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MY THOUGHTS ON 149 BOOKS
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MY THOUGHTS ABOUT THE BOOKS I'VE READ
I read a lot. Okay, not a lot, but about one book per week. I’m grateful to be gifted with the desire to dive into the words of other writers in a quest for entertainment, understanding an awakening*.
* A Honky’s version of becoming woke. In that spirit, every book you see in my, I Love It section: I loved!?! I find giving these books a score pointless. I try to share how the books made me feel as opposed to firing out a synopsis. Every book on these pages deserves 5 STARS! Because, who, am I, to try to tell anyone else what to like? And because, unless the book is filled with hate, writing is hard, writers deserve to be encouraged to keep writing. Unless of course, you suck as a writer, even then, keep writing, one day you might stop sucking. 
(I TRY TO REFRAIN FROM SHARING THOUGHTS ON BOOKS I DON'T LIKE)
ULTIMATE RATING SCALE
5 STARS = 5 STARS
5 STARS? = Less than or greater than 5 STARS - YOU DECIDE
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16
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COMING SOON
COMING SOON
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COMING SOON
COMING SOON
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COMING SOON
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COMING SOON
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COMING SOON
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BEGIN BY TELLINGMeg REMYA gallop past what life may deliver.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
The things (I) (you) we go through + must overcome.
A man can never understand a father abusing his daughter.
A son can never comprehend why his mother abandoned him at birth.
The mother could never understand why her father sent her to an abhorrent place to give birth—only to try to have her fixed and become marriageable.
And the world is too filled with (I) (you) we, strapped in the shackles of conditioning + fuelled by daily noise, for some of us, not to become broken, flawed, violent.
Do we need professional sports?
“Begin by Telling,” triggered in me, unfixable memories I live every day…must live every day.
“Begin by Telling” awakened me to the weight + beauty of listening because if we did, we’d understand listening is the root of kindness + shines a bright light on the path to a better world.
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
“I’m not pregnant in the pandemic. I pray for anyone who needs an abortion during this time.”
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
The things (I) (you) we go through + must overcome.
A man can never understand a father abusing his daughter.
A son can never comprehend why his mother abandoned him at birth.
The mother could never understand why her father sent her to an abhorrent place to give birth—only to try to have her fixed and become marriageable.
And the world is too filled with (I) (you) we, strapped in the shackles of conditioning + fuelled by daily noise, for some of us, not to become broken, flawed, violent.
Do we need professional sports?
“Begin by Telling,” triggered in me, unfixable memories I live every day…must live every day.
“Begin by Telling” awakened me to the weight + beauty of listening because if we did, we’d understand listening is the root of kindness + shines a bright light on the path to a better world.
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
“I’m not pregnant in the pandemic. I pray for anyone who needs an abortion during this time.”
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
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FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, DRINK MINT TEAAlex WOODThis is what courage reads like.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
When I finished the last word of “Float Like a Butterfly, Drink Mint Tea,” I couldn’t help thinking this is what courage reads like. Most of us have demons haunting us. We must knock them down with a right or left hook or an uppercut and then do our best not to let them up off the canvas.
They say comedy comes from pain. Alex Wood is darnnnnn funny.
What makes this book glow the brightest isn’t Alex’s undeniable sense of humour; it’s his unflinching honesty + unassuming way of giving something back.
We all need to be grateful Alex found the fortitude to pick himself off the canvas of addiction and shared his story instead of becoming another selfish, tragic, boring story.
I write. The reviews I like most, are the ones saying: I’m funny.
I hope the one Alex appreciates the most is: THANK YOU!
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
When I finished the last word of “Float Like a Butterfly, Drink Mint Tea,” I couldn’t help thinking this is what courage reads like. Most of us have demons haunting us. We must knock them down with a right or left hook or an uppercut and then do our best not to let them up off the canvas.
They say comedy comes from pain. Alex Wood is darnnnnn funny.
What makes this book glow the brightest isn’t Alex’s undeniable sense of humour; it’s his unflinching honesty + unassuming way of giving something back.
We all need to be grateful Alex found the fortitude to pick himself off the canvas of addiction and shared his story instead of becoming another selfish, tragic, boring story.
I write. The reviews I like most, are the ones saying: I’m funny.
I hope the one Alex appreciates the most is: THANK YOU!
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
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HOW TO PRONOUNCE KNIFESouvankham THAMMAVONGSAEvery entitled Caucasian (male) should read this book.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
“How to Pronounce Knife” should be essential reading for every Caucasian male to help them understand how ridiculously entitled they are.
When I cracked the book open, I found the stories to be cute, hilarious, light-hearted, romps filled with laughter at a life I’ve never had to encounter.
I never had to give up everything to live the life I live, or leave my country, often rife with strife—leaving loved ones behind, or forgo my dreams to be exploited by companies that use those who’ve come to North America chasing an elusive dream—working in plants and slaughterhouses and anywhere where language isn’t a barrier for employment.
