Best Books of 2017, Special Rereading Edition

This year, in advance of teaching a new class, I read a bunch of books I had already read in order to prepare to teach them.  Of course they made my “best of” list because that is the whole reason I am teaching them and therefore rereading, so this list is a little longer than normal because I’d like to also honor new books.

Favorite Books, Reread:

Beloved, Toni Morrison

I’ve always been a reader, but this was the first book I read as a freshman in college whose narrative structure so kicked my ass in a way that amazed and delighted me that it’s continued to be one of my all-time favorite books and the book I’ve most dreamed about teaching.  I’ve now read it five times, and knowing the deep sadness at the heart of the story didn’t diminish it in the least.  In some ways it made it even more powerful and heart-rending.  Morrison’s prose is luminous, vivid, and profound.  So many stories are packed in here, but it’s ultimately about the power of self-love and the utter destructiveness of slavery in its ability to undermine that self love.  If you have not yet read Beloved, it’s time!

Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

Also profound and heart-wrenching, Ellison’s novel is the story of an evolution of a consciousness.  It draws on stories from the South of Brer Rabbit, the trickster figure who subverts his oppressors while “yes”ing them to their destruction.  It’s brutal and brilliant.  It’s rooted in a particular historical moment and also so current.

Everything is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer

    Alex is our hysterical Ukrainian narrator full of malapropisms and mistranslated idioms.  He is hired by American Jonathan to find Jonathan’s history in a tiny, potentially nonexistent Ukrainian town.  That history reaches back to the beginnings of World War II and the atrocities committed against the Jews there, and so the quest’s center is loss and sadness.  Foer also takes us back through the long, long history before World War II that brought us to Jonathan’s grandfather, a story full of magic, the absurd, and long dream-like passages.  Despite its grave subject matter, it’s often very funny and full of poetry.

Man Walks Into a  Room, Nicole Krauss

    Samson Greene is found wandering the Nevada desert near death and delirious.  A tumor is removed from his brain, saving his life but also destroying all memories after the age of twelve.  So, despite being a thirty-eight year old man with a life, a wife and a job as professor at a New York school, all he has access to is his boyhood.  Krauss uses this jumping off point to explore the power of memory and how we become who we become.  But then she goes further: A revolutionary scientist has a vision to test the limits of selfhood and empathy–is it possible to truly understand another person?  The novel dips into entirely plausible science fiction that provokes interesting questions.

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

When I first read this as a high school senior, it made very little impression.  I reread it more out of a sense of duty (“This is often on the AP test; I should at least see if it’s interesting to teach…”), and I get the challenges of it–it’s not a perfect book by any stretch.  It opens with a long, boring-ish rumination on the shipping world, and, of course, Conrad has been criticized for his racism in his characterization of the Africans in the story, criticism that is warranted and interesting to pursue as a teacher.  Despite these shortcomings, I found myself engrossed in the nightmarish, evocative prose and the moral questions the book raises.  I reread it on the heels of Adam Hochschild’s King Leopold’s Ghost about the terrors in the Belgian Congo, and Conrad’s novel is an interesting companion to this book.

Favorite Books, New Reads:

The Sympathizer, Viet Than Nguyen

    This novel deserves all the acclaim it earned.  It is funny, strange, and historical.  It’s narrated by a slightly unreliable narrator who is a double agent for the Vietnamese communists while living in Los Angeles.

Life After Life, Kate Atkinson

When this book initially came out, it got a lot of coverage: Here’s the story of a woman who dies but then is repeatedly reborn until she gets it right.  I had heard it was good, but I wasn’t sure how Atkinson would pull it off–wouldn’t it get boring reading the same story over and over?  Needless to say, since it’s on my list, she pulls it off.  Parts are repeated, but Atkinson knows how to pace appropriately, and it’s interesting to see the small changes that are made that this time save our protagonist so that she may live further on until her next death and rebirth.

Mrs. Fletcher, Tom Perrotta

I felt absorbed in this book: It raises genuinely interesting questions about sex and relationships in an age of porn, parenting, identity politics, and more. Even if it felt clunky at times, it was a highly engaging read.

