An Ordinary Wonder by Buki Papillon

Of the many coming-of-age novels I've read about individuals who grow up feeling intensely alienated and different from those around them, I've never encountered a story like “An Ordinary Wonder”. It follows Oto who is raised within a relatively-privileged family in Nigeria in the 1980s and 90s. Oto has a twin sister Wura who is considered “normal” but Oto is made to feel like a “monster” because although Oto feels herself to be a girl she has been raised as a boy. This is something Oto's conservative and superstitious family have been try to suppress, but as Oto becomes a teenager the disjunction between how she feels, her appearance and how she's forced to present herself can no longer be suppressed. The narrative moves backwards and forwards in time between Oto's childhood with her abusive mother and teenage years at a boarding school. Gradually Oto becomes empowered to perceive herself in a way that is very different from how the authority figures in her early life made her feel worthless and unwanted. There are some inspiring individuals who support and befriend Oto while others seek to abuse, diminish and take advantage of her because she is at such a vulnerable and confused point in her life. It's a heartrending tale and Buki Papillon artfully crafts a story which carries you through Oto's journey with many revelations and dramatic surprises along the way. 

It's was interesting reading this new novel so soon after reading the early-20th century classic “The Well of Loneliness”. Although these stories are very different in many ways they both concern gender confusion and individuals who feel extremely isolated and beleaguered until they learn a language with which to define themselves. Where Stephen found a freedom in calling herself an “invert”, Oto finds it liberating when she discovers that she was born intersex and that there are other people like her. Aside from providing an opportunity to feel part of a group and take medical and legal steps to fully embrace her identity, having this language provides a frame within which Oto can positively view herself in a way which is radically different from how her parents and local community perceived her. What's even more inspiring is how Oto gradually discovers that her family contains many secrets and hidden facets which reveal that her mistreatment isn't isolated but part of larger social structures built upon rigid notions of gender identity and patriarchal power. 

I must admit I felt wary at some points in the story when an examination of Oto's body occurs - not because I was repulsed by the physical characteristics being described but I was worried the story was becoming almost voyeuristic. Since our society so often feels uncomfortable not knowing whether an individual can be labelled female or male people can take a prurient interest in the genitals and bodies of people whose outward appearance doesn't conform to a certain gender. I don't want to participate in that kind of invasive gaze and would rather allow people to define themselves. Since Oto declares early on in the novel that she is a girl this is the only evidence I needed to see. But I think the author is careful in using descriptions of Oto examining her body as a way of demonstrating a part of her journey to understanding exactly who she is and how she can integrate into a society that she's been cast out of. This is something that needs to be handled sensitively and I think Papillon does an admirable job of relating details in a way which feels respectful to Oto herself.

“An Ordinary Wonder” is such an inspiring and valuable story. The apparent contradiction in this novel's title speaks to how every individual is special in their own way, but the unique aspects of our identities should simply be treated as normal variations within a richly diverse community of people.

Diary of a Film by Niven Govinden

Niven Govinden writes beautiful and extremely thoughtful novels often centred around intimate relationships, artistic communities and the creative process. His novel “All the Days and Nights” focused on the life of an ailing female visual artist and his novel “This Brutal House” dynamically depicted the politics of NYC's embattled drag scene. His stories raise compelling and complex questions while capturing the emotional uncertainty flooding through these richly-imagined characters' lives. This is equally true in is new novel “Diary of a Film” which follows a number of days in the life of an unnamed auteur at an Italian film festival as he presents his new movie based on sensitive novel “The Folded Leaf” by William Maxwell. Scenes of chaotic ribaldry and champagne sipping amidst interviews and photo sessions with the press are very much in the background of this surprisingly intimate story of artistic collaboration and friendship.