This book is profoundly hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time.
“My father did not grieve. He had done all his grieving when he became a refugee.”
At the halfway mark, my mind opened to what place of birth bestows upon us, yet many of us whine about how hard done by, often throwing barbs at those we don’t understand.
“He was happy someone at the factory was talking to him instead of pulling at the skin on the side of their eyes and laughing as they walked by.”
I wrote this with the Morning Show playing in the background. While listening to the show’s vapidness and the guests talking about “how to buy stuff to hold onto your youth” —I couldn’t help but wonder: who is this for?
Who it isn’t for is, for those who’ve sacrificed everything leaving their pasts behind in search of a new place of belonging?
Every white |person| should read this book. You will laugh, guaranteed. But what you might do even more, if you open your heart is, realize the struggles of many don’t revolve around creams to erase the character lines around their eyes.
In my Top 25!
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: April 7, 2021
“How to Pronounce Knife” should be essential reading for every Caucasian male to help them understand how ridiculously entitled they are.
When I cracked the book open, I found the stories to be cute, hilarious, light-hearted, romps filled with laughter at a life I’ve never had to encounter.
I never had to give up everything to live the life I live, or leave my country, often rife with strife—leaving loved ones behind, or forgo my dreams to be exploited by companies that use those who’ve come to North America chasing an elusive dream—working in plants and slaughterhouses and anywhere where language isn’t a barrier for employment.
This book is profoundly hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time.
“My father did not grieve. He had done all his grieving when he became a refugee.”
At the halfway mark, my mind opened to what place of birth bestows upon us, yet many of us whine about how hard done by, often throwing barbs at those we don’t understand.
“He was happy someone at the factory was talking to him instead of pulling at the skin on the side of their eyes and laughing as they walked by.”
I wrote this with the Morning Show playing in the background. While listening to the show’s vapidness and the guests talking about “how to buy stuff to hold onto your youth” —I couldn’t help but wonder: who is this for?
Who it isn’t for is, for those who’ve sacrificed everything leaving their pasts behind in search of a new place of belonging?
Every white |person| should read this book. You will laugh, guaranteed. But what you might do even more, if you open your heart is, realize the struggles of many don’t revolve around creams to erase the character lines around their eyes.
In my Top 25!
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: April 7, 2021
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HAPPINESS tmWill FERGUSONI laughed until I could laugh no more. Then, I peed myself.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m currently struggling with a bout of depression, like most people in the current state of the world. Most of us are facing undaunting uncertainty as COVID-19 blasts around the earth. My struggle stems from losing my career. I’m sixty—WTF is next (?) derides me daily. I know I’m not alone—not alone isn’t comforting. I don’t want to discount depression; perhaps, I’m just sad.
Stop. Think. What is your perfect weather day? Is it 25 degrees Celsius and sunny (77 Fahrenheit), allowing you to bask in the warmth? Or is it 0 degrees (32 Fahrenheit) with fresh powder to carve up on the slopes?
Now imagine every day was that day: Would that bring you delight?
If everyone lived their perfect day every day, wouldn’t life be dull, pointless, droning on and on and on, dour, with humour stripped away from our souls? Wouldn’t it?
“HAPPINESS” tickles our funny bones by exorcizing the insanity of happiness fulfilled. The humour is brilliantly nuanced and, for this reader, relating to the nuance, helped relieve my bout of depression/sadness, if only for a moment as I guffawed whole-heartedly while realizing what makes life sweet is the struggle. Without struggle, the happiness we derive from life would be nothing more than cultlike sameness if happiness were a given.
Vices may be bad for us, but without question, vices allow us to fail, climb, rejoice, celebrate, and become who we are meant to be.
If you need a break from the day-to-day challenges: I unstintingly prescribe a dose of Will Ferguson’s “Happiness.”
In my Top 25!
“Sober men don’t dance. We need our vices. We need our cotton-candy fluff because life is sad and short and over far too soon.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 29, 2021
I’m currently struggling with a bout of depression, like most people in the current state of the world. Most of us are facing undaunting uncertainty as COVID-19 blasts around the earth. My struggle stems from losing my career. I’m sixty—WTF is next (?) derides me daily. I know I’m not alone—not alone isn’t comforting. I don’t want to discount depression; perhaps, I’m just sad.
Stop. Think. What is your perfect weather day? Is it 25 degrees Celsius and sunny (77 Fahrenheit), allowing you to bask in the warmth? Or is it 0 degrees (32 Fahrenheit) with fresh powder to carve up on the slopes?
Now imagine every day was that day: Would that bring you delight?
If everyone lived their perfect day every day, wouldn’t life be dull, pointless, droning on and on and on, dour, with humour stripped away from our souls? Wouldn’t it?
“HAPPINESS” tickles our funny bones by exorcizing the insanity of happiness fulfilled. The humour is brilliantly nuanced and, for this reader, relating to the nuance, helped relieve my bout of depression/sadness, if only for a moment as I guffawed whole-heartedly while realizing what makes life sweet is the struggle. Without struggle, the happiness we derive from life would be nothing more than cultlike sameness if happiness were a given.