Sing, Unburied, Sing, Jesmyn Ward

I am so glad I read this book despite not loving her earlier novel, Salvage the Bones.  Moral of the story: it’s worth giving authors second chances.  We meet Jojo, one of three narrators of the novel, on his thirteenth birthday.  He’s trying hard to be a man, which means helping to slaughter the goat that will be his birthday feast, but, as he has vague mystical powers, including the ability to hear the thoughts of animals, this goat included, the slaughtering drives him away in terror.  Jojo’s gift is a family inheritance–his grandfather and grandmother also have access to magic, and his mother, one of the other narrators of the novel, enjoys getting high so that she can see her long-dead brother who visits her during these times.  Her addiction and terrible parenting make her a hard character to empathize with, and Ward doesn’t do much to endear her to us, which, to me, felt a small fault of the novel.  And yet there’s so much that’s beautiful and sad and moving here, that it’s easily one of the best books I read this year.

Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood

Atwood tells the story of real-life servant Grace Marks who was found guilty of the murder of her master and fellow servant.  Atwood attempts to make sense of her history: Did she actually do it, or was she set up by the other servant who was condemned along with her and hanged?  Along the way, we get Atwood’s particular sharp voice, feminism, and insight.  It’s a deeply engaging story despite how much we know up front.

Conversations with Friends, Sally Rooney

Conversations With Friends is, as the name would suggest, full of great talkers, talkers who can mesmerize with their insight and erudition. However, being a great talker doesn’t mean one is also an honest talker or even good at relationships. This is the crux of Sally Rooney’s novel then: witty, interesting conversation mostly between people who are trying to figure out how to be in relationship to one another and often failing at it.

Twenty-one year-old college student, Frances, our first-person narrator, is best friends and sometimes lovers with striking, irreverent, and intelligent Bobbi, who revels in the way she makes people feel uncomfortable around their accepting of middle-class social norms. Frances is used to being overshadowed by Bobbi despite the fact that Frances herself is a brilliant poet and intelligent in her own right.

When the two women are courted by a famous, older writer and photographer and brought into the folds of her life and social world, Frances naturally assumes that Bobbi is really the focus of this woman, Melissa’s, interest, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when Frances’s crush on Melissa’s semi-famous actor husband ends up being reciprocated. The two fall into a secret, illicit affair complicating Frances’s relationship to Bobbi.

While the storyline, on its surface, reads like a soap opera, Rooney’s writing elevates it above mere drama. All the characters are complicated and messy in interesting ways. They have blind spots and moments of utter clarity. What makes it a novel worth reading is that it’s not just this dramatic storyline but often a novel of ideas: Why monogamy? What is love? What is the line between friendship and romance? Is it possible to be authentically in relationship to someone, or will those relationships always be shaped by societal expectations and conventions?

And Rooney never tries too hard to answer these questions. Instead we’re offered this moment with these characters, and we’re left to wonder. As I neared the end of the novel, I felt a bit of a loss at the idea of no longer getting to be part of these lives. I would have kept reading.

The Quiet American, Graham Greene

Is it possible to be neutral in a warzone? Thomas Fowler, a journalist, is stationed in Vietnam in the early 1950s during the era in which the Vietnamese were trying to throw off their French colonial rule, thereby involving the United States more and more in the struggle for power. He’s not the titular quiet American; he’s British and is able to use this identity to claim neutrality despite the various warring factions. The quiet American is Alden Pyle; he’s young and naïve, and yet his political idealism leads him to be more of a dangerous figure than Fowler originally takes him for.

Pyle is not only dangerous politically; he’s also dangerous to Fowler as he’s fallen for his mistress, a Vietnamese woman Fowler fears he will never be able to make truly happy given that he’s older than her and already married.

This struggle for the beautiful Phuong comprises the heart of the novel’s plot, and yet the heart of the book really is Fowler’s evolution as he comes to realize that he cannot be neutral.

So many aspects of this book could have put me off: The context was mostly lost on me, and Greene does no dumbing down or explaining of the politics and history; he writes with an implicit belief that we understand who the various players were. Consequently, to keep up, I had to do independent research along the way.

Further, Fowler’s view of Phuong is troubling: It’s sexism borne of racism in that he sees her as simple and consequently less deserving of a real love that comes from a meeting of the minds. Greene does not seem to endorse this view. I read Fowler as ultimately a cynic, someone who’s blocked himself from truly caring about the people in the country where he lives as a way to shield himself, and this view slowly comes undone as the novel progress. Still, the ways Phuong is talked about is off-putting.