The auteur (who the other characters refer to as maestro) wanders from the bright lights of the festival and meets an intriguing woman named Cosima in a cafe. He's enthralled by tales of her past and her tragic relationship with a graffiti artist who committed suicide. Not only is the maestro keen to view one of this artist's still-existing murals but he also tracks down a novel she wrote which inspires him to plan out a new film. His conversations with her are interspersed with time spent with his lead actors Lorien and Tom. They play lovers in the film but are also now lovers in real life. Given the men's age difference and the novel's Italian setting it's easy to think of parallels with the film 'Call Me By Your Name'. The comparison with Aciman's work also seems apt because Govinden's narrative similarly revolves around individuals who strike up strong bonds through chance encounters and have extended high-minded conversations about the intricacies of human relationships. However, I find Govinden's style of writing much more engaging.

There's an intriguing tension to the affair between Lorien and Tom as the intensity of their passion for each other which developed on the film set now has to withstand both public scrutiny and upcoming physical separation as they move onto new acting roles. The story presents a counterpoint to this blossoming gay love affair with the maestro's longterm marriage to a male writer. It's poignant the way the maestro contemplates his desire to create films which demand extended periods away from his home versus the deep comfort to be found with the family he's created with his husband and their son. They've found an amicable balance over the years, but this depiction of the maestro's life is another way which Govinden explores what it means to be an artist as a profession. In what way does life inform the work of an artist and in what way does the artistic process prevent the artist from fully living? The maestro feels that he is an “observer in the shadows; watching life but somehow not being part of it”. This sense contributes to larger questions about what sacrifices are needed to be an artist and the question of whether creating a meaningful work of art is worth missing out on life.

Before the maestro took an interest in her writing, Cosima's novel was all but forgotten. Yet she grows to feel very uncertain about the maestro's plan to interpret her writing through film because it's like taking possession of her artistic vision. She comes to bitterly feel that “This is what your precious imagination boils down to: stealing and hoarding.” Such reservations feel surprising at first, but Govinden delicately shows the discomforting way egotism (perhaps necessarily) plays a role in artistic creation. There's also an unsettling way in which gender factors into this especially in the world of film where male directors dominate. It's interesting how the author presents this situation where questions of ownership of art and ideas surrounding the process of inspiration and creation arise from the maestro's earnest intentions.

The novel is comprised of chapters of block text which entirely fill the pages without breaks or quotation marks. Because it's narrated from the maestro's point of view, this gives the sense of being boxed into his thought process. It's not at all difficult to follow the story, but I know this style of writing will create a practical imposition for some readers as we follow the uninterrupted stream of the maestro's experience, feelings and memories. As the novel goes on it felt to me like being fully enveloped into his world and his singular vision of it. However, this is interrupted by the perspective of others such as a comic scene at the beginning where his romantic gazing at a fish market is broken by the sellers and buyers who are frustrated that he's getting in their way. This shows the way he isn't ever able to be fully present as he is so consumed with his own ever-evolving artistic vision and the story intriguingly plays out the consequences of this. It's a distinct and elegantly rendered journey that I found very moving and enjoyable.

Frying Plantain by Zalika Reid-Benta

I love it when novels take the form of interconnected short stories. I think this episodic style of narrative can feel more impactful because it only focuses on crucial moments in the lives of the main characters. Books such as “Anything is Possible” or “All That Man Is” tell stories about a range of characters whose tales cross over with each other to build a bigger picture of a community. But “Frying Plantain” focuses solely on the perspective of Kara Davis, a Canadian teenager of Jamaican heritage who comes of age and encounters conflicts with her family, friends and boys. Because each story centres around a particular incident from her development, this novel has a retrospective feel even though it's narrated in the present tense. It also forms a distinct impression of the community as Kara grows up in Toronto's 'Little Jamaica'. I really felt for her as someone who others label as “quiet” and who often feels alienated from those around her – even her closest friends and family. This novel movingly captures the way Kara gradually comes into her own, asserts her individuality and learns to overcome the limited way people view her. 

