez's second memoir, though — not just because it's set in Florida where he grew up, but also because there was a lot of sadness in his early years, including his parents' divorce, his drug-addicted father moving back to Puerto Rico, and his Nicaraguan single mother struggling to make ends meet in food service jobs, especially after a robbery wiped out her savings. Nonetheless, these 10 sincere and feisty essays evince a determination to find meaning in his past and work towards a hopeful collective future.
The pieces trace a rough path from adolescence to adulthood. In the opening essay, "Orlando Royalty," Gomez recalls that he was watching his favorite TV show, America's Next Top Model, at age 12 when his mother had a stress-induced stroke, inciting a panic over the cost of calling an ambulance. Afterwards, his mother had recurrent Bell's palsy, which causes facial drooping. But she turned her health challenges into an opportunity to laugh and connect with her son's special interests. When her insurance approved Botox injections as a form of treatment, she pretended that she was preparing for ANTM: "Don't you know your mom is a model? I have to get ready for my photoshoot," she joked to him.
"Kids with Guns" (another borrowed song title, this one from Gorillaz, to go with Beyoncé's "Alligator Tears") is about Gomez's time as a freshman in a special high school criminal justice program. He only had one friend at the school, a wealthy white kid named Colton who dealt marijuana and once pulled a rifle on him as a joke. When Colton was caught with drugs, he lied and said that Gomez was his accomplice. Coerced into a false confession, Gomez was expelled along with Colton. It was a cruel reminder of how life was stacked against him. Even after the expulsion, Colton's privilege got him a place at an exclusive private Catholic school, while Gomez had to resort to the failing, underfunded public high school.
"Fake," set about two years later, recalls Gomez's mother (despite being on the verge of bankruptcy) buying him veneers to counteract his extreme self-consciousness about his bad teeth. It was, perhaps, a way of making up for all the fights they had after he came out to her. This essay is my favorite for delving into the mother-son relationship, and for its wit: Gomez describes the veneers as coming in "shades ranging from Beige to Pastor at Megachurch." The last lines, knowing and bittersweet, imply that an improved appearance might boost his confidence but won't guarantee success. "You could not tell me I wasn't going anywhere, that my future wasn't bright. I put one foot in front of the other, stuck my chin up, and smiled with all my fake teeth."
The book contrasts superficiality and success with struggle and disillusionment, as both Gomez and his mother awakened to the American Dream's false promise. In "Images of Rapture," set during the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic, worries over his mother's health resurfaced. By this time, Gomez was living in Brooklyn and working several jobs, including as a cocktail server in a gay bar. During lockdown, he signed up for unemployment benefits and focused on editing his first book, High-Risk Homosexual (2022) — its title taken from a note on his Truvada (HIV prevention) prescription. Ironically, his mother was the one at higher risk: as an "essential worker," she was expected to show up daily to her job at an airport Starbucks at the start of the pandemic. Gomez rages at the received wisdom that if immigrants are humble and work hard everything will go well, when, in fact, structural inequalities and overt racism keep them vulnerable.
The title essay commemorates the 2016 mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando where Gomez and his friends used to party. Time and again, he has experienced queer communities coming together to mourn, celebrate, and help each other. In "Everything We Ever Wanted," Gomez reflects on the elation of experiencing the book launch of his dreams (complete with a knock-off of J.Lo's Versace dress) and moving to Puerto Rico to reconnect with his father, only to hear that his mother was about to have her house repossessed. (He started a GoFundMe and within a week her debts were covered.)
Although medical crises and tragedies are threads running through the collection, Gomez maintains a light tone. Life is sometimes unjust or demeaning for him as a queer person of color, yet he has found powerful communities of care in person and via his writing. In New York City, he volunteers at a food pantry run by a gay bar and as a model for trans makeup artists-in-training. His anecdotes often touch on pop culture and are fun and sex-positive. The stories of rekindling connections with family members are touching. There are a couple of weaker essays, but overall, the book is revealing not just of the author but also more generally of the intersectional challenges commonly faced by queer second-generation immigrants of color.
Book reviewed by Rebecca Foster
Compared to a traditional memoir, a memoir-in-essays allows for a more thematic approach and a diversity of styles and formats. It generally prioritizes ideas and memorable scenes or vignettes, and its essays might be linked or discrete. The essays in Alligator Tears by Edgar Gomez appear in roughly chronological order, but a memoir-in-essays can break from convention by eschewing chronology. A looser timeline can be a way of acknowledging that life is usually not a clear trajectory from one phase to another; instead, it contains recurrences, contrasts, and connections. As Sarah Kasbeer wrote for The Rumpus in 2020, "Exploring a complex network of interactions sounds like the work of an essayist, whereas the projection of time is clearly the memoirist's domain." The memoir-in-essays can accomplish both. Below we highlight a few that exemplify their chosen themes.
Disability & Chronic Illness:
Places I've Taken My Body by Molly McCully Brown (2020)
Brown has severe cerebral palsy and uses a wheelchair. She travels to Bologna on a fellowship but finds the medieval city very challenging due to her limited mobility. Also a published poet, she writes about her twin's death, converting to Catholicism, historical policies of enforced sterilization, and the 200th anniversary of Frankenstein. Linking all of the pieces are her experiences of chronic pain and of others making uncharitable assumptions based on her physical disability.
Also recommended: Your Hearts, Your Scars by Adina Talve-Goodman, Floppy by Alyssa Graybeal, and A Certain Loneliness by Sandra Gail Lambert
Nature & Climate Justice:
World of Wonders by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (2020)
In 28 mini-essays, the poet and English professor honors unusual species, symbolically linking them to her past. For instance, growing up as a person of color in a predominantly white area, she tried to blend in, like a potoo or vampire squid. It felt easier to choose camouflage during high school rather than stand out like the peacock, her favorite bird. Through her species profiles, she ponders belonging and mixes nostalgia with grief over the natural wonders that have been lost.
Also recommended: No Country for Eight-Spot Butterflies by Julian Aguon, Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, and Dispersals by Jessica J. Lee
Religion & Sexuality:
I Can't Date Jesus by Michael Arceneaux (2018)
Arceneaux grew up gay in Houston and absorbed from an early age that his sexuality and religion were at odds. His mother was a devout Catholic and hoped he'd join the priesthood one day. A number of the essays are about his bad luck with dating. He also writes about moving to New York City and reconnecting with his father, an alcoholic who physically abused his mother. Politics, relationships, and Arceneaux's love of Beyoncé are recurring elements in these funny essays.
Also recommended: No Cure for Being Human by Kate Bowler, The Book of Queer Prophets edited by Ruth Hunt, and Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
Women's Lives & Feminism:
Girlhood by Melissa Febos (2021)
Febos's second autobiographical essay collection examines the expectations society places on women, starting in adolescence. Whether flirting with boys as a teenager, fending off a stalker in college, or working as a dominatrix, Febos was always conscious of the male gaze. Her interlocking essays also cover her early queer experiences, her former addiction to heroin, her relationship with her mother, and trips to France and Italy. Once hypercritical of her own body, she gradually learned to love and value it instead.
Also recommended: This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett, Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit, and Still Life at Eighty by Abigail Thomas
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