Regardless of what would be marks against the book, I found myself repeatedly moved by it. The prose is simple and yet beautiful, and Greene constantly surprised me with quiet little insights. It is often meditative and sometimes strange, but all this works for it. This is my first Greene, and I will likely read more.

We Need New Names, NoViolet Bulawayo

I was given this novel by a friend from my hometown, Kalamazoo, Michigan, where Bulawayo emigrated from Zimbabwe and where she sets the second half of this coming of age story that feels lightly autobiographical, at least in that it follows a girl’s life in Zimbabwe before coming to Michigan.


Rich Land

Your house then smelled of lake and damp and cold.
At five, you’d left us, landed elsewhere: Here–
mismatched furniture, a fridge of beer,
a house of bachelors and Playboys stored
in the bathroom.  It was a farmhouse, old,
no farm now, but woods.  A concrete dam near
to “waterfall,” stray cat, huge tree:  Five years
will will magic even when life’s on hold.
But memory evades truth.  I search maps
to rediscover that place you went–where?
I mix up homes; nostalgic sadness paints
in certain colors.  I ask–to fill gaps:
“Why?”   “Her choice.  I just wanted to be fair.
I thought all I had to do was to wait.”


Top Ten Books of 2016

(in a loose order)

Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer
This novel feels like a beautiful, warm, comfortable coat. Not only is it all of these things, this coat also has tons of little pockets where small little treasures are tucked away. And all the stitching is exquisitely done, and every time you look closely you are amazed by the quality of the material and craftsmanship.

At 600 pages, it’s expansive and wide-ranging, and yet it is also deeply personal and intimate. It’s laugh-out-loud funny very often and so sad throughout.
Here I Am is essentially the story of the dissolution of a marriage, but it’s also about absences in general. Sometimes the holes created by absences are beautiful—at one point Jacob, the husband—invokes Andy Goldsworthy’s art in which he lay in a field while the snow fell creating a snow angel in negative space. Absences can remind us about why we love, why we struggle or wrestle. But often those absences are sad, flaws. Near the beginning of the narrative, Foer takes us back in time into a quiet inn where our now in-the-present sixteen-year-married couple is reveling in their early love, lust, sexuality. They promise never to withhold the truth from each other and then almost immediately do. They continue to withhold while raising three boys, and that absence of truth is, ultimately, their undoing.

Of course, being Foer, these absences aren’t just sad moments in a life of two very real, complicated people. Foer writes out of a sense of Jewishness, and his absences are also about the millions of people whose lives ended and the millions whose lives we’ll never know because of the Holocaust.

“Here I am,” is the phrase Abraham used when God called on him to sacrifice his son and then the same phrase he used when addressing that son he was about to sacrifice. The novel asks a question about how one can be truly present for both of these utterly conflicting pulls, and so it asks how we can be present for all the things that pull us in our lives. Can we be true to ourselves, true to our spouse, our children, our parents all without compromise?

Foer’s answer here seems to be no, and that felt devastating to me.
But even this doesn’t do justice to what this novel is working on: It explores other religious questions, renders the voices of the three sons so beautifully and hysterically, imagines Israel on the brink of destruction, asks us what love is, what it means to live in the world, and so much more.

I didn’t always relate to the protagonists, Julia and Jacob. Jacob especially was maddening to me. At one point late in the novel we readers are let in on one of his secrets he withheld, a stupid, vain secret that feels crazy and utterly wrongheaded, and I wanted to shake him. But Foer doesn’t apologize for him or make it easy to be critical. We care about what happens to him—the stakes are real; the emotions powerful.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson
My main feeling after reading this memoir was an inspiration to write myself. Nelson explores the ways bodies change—such as her partner’s transition from female to male or her own body’s changes as it goes through pregnancy and birth. Nelson’s ruminations are deeply insightful, radical, poetic, and provocative. I intend to reread this one.

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
I had a hard time putting this book down. It was vast and intimate. It covered a lot of ground in exploring issues of immigration, Blackness in America, love and relationships, and more. The characters are complicated and real, flawed and easy to care about. It’s political but never feels didactic or pat. This was easily one of the best books I read this year.

The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta
The sadness of this book has stayed with me a day after finishing it. This is a recommendation. Perrotta has so gently suggested such a deep chasm of grief that comes from losing, continuing to search for that which is lost, and finding just emptiness. But there’s also something hopeful about that continuing to search that almost all the characters hold on to.

