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

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Suburban Summer

1.
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.

2.
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.

3.
Pickup baseball in the gravel-lined streets:
only occasional shouts of “Car!” interrupt.

4.
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.

5.
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

Kindergarten

“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!

“Fuh-see-shus.”

“’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 http://www.nytimes.com/2016/01/10/magazine/do-we-have-to-send-our-kid-to-a-bad-public-school.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fthe-ethicist&action=click&contentCollection=magazine&region=stream&module=stream_unit&version=latest&contentPlacement=1&pgtype=collection&_r=0  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.

 

Top Ten Books of 2015

I read fewer books this year than in years past, mainly because I’m now the mother of a toddler.  That said, here are my ten favorite books I read in 2015 (in only a little bit of an order–roughly the best of the best at the top):

Enon Paul Harding: “Most men in my family make widows of their wives and orphans of their children. I am the exception. My only child, Kate, was struck and killed by a car while riding her bicycle home from the beach one afternoon in September, a year ago. She was thirteen. My wife, Susan, and I separated soon afterward.” So begins Enon by Paul Harding. Poetically written and devastating, Enon follows Charlie’s journey through grief in the year following this tragedy. Most of the novel unfolds as memories—Charlie’s memories of being a child growing up in Enon and, more importantly, memories of sharing that childhood with Kate—and as hallucinations and dreams as Charlie becomes more and more dependent on pills and whiskey as a way to live along the edges of death, close to where he imagines Kate. Enon is beautiful and sad. I cried through much of it, fully believing the grief of losing one’s only child. It’s also often startling and illuminating. This is not a read for someone who needs heavy plot, but the poetry of the language and the intensity of emotion made for a perfect book in my opinion.

H is for Hawk Helen Macdonald: When Helen Macdonald’s father died, she fell into deep grief. She decides to raise a goshawk, something she’d always dreamed of doing, as a way to cope with this grief, and this is a memoir of that period of time. It details her training of Mabel and, more importantly, explores her own escape into wildness as a way to hide from the world in the wake of her father’s death. It is also, in part, a biography of T.H. White, who wrote The Once and Future King and who was also a falconer. As a child, Macdonald had been seduced and puzzled by White’s book about training a goshawk, and she seeks to understand his very strange relationship to his hawk, Gos, through her writing. Macdonald is honest about her own inner workings and insightful about the relationship between human civilization and the wild. She’s also a brilliant writer, which is what makes this book so appealing—I have little to no interest in falconry, nor am I familiar with White or his work, and yet this is one of the best books I’ve read this year. Consider, for example, this passage when she meets her hawk for the first time:

“…[A]nd amidst a whirring, chaotic clatter of wings and feet and talons and a high-pitched twittering and it’s all happening at once, the man pulls an enormous, enormous hawk out of the box and in a strange coincidence of world and deed a great flood of sunlight drenches us and everything is brilliance and fury. The hawk’s wings, barred and beating, the sharp fingers of her dark-tipped primaries cutting the air, her feathers raised like the scattered quills of a fretful porpentine. Two enormous eyes. My heart jumps sideways. She is a conjuring trick. A reptile. A fallen angel. A griffon from the pages of an illuminated bestiary. Something bright and distant, like gold falling through water. A broken marionette of wings, legs and light-splashed feathers…”

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness Michelle Alexander: See review below.

Between the World and Me Ta-Nehisi Coates: Coates wrote this slim book as a letter to his son after the cop who shot and killed Michael Brown was acquitted, and his son, who had been so full of hope for justice, left the room to cry alone in his bedroom.  Half memoir, half reflective essay on current events, Between the World and Me follows in the tradition of James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time and has similar urgency, pain, and complexity.  Coates remembers growing up scared much of the time in Baltimore–scared of cops, scared of other Black boys who seemed to know the price of racism; he reminisces on his time at Howard University, where he discovered all the complexity of what it means to be Black, and he mourns the death of a friend of his at the hands of a police officer who was also acquitted, all while exploring the question of how to live in a Black body.

Ways of Going Home Alejandro Zambra: What stays with me most about this little novel and why it made my list is not so much the storyline–in fact the story is a bit fuzzy in my memory–instead it is the ways Zambra explores the difficulty, impossibility even, of telling “the truth.”  The novel starts with a young boy in Chile during the Pinochet regime.  He gets roped into a kind of childhood ploy of following and spying on the uncle of a girl he meets during an earthquake; though he doesn’t know why he’s doing it, he attempts to be the best spy he can be.  The novel then switches, and now we’re with the author, who is trying to write a story about a boy growing up during the Pinochet regime.  It’s hard to tell what is true in the world of the book and what is part of the story being written, and some of this confusingness captures that difficulty of truth, a concept which feels particularly salient in a country and era where nothing was true.  More than any other book I read this year, Zambra’s novel, despite what might seem like futility in the nature of writing due to its slipperiness, made me want to write.

Sweet Tooth Ian McEwan: This is not my favorite McEwan novel–Saturday and Atonement have that distinction–but it is still reliably McEwan–engrossing story, characters I cared about and rooted for, cleverness, and some trickery.  It’s got espionage, romance, and more: What’s not to love?