Vices may be bad for us, but without question, vices allow us to fail, climb, rejoice, celebrate, and become who we are meant to be.
If you need a break from the day-to-day challenges: I unstintingly prescribe a dose of Will Ferguson’s “Happiness.”
In my Top 25!
“Sober men don’t dance. We need our vices. We need our cotton-candy fluff because life is sad and short and over far too soon.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 29, 2021
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ON SUCH A FULL SEAChang-Rae LEEAn enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian (?) read.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’ve read a few dystopian-themed books lately. What I’ve discovered: there might not be such a thing as a dystopian world. We’ve arrived. We’re living it. Open your eyes + ears. The truth is often accepted as the words of those with the loudest talking sticks. But the thing is, it’s not really the truth.
Cards are dealt. If you’re lucky, you’ve been dealt a decent hand. Or if you are fortunate (?) your generational cards have given you an unearned upper hand.
We’re tossed into our lots in life. Climbing out, is insurmountable at best. We are dropped into set categories. Some of us must make the best of menial in an angry world. Some of those dealt strong non-generational hands forget where they’ve come from. They’re small people, often with ginormous trucks. A silver spoon drops out of one of their mouths; he/she doesn’t realize he/she is being used as well. It doesn’t matter. A safety net is in place; he/she will never fall far.
As for the rest of us, we must fight and claw, often over each other, as we desperately try to make our way through the impossible. Kindness is often replaced by struggle.
We are all sick. Nobody is immune, except for one man, who may be the cure for all - the entitled want to use him, to harvest the cure.
Eyes always darting. Never connecting. Money comes before humanity. Business is heartless. We’re the product: Humans. Damaged. Flawed. Barely holding on. We shamelessly hide behind a shaded false mask of direction, when used up – you tell the broken: This is no longer for you. Each time, your soul dies a little more. You don’t care; you drive a big truck.
But I have nowhere else to go. Life has ravaged me. You are draining the last droplets of my plasma.
Go. It’s not working anymore.
Please. I have another drop, you futilely plead.
A week later: Hey, did you hear, So-and-so died?
We pretend to care. So-and-so had nowhere else to go. We took what we could. There is no time to mourn; another soul who is barely holding on is waiting to take So-and-so(s)’ place.
ON SUCH A FULL SEA is an enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian read where we might, if we don’t take a moment to pause and realize, as Chang-Rae Lee weaves this breathtaking futuristic tale of where we might be heading—in reality, we may already have arrived—now our challenge is to have the dealer deal fairer hands.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 19, 2021
I’ve read a few dystopian-themed books lately. What I’ve discovered: there might not be such a thing as a dystopian world. We’ve arrived. We’re living it. Open your eyes + ears. The truth is often accepted as the words of those with the loudest talking sticks. But the thing is, it’s not really the truth.
Cards are dealt. If you’re lucky, you’ve been dealt a decent hand. Or if you are fortunate (?) your generational cards have given you an unearned upper hand.
We’re tossed into our lots in life. Climbing out, is insurmountable at best. We are dropped into set categories. Some of us must make the best of menial in an angry world. Some of those dealt strong non-generational hands forget where they’ve come from. They’re small people, often with ginormous trucks. A silver spoon drops out of one of their mouths; he/she doesn’t realize he/she is being used as well. It doesn’t matter. A safety net is in place; he/she will never fall far.
As for the rest of us, we must fight and claw, often over each other, as we desperately try to make our way through the impossible. Kindness is often replaced by struggle.
We are all sick. Nobody is immune, except for one man, who may be the cure for all - the entitled want to use him, to harvest the cure.
Eyes always darting. Never connecting. Money comes before humanity. Business is heartless. We’re the product: Humans. Damaged. Flawed. Barely holding on. We shamelessly hide behind a shaded false mask of direction, when used up – you tell the broken: This is no longer for you. Each time, your soul dies a little more. You don’t care; you drive a big truck.
But I have nowhere else to go. Life has ravaged me. You are draining the last droplets of my plasma.
Go. It’s not working anymore.
Please. I have another drop, you futilely plead.
A week later: Hey, did you hear, So-and-so died?
We pretend to care. So-and-so had nowhere else to go. We took what we could. There is no time to mourn; another soul who is barely holding on is waiting to take So-and-so(s)’ place.
ON SUCH A FULL SEA is an enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian read where we might, if we don’t take a moment to pause and realize, as Chang-Rae Lee weaves this breathtaking futuristic tale of where we might be heading—in reality, we may already have arrived—now our challenge is to have the dealer deal fairer hands.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 19, 2021
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HEAVYKiese LAYMON“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m white. Writing thoughts on books on anything but the white experience can be daunting.