I said “gentle,” and it surprises me the subtlety of a book whose origins are with a Rapture-like event that causes a small but notable portion of the world’s population to vanish into thin air with no warning. And, while the book is about life three years after this event, it’s not really about this disappearance (in fact the book begins three years on); it’s not a religious book or a science fiction book. It’s just about what people do to move on in their lives–people, like Nora Durst, who lost her entire family, two small children and husband; or people like Kevin Garvey, who lost no one save his wife, Laurie, who three years later leaves him and their teenage children behind to join a cult, the Guilty Remnant, who in all their actions–wearing white, smoking, stalking in their eternal silence–seek to remind everyone that life simply cannot go on as normal.

Other cults and fanatics spring up too as one would expect in a world hit by such an unexplainable loss: a cult organized around a man who gives burden-relieving hugs; the Barefoot People, who are mostly hippies but with bullseyes painted on their foreheads, and a former preacher who, feeling like he was passed over by a God Rapturing undeserving folks home, becomes a zealot in his quest to prove this disappearance couldn’t possibly have been the Rapture, else why would a lesbian or an adulterer have been chosen but not him?

The narrative follows several different point of view characters and shows us their daily struggles and sadness. We empathize with them all. There are no bad guys. The book doesn’t even really feel allegorical–a condemnation of suburban consumerism or lives devoid of meaning and purpose; though it could easily suggest all that. It’s just these people–delicately wrought and human, sad and seeking.

Zero K by Don DeLillo
So much of this is clever, funny, and provocative. It deals with such big questions–death, consciousness, language, self–without being heavy-handed. The narrator’s father and his wife have hidden themselves away in a secluded underground complex in the middle of the desert where they plan to be medically killed and then uploaded into the cloud in order to eventually be reborn and have eternal life. This science is the invention of a strange cult-like organization that provides this service for the very rich.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
Luminous and wise and beautifully sad: A letter written by an elderly and dying father to his young son about his life as a small town preacher, this is a novel about forgiveness and acceptance.

The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel
This is a strange book, and it took a while to get into—the story opens with a long adventure in a car, a relatively new invention, and the driver is full of trepidation and ignorance about how the car works. This part seemed farcical at times and dragged on, but as the novel advances, it picks up speed. The driver of the car is on a quest for an artifact he is sure he can find which will prove once and for all if God exists, a quest that feels particularly urgent given his deep desperation for meaning in the face of profound loss he experienced in his life. The story is told in three loosely connected parts that all explore the purpose of allegory and storytelling in our attempts to make meaning of our lives. It also explores questions of the existence of God, why we suffer if God exists. In this way, Martel revisits ideas he explores in Life of Pi, and yet this novel feels entirely new and different. The second part of the book involves a wife’s request for an autopsy of her husband who has died, and the third part tells the story of a man’s friendship with an orangutan. At times it is sad, at times odd, but throughout it feels beautiful and moving.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
Having seen and been deeply disturbed by the movie when I was in high school, I hadn’t necessarily been excited about reading this, except that a lot of my students read it, and I was drawn to what I’d heard about the use of an invented vernacular. The language is indeed a draw, and in fact helps soften the blow of the violence which, in the movie, is so unrelenting. Perhaps this softening is a bit of a cop out since the violence of the narrator’s life is so much the point, but I appreciated that Burgess doesn’t seem to revel in the violence (the way maybe Kubrick does is in the movie). The book raises so many questions that I continue to think about—where do violence tendencies come from? How do we raise “good” human beings? How much does the state and society have to do with our choices and how we develop? Can we make people be good? And parts of the prose are surprisingly deeply beautiful. All this is good enough that it still makes my list despite the terrible ending that Kubrick left out of his American version of the movie, a fact that riled Burgess, who is perhaps right to be so riled by such a profound editorial decision, and yet, ultimately Kubrick was right to cut it: Burgess’s ending is far too pat, simplistic, and unbelievable. He seems to suggest that the only way really to end violence is just to grow up and that the very fact of youth causes the desire for violence, neither of which follow from a book that posits that actually all these things are far more complicated.