The novel also interestingly portrays the intergenerational tensions between Kara, her mother and her grandmother. During one period of her adolescence Kara's mother is so financially strained that she needs to move them in with the grandmother. But rather than immediately show how this arrangement breaks down residual bad feelings are woven into every encounter and discussion. This is a very sophisticated and impactful way of showing how resentments are borne throughout the years. It also made me feel deeply for Kara who is caught in a larger conflict between two rather difficult women. But it's also fascinating the way we gradually learn about the strained relationship between her grandmother and grandfather. His philandering is a well-established fact but they belong to a generation where such indiscretion is skeptically endured. Nevertheless, it's a source of great tension and the atmosphere this creates is evocatively described as Kara witnesses their strained arrangement and silent battles.

I really enjoyed this sensitive novel and felt a tender connection with Kara even though her life is very different from my own.

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

I've always been fascinated by stories of self-reinvention: the way someone can simply walk out of their life and create an entirely new one somewhere else. Maybe I'm so drawn to these tales because they so dramatically and dynamically consider the meaning of identity. Which aspects of the self are fixed and which are fluid? Is personality a performance or an expression of who we inherently are as human beings? Can we change who we are through sheer willpower and if we lie about who we are enough does it eventually become the truth? These are questions at the heart of Brit Bennett's new novel “The Vanishing Half” whose utterly compelling story considers many different types of dualities and personal transformations. It's also a heartrending tale of a family split apart by inherited notions of classism and racism. 

Twins Stella and Desiree Vignes ran away from their small Louisiana town of Mallard in the 1950s when they were teenagers and went on to live very different lives. Mallard isn't a large enough place to be included on any map. Its citizens are primarily made up of light-skinned African Americans who still suffer the brutal effects of racism while simultaneously looking down at darker-skinned black people. This is the sort of community so powerfully described in Margo Jefferson's memoir “Negroland”. Over ten years after abruptly leaving the town, Desiree returns with a daughter who has very dark skin and the locals are appalled by what they consider to be her diminution of status because they believe “Once you mixed with common blood, you were common forever.”

Although Desiree makes a new life for herself by returning to her hometown, Stella remains conspicuously absent and cannot be found even by Desiree's compassionate new partner Early whose profession is locating lost people. Once she left her place of birth and everyone she ever knew Stella choses to pretend she is white because she finds “All there was to being white was acting like you were.” But this means she must completely hide her past and never contact her family again. As time goes on, she becomes increasingly anxious that her secret will be revealed and her caginess emotionally distances her from the people she should be closest to. Over the course of a few decades the twins' different stories unfold as their daughters eventually insist on knowing more about the truth of their origins than either Stella or Desiree are willing to disclose.

Although the twins are the catalyst for this engrossing story many of the additional characters also grapple with different transformations of identity. Desiree's daughter Jude becomes extremely self-conscious about her skin colour early in life and goes through laborious processes to try to lighten it early on. Her feelings of isolation are powerfully described: “You could never quite get used to loneliness; every time she thought she had, she sank further into it.” Stella's daughter Kennedy becomes an actress with mediocre success and craves attention from the audience even though she realises it is “Strange that the greatest compliment an actress could receive was that she had disappeared into somebody else.” This contrasts sharply with the life of her mother who is trapped in the pretence of acting white and tragically feels that “she was living a performance where there could be no audience.”

Jude befriends a man named Barry who secretly performs as a drag queen a couple of nights a week. He feels his drag act is a hidden but necessary part of his life and that it is possible to sustain this duality because “You could live a life this way, split. As long as you knew who was in charge.” Jude also becomes romantically involved with a trans man named Reese and it's so powerful how Bennett describes his struggle at that time in the 1980s to obtain corrective drugs and surgery. The enormous challenge and expense associated with such treatments is made evident and it's moving how his journey is detailed alongside his tender relationship with Jude. When Jude wonders aloud at one point if Reese would have loved her before he changed his name, Reese definitively replies “I was always me.” This is such an impactful and validating statement.

