The First Part Last, by Angela Johnson
oyceter recommended this book, so I BookMooched it. Unfortunately, by the time it arrived, I had forgotten why I requested it. The back cover made it sound like an Afterschool Special on teen pregnancy, so I put it aside and only picked it up again due to beginning the 50books_poc challenge. (The author and all the characters are African-American.)
This demonstrates another reason why the challenge is a good idea: the book is fantastic, and I would have never read it otherwise. Now I want to read all of Johnson's other books.
The storyline is simple but elegant. Alternating chapters tell a tale of past and present. In the present, sixteen-year-old Bobby is a single father caring for his baby Feather. In the past, his girlfriend Nia tells him she's pregnant. The stories move forward until they meet.
It's not the events that make this book special, but the beautiful simplicity of the prose, the precise and delicate evocation of emotions, the sweetness of Bobby's relationship with his baby daughter, and the power of Johnson's reconception of parenting as the work that separates boys from men. Not a word is wasted, every character seems real, and there's no preaching at all.
I loved it. It made me cry.
kintail, this might suit your needs: short, simple prose, excellent.
Click here to order it from Amazon: The First Part Last
My mom says that I didn't sleep through the night until I was eight years old. It didn't make any difference to her 'cause she was up too, listening to the city. She says she used to come into my room, sit cross-legged on the floor by my bed, and play with my Game Boy in the dark.
We never talked.
I guess I thought she needed to be there. And she must have thought her being there made everything all better for me.
Yeah.
I get it now. I really get it.
We didn't need to say it. We didn't have to look at each other or even let the other one know we saw each other in the glow of the Game Boy.
So last week when it looked like Feather probably wasn't ever going to sleep through the night, I lay her on my stomach and breathed her in. My daughter is eleven days old.
And that sweet new baby smell...the smell of baby shampoo, formula, and my mom's perfume. It made me cry like I hadn't since I was a little kid.
It scared the hell out of me. Then, when Feather moved on my stomach like one of those mechanical dolls in the store windows at Christmas, the tears dried up. Like that.
I thought about laying her in the middle of my bed and going off to find my old Game Boy, but I didn't.
Things have to change.
I've been thinking about it. Everything. And when Feather opens her eyes and looks up at me, I already know there's change. But I figure if the world were really right, humans would live life backward and do the first part last. They'd be all knowing in the beginning and innocent in the end.
Then everybody could end their life on their momma or daddy's stomach in a warm room, waiting for the soft morning light.
Buy the novel from Amazon: The First Part Last
This demonstrates another reason why the challenge is a good idea: the book is fantastic, and I would have never read it otherwise. Now I want to read all of Johnson's other books.
The storyline is simple but elegant. Alternating chapters tell a tale of past and present. In the present, sixteen-year-old Bobby is a single father caring for his baby Feather. In the past, his girlfriend Nia tells him she's pregnant. The stories move forward until they meet.
It's not the events that make this book special, but the beautiful simplicity of the prose, the precise and delicate evocation of emotions, the sweetness of Bobby's relationship with his baby daughter, and the power of Johnson's reconception of parenting as the work that separates boys from men. Not a word is wasted, every character seems real, and there's no preaching at all.
I loved it. It made me cry.
kintail, this might suit your needs: short, simple prose, excellent.
Click here to order it from Amazon: The First Part Last
My mom says that I didn't sleep through the night until I was eight years old. It didn't make any difference to her 'cause she was up too, listening to the city. She says she used to come into my room, sit cross-legged on the floor by my bed, and play with my Game Boy in the dark.
We never talked.
I guess I thought she needed to be there. And she must have thought her being there made everything all better for me.
Yeah.
I get it now. I really get it.
We didn't need to say it. We didn't have to look at each other or even let the other one know we saw each other in the glow of the Game Boy.
So last week when it looked like Feather probably wasn't ever going to sleep through the night, I lay her on my stomach and breathed her in. My daughter is eleven days old.
And that sweet new baby smell...the smell of baby shampoo, formula, and my mom's perfume. It made me cry like I hadn't since I was a little kid.
It scared the hell out of me. Then, when Feather moved on my stomach like one of those mechanical dolls in the store windows at Christmas, the tears dried up. Like that.
I thought about laying her in the middle of my bed and going off to find my old Game Boy, but I didn't.
Things have to change.
I've been thinking about it. Everything. And when Feather opens her eyes and looks up at me, I already know there's change. But I figure if the world were really right, humans would live life backward and do the first part last. They'd be all knowing in the beginning and innocent in the end.
Then everybody could end their life on their momma or daddy's stomach in a warm room, waiting for the soft morning light.
Buy the novel from Amazon: The First Part Last