The Children Act by Ian McEwan
McEwan is at his best when he’s avoiding the misanthropy he is so capable of and exploring, instead, the inner motivations of people to live good lives. The Children Act follows the story of a judge ruling on the case of a young Jehovah’s Witness who has refused medical treatment for his leukemia. The novel has a lot more going on, and McEwan doesn’t provide simple answers. It’s a fairly quick read despite the gravity of the complications.

King Leopold’s Ghost Adam Hochschild
This had been sitting on my shelf for years, and then, after reading a poorly written reimagined history of the Congo that was inspired by Hochschild’s book, I decided to just go to this true history of King Leopold’s colonial hold over the Congo. It’s a hard book to love in that it is brutal and real, but I learned a lot, and it reads like a novel, full of a complete cast of characters, including true life Kurtzes and men who fought to end the terror of Leopold’s reign and the awfulness of the rubber harvest. Leopold was able to gain so much power in the Congo under the guise of altruism, ostensibly to end the Arab slave trade along the Eastern coast of Africa, and a good number of people fell for it and felt that Belgium’s rule in Africa was a benevolent influence despite profound evidence to the contrary. Anyone interested in understanding the power of colonialism should read this book.

Honorable Mention: The Sport of Kings by C.E. Morgan, Pacific Edge by Kim Stanley Robinson, Recollections of My Life as a Woman by Diane di Prima, Tenth of December by George Saunders

Suburban Summer

Deep lawns,
fireflies’ flash and crickets’ song
fuzzes the greypurple light of dusk.
The birch silvers the evening.
I bite the tip off my lime sherbet cone.

We sail on our training-wheeled bikes
through empty streets.
Shannondale pool beckons
in the heavy, thirsty air.
We will spend all day, pruning
in the blue and sun.

Pickup baseball in the gravel-lined streets:
only occasional shouts of “Car!” interrupt.

Dark falls so late.
We wait
on the screened-in porch,
safe from mosquitoes,
for lights out
to sneak off into the night
to Amberly Elementary’s playground,
or across the highway,
or just to a friend’s house
where we will whisper through the screen
in the glow of the streetlight.

We climb the cathedral.
Though the wall is a ladder of bricks,
the way a friend gets swallowed up into the dark
as she ascends and straddles over the lip of the roof
forty feet up
makes my stomach go hollow.

Language Learner

inspired by Sherman Alexie


“Hello Sara, what word would you like today?”

What word? What word? Whichever word I choose, Mrs. Derhammer will write in her neat, circular kindergarten teacher’s script on a crisp, clean card. This will be my word to add to my collection of words. What word do I want today? Will it be cauliflower? Elephant? Maybe the word Joanne used yesterday; that was a fun word!


“’Facetious?’” She prints it out carefully, spelling it as she goes: “F-A-C-E-T-I-O-U-S. Facetious.”

She hands me the card, and I grip it tightly in my warm, little hand, reading the letters over and over.

Fourth Grade

Mrs. Abbott herds us all to the back rug after recess to read to us. It’s my favorite time of the day. The girls sit together and play with each other’s hair, quietly braiding. Boys sprawl out on the floor. But everyone listens.

She’s been reading us a historical novel called My Brother Sam is Dead. The protagonist is a young boy who is caught in the middle of the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Abbott’s voice fills with intensity as she describes his hiding from a hoard of “Redcoats” who have taken over the street out front of his house. The British have captured a slave, a man who was charged with fighting for the colonists, and his allegiance and color offend the British. The author describes in gruesome detail how the British behead the man. Around me, the boys respond raucously: They laugh and cry out, “That’s boge!” I sit silently, staring at the floor; tears leak silently out of my eyes and splash onto the dirty orange carpet.

Sixth Grade

I discover a stack of notes thrown in the trash. They’re intricately folded in that secret way that girls have for letters for their friends or for love letters, and the handwriting is big and loopy. I am immediately enraptured with the mystery of finding this correspondence, and I harvest them all from the trash.

At home, I pour over these letters from Tammy Simpson to Blake Slaughter. Tammy is a tough eighth grader who once threatened to beat me up thinking I was my twin sister who was dating her “little brother” who she thought was too good for Stacey. Since then I’ve been half terrified of her and half in awe of her. She has brassy red hair that’s curly and teased up big and stiff. Her cat’s-green eyes are always rimmed in heavy black eyeliner, and her pegged jeans are artfully torn at the knees.  Blake is in my grade, but he’s always seemed older. He has always been the tallest in the class, and he had an earring way back in fourth grade. I’ve always thought he was cute, and we “went together” for a day in fifth grade until he broke up with me for being “too straight,” too shy to sit with him at lunch, too afraid to kiss him.