All of these fully-rounded and complex characters come together to form a dynamic portrait of our uneasy and constantly evolving sense of identity. The story also makes a strong statement about American life and the way a tradition of discrimination regarding class, gender and race in the US leads to such painful personal strife and divisions in families. It causes individuals to distort and conceal who they really are in some instances or struggle against unnecessary adversity to express and realise their true sense of being in others. Bennett has written a richly-rewarding and compassionate story that intelligently dramatises these issues while creating many unique and memorable characters I grew to love.

Rainbow Milk by Paul Mendez

Rarely have I read a debut novel that conveys the piercingly accurate immediacy of its central characters' experiences with such grace and insight. “Rainbow Milk” begins with the story of Norman Alonso, a horticulturist and former-boxer from Jamaica who moves his family to England as part of the Windrush generation. He suffers from a debilitating illness which is causing him to lose his sight and he finds working and integrating into a small British community much more challenging than he expected. His situation and character is described with poignant delicacy so I was initially thrown when the story abruptly moves on to follow Jesse McCarthy, a teenage boy from the West Midlands who moves to London at the beginning of the millennium. But I soon felt an intense affinity and affection for this character whose story comprises the bulk of the novel. The way the author captures Jesse's fierce confidence as well as his vulnerability is so sympathetic and true to life. Only much later does the tale loop back to a connection with Norman and his family in a way which is achingly beautiful.

I recognize that in many ways Jesse's experience is very different from my own. He's a black young man who grew up in a predominantly white society and he was raised as a Jehovah's Witness. But I strongly connected to him as a gay boy that moves from a small community to the city. He throws himself into the pulse of urban life engaging in the same sex experiences he could only previously fantasize about. I remember the feelings of uninhibited delight and liberating honesty of those first sexual experiences - “This was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” But I also intensely recall the subsequent fears and newfound isolation after understanding the consequences of those actions. Mendez conveys all this with great strength that makes no apologies for his character's explosive desire. As an attractive and well-hung young man Jesse meets many older men who want to use him: “he was a skinny, twenty-year-old black boy with a big dick, which was all anyone ever seemed to want him for.” Because of this, Jesse, in turn, also learns to use the men he meets rather than following his impulse to romantically settle down. The transactional nature of these encounters encourages Jesse to start working as a rent boy.

I think it's so powerful how Mendez captures the way that commerce bleeds into the emotional and sexual needs of a young man in Jesse's position and I've not read anything quite like it since the novel “What Belongs to You”. Some of his encounters are destructive, disappointing or simply dull. But others are surprisingly nurturing as there are a few individuals that see Jesse as a dynamic young man to engage with as more than an object of desire or a repository for their revenge. This forms a very accurate portrayal of the diverse and perilous social landscape which a gay man enters into where the physical body is so vulnerable. Equally, the full emotional consequences aren't often felt until much later as Jesse gradually learns what he truly wants in his relationships with men.

As someone raised by his black mother and white step-father in a predominantly white community, Jesse was prone to moments of intense self-hatred during his childhood because of the colour of his skin. Later the experience of truly inhabiting his skin begins as a form of imitation: “He actually felt like an actual black man, listening to rap, especially to the lyrics, really letting the beats get into him.” The novel skilfully moves backwards and forwards in time showing how Jesse learns to inhabit the multifaceted parts of his identity on his own terms and I particularly enjoyed how the story describes Jesse's evolving communion with music. There's an interplay between the song lyrics and the emotions of his personal experiences that form a startlingly personal view of the world through his eyes. And I have to note (as someone who was roughly Jesse's age when I moved to London at the start of the millennium) I especially loved the references to artists like Kelis and the Sugababes.