The day after my twenty-fifth birthday, my father died. Just before Christmas, less than two years later, my mother died. Sixteen years later, I discovered the people I watched die were not my real birth parents. In October 2016, I met my mother for the first time as my mother, alongside her death bed. One week later, my mother died for a second time.
I am not capable of getting past the threads of my life story. They will haunt me forever, triggered by certain days + holidays.
“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
I realize that no matter how extreme my life events have been, I’m white. I have never had to face the realities of trying to be anything other than what I am, to succeed.
That’s what a 400-year advantage bestows upon us white folk.
One afternoon, at a local watering hole, when the topic of race comes up, some of my friends claim race issues are not an issue in Canada (they are). And when I react with disgust at their statements, I’ve been met with, “You need to stop reading books about the plights of others.”
I won’t back down. It’s all our responsibilities to stamp out attitudes by having uncomfortable discourse—even if it ends friendships.
“Heavy” shines a powerful light on the disparities of centuries of oppression and the unearned advantages of white marginality. It delicately touches on the difference between black + white, wealth.
I’m white. I don’t think I’d have survived my life events if they were dropped on me after being held down for 400-years.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 6, 2021
I’m white. Writing thoughts on books on anything but the white experience can be daunting.
The day after my twenty-fifth birthday, my father died. Just before Christmas, less than two years later, my mother died. Sixteen years later, I discovered the people I watched die were not my real birth parents. In October 2016, I met my mother for the first time as my mother, alongside her death bed. One week later, my mother died for a second time.
I am not capable of getting past the threads of my life story. They will haunt me forever, triggered by certain days + holidays.
“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
I realize that no matter how extreme my life events have been, I’m white. I have never had to face the realities of trying to be anything other than what I am, to succeed.
That’s what a 400-year advantage bestows upon us white folk.
One afternoon, at a local watering hole, when the topic of race comes up, some of my friends claim race issues are not an issue in Canada (they are). And when I react with disgust at their statements, I’ve been met with, “You need to stop reading books about the plights of others.”
I won’t back down. It’s all our responsibilities to stamp out attitudes by having uncomfortable discourse—even if it ends friendships.
“Heavy” shines a powerful light on the disparities of centuries of oppression and the unearned advantages of white marginality. It delicately touches on the difference between black + white, wealth.
I’m white. I don’t think I’d have survived my life events if they were dropped on me after being held down for 400-years.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 6, 2021
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ELECT MR. ROBINSON FOR A BETTER WORLDDonald ANTRIMI laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Come with me, over here. Hello.
Back in the early 80s, I used to be the top mixed-tape DJ at my University.
Two tape decks and a microphone!
Fast forward to the here and now. Clickbait clicked: ‘TOP 500 ALL-TIME ALBUMS.’
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
How could I have missed several truckloads of ear-pleasing gems?
I did. There is soooo much great music.
Read. Read. Read.
‘Elect Mr. Robinson…’ —why did I select? I don’t know. I’m glad I did; it has made it into my TOP 10 ALL TIME.
The book is a mess. It takes us along on a disturbing ride through a dystopian world. A world where the mayor of the city in this gruesome story launches springer missiles into a reflective pool—massacring innocent people—for no reason.
His punishment: being drawn and quartered by vehicles, not horse. His last wish (to Mr. Robinson): give my body parts a proper burial.
The city falls into a dark quagmire where the citizenry dips into a pool of paranoia, building moats (violent) around their homes. Those who’ve lost loved ones fall into poverty and are ostracized and begin living as survivors in a city park. Mr. Robinson’s wife identifies as a prehistoric fish. Mr. Robinson wants to teach the city children about the horrors of humanity. I laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
This book is a delightfully (d)ucked up mess; dark—beyond dark. I laughed more.
The ending stretches squeamishness to such an intense level. I’m not sure what my love of this book says about me?
Newsflash: We’re living in a dystopian world, NOW.
Read. Read. Read.
I don’t want you to miss (this) any literary gems.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 5, 2021
Come with me, over here. Hello.
Back in the early 80s, I used to be the top mixed-tape DJ at my University.
Two tape decks and a microphone!
Fast forward to the here and now. Clickbait clicked: ‘TOP 500 ALL-TIME ALBUMS.’
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
How could I have missed several truckloads of ear-pleasing gems?
I did. There is soooo much great music.
Read. Read. Read.
‘Elect Mr. Robinson…’ —why did I select? I don’t know. I’m glad I did; it has made it into my TOP 10 ALL TIME.
The book is a mess. It takes us along on a disturbing ride through a dystopian world. A world where the mayor of the city in this gruesome story launches springer missiles into a reflective pool—massacring innocent people—for no reason.
His punishment: being drawn and quartered by vehicles, not horse. His last wish (to Mr. Robinson): give my body parts a proper burial.