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves Karen Joy Fowler: Rosemary is distraught when her sister Fern disappears, and then her brother also goes missing, finding it too difficult to live in the home of their psychologist parents.  If you can help knowing too much more about the plot of this novel, I recommend it; though it’s not so much the plot that makes it a thrilling read.  Instead, this is a book that examines the psychology of what it means to be human and how much of who we are is determined by nature versus nurture.

Not That Kind of Girl Lena Dunham: I love Lena Dunham. I feel like I have to qualify my love of her because she’s so polarizing, and, let’s be frank, sometimes her outrageous honesty feels awkward and embarrassing, but I love her. I love Girls (though I feel sad that the girls don’t seem to love each other so much), and I loved Tiny Furniture. And now I love Not That Kind of Girl. The subtitle is “A Young Woman Tells You What She’s ‘Learned,’” which is almost reason enough to love the book, the quotation marks around “learned” playing on the kinds of memoirs that are self-consciously knowing and worldly. Dunham talks about sex and all the messy stuff around sex, her family and childhood, her work and inspiration, and her struggles with anxiety. She is laugh-out-loud funny and irreverent and smart. I love her lists, such as “18 Unlikely Things I’ve Said Flirtatiously” (including “You should come over. My dad is super funny.”) and “My Top Ten Health Concerns” (“The surface of my tongue is insane. It looks like a cartoon of the moon. It just can’t be right.”) Her openness (Some might see it as over sharing) to me feels like the kind of punk rock feminism I grew up with—the idea that naming what scares us or shames us can be powerful and that telling our stories in our most authentic voices, no matter how fucked up they are, can be build connection. This collection of essays is not for everyone, but I found it fun, thought-provoking, and real (even when not necessarily relatable).

Station Eleven Emily St. John Mandel: The Georgia Flu has killed the vast majority of people on the planet.  Folks struggle to survive in a world where modern technology has become obsolete, mere curiosities in museums.  But what is survival without joy?  Hence we follow the lives of a troupe of traveling musicians and actors who perform Shakespeare and various symphonies.  The narrative intertwines the stories of a handful of characters before and after the plague in a way that feels moving and believable.  The picture of this particular dystopia is scarily realistic but also hopeful.

Flight Behavior Barbara Kingsolver: Kingsolver’s latest has engaging, believable, and complex characters in a story that is mostly the same though a little didactic.  The novel starts with Dellarobia, smart, restless, and stuck in a marriage she never truly desired, on her way to an affair.  Before she fully throws herself into this first straying, she catches a miraculous sight: millions of butterflies roosting in her Appalachian woods.  This personal, private moment becomes something bigger than Dellarobia, as the town gets swept up in the monarch craze.  The butterflies’ migration to this part of Tennessee is a sign of impending disaster from climate change, and the novel charges headlong into the science and politics of global warming, leaving the reader to feel a bit doomed.  I appreciate that Kingsolver isn’t trying to leave us with a heartwarming, feel-good story: We should feel implicated.  That said, it starts to feel a bit preachy–Kingsolver has a moral lesson for us.  It’s an important one, and, while there’s not a lot of nuance to this lesson, the rest of the novel has enough layers and textures that it made my top ten list.

On the Train

I had gotten on the train at the end of the line stop, and as usual, only one or two other people were in the car with me. I sat and graded papers while the edges of San Francisco whizzed by below.

We pulled into the Glen Park stop, and a man, woman, and small child got on the train along with a few other people. The little boy was crying, but I didn’t initially pay them any mind. However, the man had a loud, booming voice, and so, though they were several rows behind me, when he started yelling at this boy, three years old at the most, to “shut the fuck up” I couldn’t help but hear.

He continued to yell at the boy, “Shut the fuck up. Don’t be a fucking baby.” And the boy just cried harder and harder.

Everyone else on the train had on their earphones and were engrossed in whatever was happening on their phones. I was utterly unable to pull myself away from the boy’s sobs to concentrate on my work, so I turned around and glared at the man. He was big and heavily muscled. The woman he was with was too skinny. Her teeth were rotted away, and she seemed not in control of herself. She sat, impassive to the boy and to her partner’s hollering, holding her head.

The man kept yelling. The boy sobbed, his little body shaking with gasps, tears and snot running down his face. I found I was staring. I was too upset. I finally said, “He’s just a little boy.”

The man looked at me and said, “What the fuck you lookin at?” I said again, “He’s just a little boy.”

The man got up out of his seat and came over to me. He loomed over me and yelled, “You push that baby out of your pussy?” I said, “He’s just a little boy.”

The man asked again, “You push him out your pussy?”

I said, “No, of course not, but he’s just a little boy.”

Every muscle in the man’s arms tensed. His face broke, livid with rage. I was vaguely aware of the fact that no one on the train was looking at us. Though this large man stood over me, appearing ready to hit me, everyone ignored what was happening.

The man struggled to control his rage and said, “You mind your own fucking business. You didn’t push that baby out of your pussy, and so you have nothing to do with what’s going on.”

I said one last time, quietly now, “He’s just a little boy.”

The man turned and went back to where the woman and still-crying child were. He told the boy again to shut the fuck up. The train pulled into the next stop, and the man grabbed him and hurried off the train, the woman trailing behind.

I sat, doing nothing, unable to think. I shook with fear and rage and considered trying to contact the train operator, but what would I say? What would the train operator do? Should I call the police? What would the police do? In the end, I did nothing. I went back to grading papers.