The novel so vividly describes Jesse's journey towards finding a sense of community amongst like-minded individuals and honest romantic relationships. There are some sections which describe the will and desires people place upon him in frenzied expressive bursts of italicised dialogue. These range in tone from darkly sexualized projections to the humorous and paltry demands restaurant customers make upon the staff. But there are also low key but pointed references throughout to the racist paranoias and subtly-expressed fears of people Jesse encounters in his everyday life from white men who avoid sitting next to him on public transportation to white women who cling a bit more tightly to their purses when he's around. It's moving how, in addition to forming bonds with other BAME individuals, Jesse grows to understand and articulate his experience through reading writers like James Baldwin, Bernardine Evaristo, Andrea Levy and Sam Selvon. Paul Mendez proves he's definitely a part of this tradition and also establishes a voice that is uniquely his own in this boldy heartfelt novel.

This Brutal House by Niven Govinden

I think the best novels say as much in their form as well as in their content. Niven Govinden’s new novel “This Brutal House” is about a silent protest staged by several mothers from different drag houses in front of NYC’s City Hall. For years these mothers housed many queer children who were forced to leave the homes of their biological families. But when these children have gone missing the police force haven’t taken their disappearances seriously and even used these losses as an opportunity to harass and interrogate the lifestyle embodied by these drag houses. Frustrated and tired of trying to form a dialogue these mothers sit in silent protest because “we are past words.” The author conveys the complexity of this political act in a number of ways. Govinden invokes their collective voice to capture the tenor and sweep of their emotions and experiences. But he also relates the story of Teddy, a child from these drag houses who now works in City Hall and is caught between these two very different social spheres. By switching between these points of view and relating large sections through dialogue Govinden allows us to wholly feel this complicated situation and hear everything that’s left unspoken in the midst of these drag mothers’ mute resistance.

There was a long period during which drag was seen as a fairly niche section of the queer community where the only far-reaching understanding of it came from the vital documentary ‘Paris is Burning’. But, in recent years, it’s become more popular with the advent of TV shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race and ‘Pose’ as well as some excellent fiction such as Joseph Cassara’s “The House of Impossible Beauties”. Govinden doesn’t seek to create a guide to understanding the form and rules of drag houses in this novel. Those who know nothing about drag will no doubt feel disorientated when they start reading it, but that shouldn’t deter book lovers who appreciate engaging and imaginative fiction. Instead of explaining the author immerses the reader in the attitudes and social dynamics of drag houses showing how they are in their essence and very existence a political phenomenon. These are the voices of children who often provide an alternative to the dominant narrative of the largely white, heterosexual and patriarchal society they’ve been born into. By inhabiting the art, fantasy and cut-throat competition of drag balls or immersing themselves in the capitalist dreams of high end stores they find “bubbles which envelop and shield you from real life.” In doing so they discover succour, kinship and vitality amidst a society that seeks to stultify or erase those who are queer and refuse to conform to its pervading values.

Govinden intelligently conveys the essence of this community by indulging in the rich pleasures, fierce attitudes and humour of the drag ball scene. Several pages are narrated from the perspective an MC calling out a multiplicity of drag categories – everything from “backstreet dancer realness” to “Miami Jewish matron” realness. Through this repetition with endless variations and a keen ear for the irreverent we feel how these individuals can simultaneously inhabit and play upon the full spectrum of identity: “The balls were heaven as we divined; a right we would give our last breath for.” In the exactitude of criteria there is an ironic freedom to be found from all categories of being and a liberation from all the boxes which society tries to put people into. I loved how Govinden’s framing of the scene conveyed both the celebratory joy and the heartrending sincerity of these balls and their expression of realness. This is tribute to the craft and excruciatingly hard work which goes into drag as an artform. I especially enjoyed when the author likened drag families preparing for a ball to soldiers preparing for war: “Weeks of preparation! Through that time life was somehow lived, yet this took over everything. Soldiers readying for battle clean their gun and polish boots. They run ten miles, expelling yet withholding the energy they will need. They’re drugged up to the eyeballs, fucking comfort women in conflict zones. No different to us: method and masculinity shared.”