The city falls into a dark quagmire where the citizenry dips into a pool of paranoia, building moats (violent) around their homes. Those who’ve lost loved ones fall into poverty and are ostracized and begin living as survivors in a city park. Mr. Robinson’s wife identifies as a prehistoric fish. Mr. Robinson wants to teach the city children about the horrors of humanity. I laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
This book is a delightfully (d)ucked up mess; dark—beyond dark. I laughed more.
The ending stretches squeamishness to such an intense level. I’m not sure what my love of this book says about me?
Newsflash: We’re living in a dystopian world, NOW.
Read. Read. Read.
I don’t want you to miss (this) any literary gems.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 5, 2021
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THE PLAGUEAlbert CAMUSHumanity is living through a social experiment.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
The Plague was written in 1947—as I read, it felt like I was reading the here and now. Seriously. My arm hairs stood on end.
The authorities debate whether to alert its citizenry; every second is vital. It becomes inevitable—measures must be put in place—or we’ll all perish. More denial (not) corrupts those responsible for the greater good—they think mostly about their power—how to maintain it. We all become expendable. Until it becomes apparent there is no escaping, bodies begin to pile up—the suffering and fear become unbearable.
Many deny. They believe there is a massive conspiracy…to bleeping what? What’s the possible endgame?
Controlling us. Tracking us. I look at my phone. We’re already controlled, tracked…idiots.
Some use plague to enrich themselves. Those who can’t are trapped in uncertainty; some fear whether they will ever be okay again. Others keep fighting the selfish battle that their lives have been turned over, and they do not give a damn about the rest of us suffering.
The Plague and Covid-19 are social experiments. It is a test of humanity—can we come together and look outward past our own selfishness and understand we must all rise up and do whatever we can to take care of each other?
They are tests on the strength of our capacity to empathize with others who face the same invisible demons by understanding the outcome for you might not be the same as mine or that of every he or she.
The Plague, written in 1947, is a profound reminder that man is a preciously small idea that needs to recapture the capacity for love for all. Regardless of societal, economic, or demographic differences, and return us, or maybe deliver us, for the first time, to a kinder world where discrimination is levelled off or totally eradicated.
We’re all in this together. Be kind. Wear a mask. Don’t let selfishness eliminate an understanding that your thoughts are not always right.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 17, 2021
The Plague was written in 1947—as I read, it felt like I was reading the here and now. Seriously. My arm hairs stood on end.
The authorities debate whether to alert its citizenry; every second is vital. It becomes inevitable—measures must be put in place—or we’ll all perish. More denial (not) corrupts those responsible for the greater good—they think mostly about their power—how to maintain it. We all become expendable. Until it becomes apparent there is no escaping, bodies begin to pile up—the suffering and fear become unbearable.
Many deny. They believe there is a massive conspiracy…to bleeping what? What’s the possible endgame?
Controlling us. Tracking us. I look at my phone. We’re already controlled, tracked…idiots.
Some use plague to enrich themselves. Those who can’t are trapped in uncertainty; some fear whether they will ever be okay again. Others keep fighting the selfish battle that their lives have been turned over, and they do not give a damn about the rest of us suffering.
The Plague and Covid-19 are social experiments. It is a test of humanity—can we come together and look outward past our own selfishness and understand we must all rise up and do whatever we can to take care of each other?
They are tests on the strength of our capacity to empathize with others who face the same invisible demons by understanding the outcome for you might not be the same as mine or that of every he or she.
The Plague, written in 1947, is a profound reminder that man is a preciously small idea that needs to recapture the capacity for love for all. Regardless of societal, economic, or demographic differences, and return us, or maybe deliver us, for the first time, to a kinder world where discrimination is levelled off or totally eradicated.
We’re all in this together. Be kind. Wear a mask. Don’t let selfishness eliminate an understanding that your thoughts are not always right.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 17, 2021
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white trashNancy ISENBERGVital. Important. Upsetting. Uncomfortable. Cringe-worthy. Reflective.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
White Trash is a vitally important, upsetting, uncomfortable, cringe-worthy, reflective read for all of us…White Trash. It tells the unvarnished truth of America.
Expel those deemed criminals, less-than-human trash, from Europe (mostly England), firing them across the pond to inhabit a new land.
Claim a classless society while at the same time dividing humanity into elite and garbage, with the elite staking claim to everything and the trash being deemed as expendable to be used and exploited to build the wealth and power of the elites.
The business model for every TA in North America.
Tell a lie: “all created equal” --after centuries of conditioning a large swath of Caucasians, they are not worthy of being anything other than waste, morons, imbeciles, miscreants.
Introduce African slavery. The waste people become valuable commodities necessary for the elites to remain at the top, but they no longer want to work. They are forced to fight wars for the elites—until realizing there is nothing in fighting for them.
So, the elites promise those who fight their own slave after pointing at the African Americans and telling the “garbage” they’ve been exploiting they are lower than you—nothing more than animals. An easy ruse because you’ve been told you are trash for several generations.
When that doesn’t work, give the trash worthless plots of land and a voting rights illusion.