I can’t tell if the letters are love letters or break up letters. And I don’t know why they’re in the trash: Is their relationship over now, or was one of them just cleaning out a cluttered backpack? Tammy writes of how much she hates her life, how she wants to kill herself, how Blake is the only reason she doesn’t. She repeatedly, flirtatiously, calls him her “little prick,” which seems like an insult to me even though I don’t know what it means. She keeps telling him she loves him and she hates him.

I am enthralled by the intensity of it all. What is her life like? What must it be like to want to die? What must it be like to only want to live for love?

In a notebook that I buy just for this purpose, I begin to write a story, a book, I tell myself, with a central character inspired by Tammy. The story opens with the protagonist walking alone by herself along a nighttime road lit by the purple fluorescent glow of street lights. I don’t know where the story is going, but I know I want it to say something about loneliness and the pain of troubled families, and love, things I don’t truly understand. I never finish it.

Tenth Grade

All of us have congregated in the upstairs hallway before school starts in our big, sprawling crowd, spread out on the floor. Andy comes over to relive the all-ages punk show at Club Soda that we were at the evening before. He bought a few zines, and he’s particularly excited about one called Fiat Lux. It was written by a guy named Lonewolf who was traveling with the headlining band, Once Again. He loans it to me, and I start to read it as I sit in my desk first period.

Ms. Jilek is taking role and getting the day’s lesson ready. All around me, students are chatting, but I find myself immersed in Lonewolf’s writing. The zine is a personal zine, all about how he has a terminal illness and will die young. He has decided that he wants to live a full life despite this. He dropped out of school. He traveled to Europe and hitchhiked around. He trainhopped all over America. He studied philosophy and read continually. And as I read, I feel a pit developing in my gut, and I feel myself floating away from this honors English class, away from Ms. Jilek and her matching earring/pin set and her denim jumper and her fluffy, curled, grey hair; away from students lamenting too much homework or talking about the parties of the weekend.

I suddenly feel very cold and very afraid. I have never lived. I will never really live. I have just been going through the motions. I have been going to school to get good grades so that I can have a comfortable life. But what will it all mean? In that instant, reading about a young man facing his young death, I know I will die. I feel it palpably, and I want to get up and run out of the classroom.

Of course I don’t. I sit and go through the lesson. But somehow this moment stays with me. It lives in my backpack tucked in with all the homework crammed in. It lives in my thoughts at night when I try to sleep. It lives in the poetry I try to write in my journal.

Twelfth Grade

It’s a beautiful spring morning, but I feel dreadful. I spent the night throwing up, feverish and shivering. Normally I wouldn’t go to school feeling like this, but I have no choice. It’s the advanced placement English literature test, the test I have been preparing all year for, and there are no make-ups. This is my only chance.

I drag myself to school, wait in line outside the library. All the students around me buzz with nervous energy, but my mind is a fog, and I feel queasy. We eventually are checked in, herded to our seats, and given our tests to begin. Several times throughout the test, I have to get up and run to the bathroom to throw up. (How can I still be throwing up? I can’t possibly have anything else in my stomach to heave up!)

Despite this, I fall in love with the short story we are to analyze, “Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros. I make sure to memorize the name of the author and title of the book so I can buy it later.

Months later in summer, I get my score report: a five: the highest score possible.

Letter to the Editor

Dear New York Times:

I’m dismayed by the Ethicist’s advice from January 10 regarding public schooling choices  in part because he accepts the assumptions that the letter writer makes in suggesting that something is “seriously wrong” with the neighborhood public school because of test scores. As a veteran public school teacher, I know that standardized test scores are only one measure of a school’s quality, and a questionable measure at that. Since the letter writer says the school seems “perfectly fine,” the Ethicist should at least be encouraging more questions: Are the teachers kind, caring, and empathetic? Is the student body diverse? Does the school serve a number of bilingual students? (We know, for instance, that bilingual children take much longer to achieve proficiency on standardized tests, yet bilingualism is an asset, not a deficit.) The ethics around school choice should be viewed with more complexity; to only look at standardized test scores as a measure of the quality of an education seems shortsighted.