The novel conscientiously gives space to the collective voices of the drag mothers, their children and the police force. Between these groups there is the friction of misunderstanding or opposition. But spaced throughout the novel Teddy’s experiences and dilemmas give a personal weight to these fraught groups as he invokes his own understanding of the city. Perhaps one of the most admirable things about this novel is how Govinden refuses to give a simplified and one-sided view of the drag scene - which in some recent popularised iterations has become more about catty indulgence rather than politics. The mothers in “This Brutal House” are queens worthy of reverence but they are not saints. Some of their children have become lost due to illness or violence, but others wilfully left out of rebellion or because they simply grew up and moved on. At one point the children say of the mothers “Their mania for taking our money? They were our bosses. Gang masters in drags.” Just like in many biological families the propensity for parents dominating and exploiting their children (and vice versa) is just as prevalent in drag families. But because there aren’t legalized social structures to give credence and support to drag families it can more often lead to isolation. This is aptly summarised in the haunting lines: “Drag is nothing but family. Drag is everything but family. Remember this.”

This novel is saturated with a verve which made it compulsive and pleasurable reading for me, but I also savoured the author’s exactitude in his language and ear for dialogue which brought these disparate groups to life. Moreover I admire the ingenuity of its structure for conveying a social scene and section of society which deserves to be recognized and celebrated.

Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton

“Remembered” begins with a newspaper clipping from 1910 recounting a tragic event where a black man drove a streetcar into a Philadelphia department store. We then follow the near hallucinatory experience as the driver Edward's mother Ms Spring rushes to his side in the hospital alongside the ghost of her sister Tempe. Though this calamitous day is already filled with drama and intrigue where Edward is accused of intentionally crashing the streetcar amidst his rumoured involvement with the distempered local union, his story is only the backdrop for the time Ms Spring spends with him. The novel primarily concerns her disclosing to her son the true story of his origins and her own challenging journey from being born as a slave on a plantation to freedom. She feels it's important that he knows and understands this personal history because “Most of what I’m about to tell you ain’t in no history book, no newspaper article, no encyclopedia. There’s a whole heap of stories don’t ever get told.” This novel tells a story which is moving and surprising in many ways showing the complex mentality and relationships which develop amidst the horrors of slavery. It's an impactful, uniquely told tale.

I really admire it when an author is able to portray a situation of grave moral complexity through characters who take egregious action because they are in extreme circumstances. I've not read many novels that dare to depict such a story. One of the only examples I can think of is Anoshi Irani's tremendous novel “The Parcel” which is told from the point of view of a hijra who considers it her duty to psychologically prepare newly purchased adolescent girls for a life of sexual slavery. Here a character performs an evil task but she is doing it out of charitable necessity because the only other option (as she sees it) is death. A character of equal complexity is depicted in Yvonne Battle-Felton's novel in the figure of Mama Skins. She's determined to prevent more children from being born into slavery on the plantation and takes extreme measures to stop this from happening. It presents a great challenge for readers because they are at once sympathetic to her struggle but horrified by her actions. Yet this is a point of view which needs to be voiced to better understand the individual realities of our complex socio-economic environment. The heartbreak comes not just from the poisonous reality of slavery but the way individual options become so warped.

Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising that the nation's transition from slavery to freedom wasn't smooth or easy. Another remarkable thing this story does is show through Spring's story how information was withheld and manipulated while the Emancipation Proclamation took time to be implemented across the nation. The author has an impressive skill for conveying both the sensory and social atmosphere of Spring's journey, but there are times when the vigorous action of the circumstances becomes confusing to follow. What works impressively well is the supernatural element of the spirit of Tempe who accompanies her sister Spring. Such an element in a novel can sometimes feel tacked on or cliched, but here feels touching and natural to her experience. There's a powerful energy which propels the story forward as Spring recalls it through the difficult hours of Edward's time in hospital. This is a courageous, passionate and rousing novel that demands we consider the complexities of history.