Deny education. Segregate neighbourhoods “birds of a feather.” Promote eugenics (hmm, Germany). Breed humans like animals.
Sterilize women deemed wanton, not of good stock.
“Davenport felt the best policy was to quarantine dangerous women during their fertile years. How this policy prescription led to sterilization is rather more calculated: interested politicians and eager reformers concluded that it was cheaper to operate on women than to house them in asylums for decades. Southern eugenicists, in particular, argued that sterilization helped the economy by sending poor women back into the population safely neutered but still able to work menial jobs.”
With the advent of television, use the supposed “gutter trash” as entertainment—once more keeping many of us in our place—at least letting some of us know we will never be allowed to climb.
Throw this all into the slow cooker, and what do you get: Lindsey Graham jumps to mind.
America has come a long way. But has it?
America may be a classless society, because all-in-all, are we not all White Trash?
Admitting our shortcomings and the despicable advantages bestowed upon some of us, maybe, just maybe, might spark centuries of curing an illness still plaguing many of us today.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 8, 2021
White Trash is a vitally important, upsetting, uncomfortable, cringe-worthy, reflective read for all of us…White Trash. It tells the unvarnished truth of America.
Expel those deemed criminals, less-than-human trash, from Europe (mostly England), firing them across the pond to inhabit a new land.
Claim a classless society while at the same time dividing humanity into elite and garbage, with the elite staking claim to everything and the trash being deemed as expendable to be used and exploited to build the wealth and power of the elites.
The business model for every TA in North America.
Tell a lie: “all created equal” --after centuries of conditioning a large swath of Caucasians, they are not worthy of being anything other than waste, morons, imbeciles, miscreants.
Introduce African slavery. The waste people become valuable commodities necessary for the elites to remain at the top, but they no longer want to work. They are forced to fight wars for the elites—until realizing there is nothing in fighting for them.
So, the elites promise those who fight their own slave after pointing at the African Americans and telling the “garbage” they’ve been exploiting they are lower than you—nothing more than animals. An easy ruse because you’ve been told you are trash for several generations.
When that doesn’t work, give the trash worthless plots of land and a voting rights illusion.
Deny education. Segregate neighbourhoods “birds of a feather.” Promote eugenics (hmm, Germany). Breed humans like animals.
Sterilize women deemed wanton, not of good stock.
“Davenport felt the best policy was to quarantine dangerous women during their fertile years. How this policy prescription led to sterilization is rather more calculated: interested politicians and eager reformers concluded that it was cheaper to operate on women than to house them in asylums for decades. Southern eugenicists, in particular, argued that sterilization helped the economy by sending poor women back into the population safely neutered but still able to work menial jobs.”
With the advent of television, use the supposed “gutter trash” as entertainment—once more keeping many of us in our place—at least letting some of us know we will never be allowed to climb.
Throw this all into the slow cooker, and what do you get: Lindsey Graham jumps to mind.
America has come a long way. But has it?
America may be a classless society, because all-in-all, are we not all White Trash?
Admitting our shortcomings and the despicable advantages bestowed upon some of us, maybe, just maybe, might spark centuries of curing an illness still plaguing many of us today.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 8, 2021
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HOW TO SLOWLY KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS IN AMERICAKiese LAYMONI don't want to be racist.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I don’t want to be racist.
How can I not be racist?
I grew up surrounded by people mostly looking like me. We sucked. We’d been conditioned from birth and come from generation after generation of whites being told there will always be someone below you—if you listen to us—watch what we create for you—read what we tell you—learn what we teach you. We’re giving you the advantage.
We had a Siamese cat named Guy. My brother nicknamed it Guy blank-blank, blank, blank-blank, blank-face. When I was eight, I’d stand on our porch and call out Guy’s nickname, signalling Guy to come home.
One of my aunts, after visiting Jamaica, stated her opinions on Jamaican fathers. It wasn’t glowing.
When I was twenty-three, my girlfriend’s parents told her, he wished she behaved more like the polite Japanese volleyball girls, he’d been tasked with driving around.
We’d get floor-licking drunk, that was okay because we were not Indigenous.
I’ve been pulled over for traffic offences on a few occasions; one time, I swore at the police officer—without repercussion—without fearing repercussion.
"I do not believe in guns. I do not believe in prisons. Yet I know I need a gun if I am to continue living alone in this Mississippi, American Town."
A friend and I were stopped by police while pushing our car home while drunk—no repercussions.
A few days ago, I saw two non-white guys looking down at a causeway; my first thought, I’d never say aloud, shamed me. Why is it on the ready?
I want to share with the few black people I know, announce, really, I’ve read this book. I’m not sure if that’s okay. I think it would reveal how much of an ass I can be.
“How to Slowly Kill…” and other books about those who do not look like me are salves to heal my conditioning. They call out to white people: look inward and continue growing in this never-ending understanding, we are not unique; we all bleed red.