XX by Angela Chadwick

There’s an interesting tradition of feminist utopian novels which speculate about futures or alternative societies that feature populations dominated by or entirely composed of women. These range from Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “Herland Trilogy” to Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain’s witty parody “Sultana’s Dream” to Marge Piercy’s science fiction classic “Woman on the Edge of Time” to Mary E. Bradley’s “Mizora” where women can reproduce through parthenogenesis (reproduction from an ovum without fertilization.) These imaginative works radically envision places where men are of secondary importance or become entirely irrelevant. These idealistic visions offer a breath of fresh air and a welcome counter-reality to the patriarchy which has dominated society for centuries.

Given enormous recent advances in science, it’s not hard to imagine the prospect of a technology which enables women to reproduce without men. That’s exactly the premise of Angela Chadwick’s enthralling debut novel “XX” which tells the story of lesbian couple Rosie and Jules who enrol in the trial stage of a ground-breaking new Ovum-to-Ovum treatment. It allows them to become pregnant through an IVF technique using two eggs rather than needing a sperm-donor. Since there is no XY sex-determination system at play in this method of reproduction it means the child will always be born with the sex chromosome XX and must be female. But Chadwick doesn’t posit this advancement as an opportunity for a world-dominating matriarchy; it’s exactly the opposite. The great drama of the novel comes from the wide-scale social resistance to such an advancement which will enable a small group of isolated individuals a unique opportunity to reproduce together. A conservative backlash perceives this technology as a threat to the status quo as they assert all children need a mother and father. They also fear boys will be phased out of the species. Rosie and Jules find themselves at the centre of a horrific and politically-contentious media storm. It’s a vivid story of personal struggle reflecting how any advancement with society is sadly met with reactionary politics.

It’s a difficult fact for many same-sex couples who wish to have children that some alternative method is currently required to assist them in becoming parents. This can be very painful and complicated because it means both people in the relationship don’t have an equal genetic stake in their child. I admire how Chadwick addresses this issue in her novel by offering a solution and exploring the challenges that would arise from this. In doing so, she addresses how pregnancy, relationships and family life are filled with infinite complexities so the road to becoming parents is never simple or easy. But, in the case of this couple it’s particularly complicated given how they become the focus of media scrutiny from becoming pregnant with the first O-O child. The story is told through the perspective of Jules whose partner Rosie becomes pregnant from the treatment. As a journalist at a local newspaper, she finds herself in a unique position of being a reporter who is herself the top news story.

Filmmakers Debra Chasnoff and Kim Klausner editing their 1985 documentary ‘Choosing Children’ about lesbians who become parents

Jules strives to keep her personal life and work separate, but this sadly becomes impossible. The novel serves as an interesting commentary on our sensational media system which exploits individuals for the sake of broader attention-grabbing contentious issues. A local Tory politician named Richard Prior emerges as a spokesman and campaigner for an organization called the Alliance for Natural Reproduction. He’s recognizable as a composite of right-wing figures who develop platforms to rile up the public with paranoias and fears about threats to the “natural” order of things. The story meaningfully reflects how such cases have become more and more common in recent years regarding a whole range of issues including marriage rights, health care, education and immigration. It also comments on how a large section of the population now consumes such news stories by “flick-throughs and social media posts” and form opinions about issues without engaging with their full complexity or considering the real facts. It’s striking how Chadwick realistically envisions how an optimistic advancement such as this would be blown up into a much larger political issue with a vicious backlash.

“XX” is one of the debut titles from an exciting new imprint called Dialogue Books. The imprint’s goal is to publish writers and reach audiences from areas and groups of people currently under-represented by the mainstream publishing industry. It aims to spark a dialogue across different communities about subjects we ought to be talking about. This novel certainly touches on a number of subjects that feel relevant today and takes a refreshing perspective. It does this through a well-plotted story and characters that I grew increasingly attached to. There’s nothing flashy about the prose, but this feels completely appropriate for a story about a normal couple that find themselves swept into an extraordinary situation. It also feels positive how we might no longer need stories of extravagant extremes that envision all female societies as a correction for the gender imbalances in our world. Instead, Chadwick offers a very rational and practical vision of how incremental steps can be taken to create more inclusive communities and dynamic families for everyone.