I’ll never truly comprehend the unwavering advantage I’ve been given + the unforgivable truths we’ve inflicted on those who don’t look like us, just because we’ve been conditioned to believe the festering lies of entitlement.
I don’t want to be racist.
So, I’ll read more.
WRITTEN: January 22, 2021
I don’t want to be racist.
How can I not be racist?
I grew up surrounded by people mostly looking like me. We sucked. We’d been conditioned from birth and come from generation after generation of whites being told there will always be someone below you—if you listen to us—watch what we create for you—read what we tell you—learn what we teach you. We’re giving you the advantage.
We had a Siamese cat named Guy. My brother nicknamed it Guy blank-blank, blank, blank-blank, blank-face. When I was eight, I’d stand on our porch and call out Guy’s nickname, signalling Guy to come home.
One of my aunts, after visiting Jamaica, stated her opinions on Jamaican fathers. It wasn’t glowing.
When I was twenty-three, my girlfriend’s parents told her, he wished she behaved more like the polite Japanese volleyball girls, he’d been tasked with driving around.
We’d get floor-licking drunk, that was okay because we were not Indigenous.
I’ve been pulled over for traffic offences on a few occasions; one time, I swore at the police officer—without repercussion—without fearing repercussion.
"I do not believe in guns. I do not believe in prisons. Yet I know I need a gun if I am to continue living alone in this Mississippi, American Town."
A friend and I were stopped by police while pushing our car home while drunk—no repercussions.
A few days ago, I saw two non-white guys looking down at a causeway; my first thought, I’d never say aloud, shamed me. Why is it on the ready?
I want to share with the few black people I know, announce, really, I’ve read this book. I’m not sure if that’s okay. I think it would reveal how much of an ass I can be.
“How to Slowly Kill…” and other books about those who do not look like me are salves to heal my conditioning. They call out to white people: look inward and continue growing in this never-ending understanding, we are not unique; we all bleed red.
I’ll never truly comprehend the unwavering advantage I’ve been given + the unforgivable truths we’ve inflicted on those who don’t look like us, just because we’ve been conditioned to believe the festering lies of entitlement.
I don’t want to be racist.
So, I’ll read more.
WRITTEN: January 22, 2021
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HOME FIREKamila SHAMSIERedemption + Assimilation + Family + Love: Bottled together in a desperate broth.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
HOME FIRE left me reeling. As much as I enjoyed the unrelenting twisting fiction of the story, I felt I was supposed to dive deeper into the gears turning humanity.
Kamila (author not a character) is of Indian descent, born into a patriarchal society shading womanhood in a sickness gripping many, not all, of the men. A thousand+ year struggle for equality + to find a voice—much most of us have never been exposed to, nary capable of grasping and understanding.
HOME FIRE elicited visceral emotions + a profound session of reflecting. Several questions sprinted through my mind, a reckoning of sorts—transcending borders.
Conflicted is the best way to describe the swallowing of my sensitivities while reading the searing realities in this captivating tale of love, family, deception, and the quest for the illusiveness of wholeness, + the overwhelming desire to belong.
As the story tumults perpetually to the confounding conclusion—mouth agape, I gasped as a single tear rolled over my left cheek.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 21, 2021
HOME FIRE left me reeling. As much as I enjoyed the unrelenting twisting fiction of the story, I felt I was supposed to dive deeper into the gears turning humanity.
Kamila (author not a character) is of Indian descent, born into a patriarchal society shading womanhood in a sickness gripping many, not all, of the men. A thousand+ year struggle for equality + to find a voice—much most of us have never been exposed to, nary capable of grasping and understanding.
HOME FIRE elicited visceral emotions + a profound session of reflecting. Several questions sprinted through my mind, a reckoning of sorts—transcending borders.
- How are children supposed to bleeping assimilate in new homelands when their roots are stripped away from them, and past family digressions haunt them with every step they take?
- What is assimilation supposed to do, and who defines assimilation?
- Can a radicalized person return to salvation after discovering the path he has been dragged down is clouded in deception?
- Is it possible for love to prevail over the differences of faith, especially when money and power smother out kindness + hope?
Conflicted is the best way to describe the swallowing of my sensitivities while reading the searing realities in this captivating tale of love, family, deception, and the quest for the illusiveness of wholeness, + the overwhelming desire to belong.
As the story tumults perpetually to the confounding conclusion—mouth agape, I gasped as a single tear rolled over my left cheek.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 21, 2021
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TALKING ANIMALSJoni MURPHYI laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
TALKING ANIMALS, this should be cute, light-spirited read about our lives from the point-of-view of the animals, primarily an adorable alpaca who’d emigrated from South America to NYC, I thought.
And it is both hilarious and cute, but it is so much more. I flip a page, and I’m immediately drawn into the destructiveness of us, the humans, to everything living, to everything we need to survive—to our health and well-being, to our very existence.
I laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
It is not like I don’t know what the animals in this poignant tale are trying to convey to us. Still, much like the inhabitants of the sea and greed’s persistent lack of care for anything but hoarding wealth, well, if it is not glaring in your face, all of us are complicit in the consumption of everything, which is leading toward an inevitable ending.
“What’s really destroying us is this slow carcinogenic drip. It comes from everywhere. What you can’t see is more dangerous than what you can.”
A friend who used to be a friend (a willing participant in the hoarding of wealth) travelled to the Java Sea—there is no seafood to be found. Imagine that.
We are floundering in capitalism. We are distracted by life and shiny things.
What Joni Murphy adroitly does in this entertaining, dystopian romp is bring to the forefront through the eyes of a delightful alpaca what power, greed, racism, corruption, and the many forces we humans must come to terms with together. Then, battle through by dropping our opportunities to allow those who come after us to have a future. We’re all in this collectively, and hopefully, we will open our eyes and realize the land needs the sea as much as I need you!
“The pig was blaming the world’s problems on fish, when fish were getting poisoned and eaten, and eaten and poisoned, by all the creatures on land who’d built their industries on sea exploitation.”
“I learned the rich are weak, twisted creatures. I learned to hate them while serving them smoked-salmon canapés.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 12, 2021
TALKING ANIMALS, this should be cute, light-spirited read about our lives from the point-of-view of the animals, primarily an adorable alpaca who’d emigrated from South America to NYC, I thought.
And it is both hilarious and cute, but it is so much more. I flip a page, and I’m immediately drawn into the destructiveness of us, the humans, to everything living, to everything we need to survive—to our health and well-being, to our very existence.
I laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
It is not like I don’t know what the animals in this poignant tale are trying to convey to us. Still, much like the inhabitants of the sea and greed’s persistent lack of care for anything but hoarding wealth, well, if it is not glaring in your face, all of us are complicit in the consumption of everything, which is leading toward an inevitable ending.
“What’s really destroying us is this slow carcinogenic drip. It comes from everywhere. What you can’t see is more dangerous than what you can.”
A friend who used to be a friend (a willing participant in the hoarding of wealth) travelled to the Java Sea—there is no seafood to be found. Imagine that.
We are floundering in capitalism. We are distracted by life and shiny things.
What Joni Murphy adroitly does in this entertaining, dystopian romp is bring to the forefront through the eyes of a delightful alpaca what power, greed, racism, corruption, and the many forces we humans must come to terms with together. Then, battle through by dropping our opportunities to allow those who come after us to have a future. We’re all in this collectively, and hopefully, we will open our eyes and realize the land needs the sea as much as I need you!
“The pig was blaming the world’s problems on fish, when fish were getting poisoned and eaten, and eaten and poisoned, by all the creatures on land who’d built their industries on sea exploitation.”
“I learned the rich are weak, twisted creatures. I learned to hate them while serving them smoked-salmon canapés.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 12, 2021
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THE BOOKSHOPPenelope FITZGERALDA story about an underdog battling the evil of 'have.'
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Florence Green is a lost widow, floundering in a small town, trying to matter. She’s vulnerable. She’s trying to cope. To dig herself out of the doldrums, Florence opens a bookshop to bring hopes + dreams to a town left in the past. Filled with simple people living simple lives. Anytown. Anywhere.
‘It is a good book, and therefore you should try to sell it to the inhabitants of Hardborough. They won’t understand it, but that is all good. Understanding makes the mind lazy.’
Simple is kept simple by those who yield the power—for no reason other than they can. The definition of evil?
These exterminators of hope have no shame.
Florence Green is a lost widow who finds a generational soulmate in a voracious reader—waiting for his inevitable end. He sees passion in Florence’s soul. He tries to protect her from the exterminators.
The Bookshop is a flowing tragedy, where sadly, ‘haves’ exterminate ‘have-nots’.
Bookshop shrewdly mirrors real life, cheering for hopeful failures while at the same time lamenting the inevitability of those holding the cards turning life into a loss for all—for no reason other than they can.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 8, 2021
Florence Green is a lost widow, floundering in a small town, trying to matter. She’s vulnerable. She’s trying to cope. To dig herself out of the doldrums, Florence opens a bookshop to bring hopes + dreams to a town left in the past. Filled with simple people living simple lives. Anytown. Anywhere.
‘It is a good book, and therefore you should try to sell it to the inhabitants of Hardborough. They won’t understand it, but that is all good. Understanding makes the mind lazy.’
Simple is kept simple by those who yield the power—for no reason other than they can. The definition of evil?
These exterminators of hope have no shame.
Florence Green is a lost widow who finds a generational soulmate in a voracious reader—waiting for his inevitable end. He sees passion in Florence’s soul. He tries to protect her from the exterminators.
The Bookshop is a flowing tragedy, where sadly, ‘haves’ exterminate ‘have-nots’.
Bookshop shrewdly mirrors real life, cheering for hopeful failures while at the same time lamenting the inevitability of those holding the cards turning life into a loss for all—for no reason other than they can.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 8, 2021
