‘This Is All I Got’ and the Looming Middleman

Just give people the money. Jesus. – my thoughts while reading

This biographical account should be an exposé against the ‘Big Government’ that American Republicans so often rail against.

In ‘This Is All I Got‘ by Lauren Sandler, Camila is a twenty-two-year old single mother who navigates a labyrinth of a system in New York in order to make a life for herself and her son. Every aspect of government assistance comes with rules and regulations often pitted against another aspect of government assistance. Camila spends hours upon hours of her life in waiting rooms.

Her college tuition may be free, but how do you do college without stable housing and childcare? For the entire book she is clinging to the edge of staying in school. Through each crisis, I had an ‘oh, wow’ moment that she hadn’t given up, found a minimum wage job, and resolved to stay in the system. It’s exhausting to read; it’s probably more exhausting to live.

In addition to securing her economic future, Camila is equally searching for a semblance of home and belonging. Since her son is effectively the only family she has in New York, she takes a trip to the Dominican Republic with hopes to connect with her father’s family. While she is scrambling to escape homelessness, she is also desperate to not be alone.

You could spend the book judging why she gets her nails done or why she buys a plane ticket. Sure.

Camila is exceptional, but not perfect – and holy hell, who do we expect to be perfect through this kind of contemporary American poverty? (I’m mentally punting any “back in my day…” chatter. Namaste). It’s as though only those who can completely turn off their humanity and become a machine will achieve long-lasting stability. No spoilers here on whether or not Camila is able to do this.

To my first point, the Big Government paternalism seems a drag: a different office and different rules, deadlines, and paperwork for every little thing. I don’t really know the answer here, but I’m leaning towards just cutting people a single check. It seems it would be more cost effective for taxpayers on top of giving people back their time and energy so they could focus on what they need to do.

If this is what Big Government is, then I’m against it – it’s a mess, as outlined in the book. Having people spend their lives in limbo (and waiting rooms) for bare necessities doesn’t seem like a good plan ongoing. What makes me a radical liberal (I guess) is recognizing that, but still not wanting to leave people high and dry in this rich, but inequitable society. Maybe I’m a universal basic income supporter after all.

My final point is that this book was written by an upper middle class white author who immersed herself into Camila’s life. Sandler addresses this, even through uncomfortable moments where she chooses not to help Camila in order to uphold journalistic integrity. On one hand, it’s incredibly important to know this story, but on the other hand, I really wish this was written by Camila or someone that actually lived it – you know, cut the middleman. Is that impossible to ask the publishing industry to try a little harder to just get to the source?

In fact, that sentiment seems to also be my main takeaway from the Camila’s story of navigating the system: why don’t we just cut the middleman?

‘The Magnificent Conman of Cairo’: When the Despair is Not Your Own

‘The Magnificent Conman of Cairo‘ by Adel Kamel is a story told simply, humourously, and to the point – and that point seems to be universal across geography and the past century: privileged child is raised and then educated, “discovers” social injustices, rebels intellectually against society, and… well, I won’t spoil it in paragraph one, but I will say it was like holding up a mirror.

Originally written in 1942, the setting is Cairo, Egypt in the 1930s and the focus is on the intersection of two different lives: one rich man’s and one poor man’s. Khaled is a well-educated son of a prominent judge and government official and has recently had an intellectual awakening about society and his father’s wealth, remarking that his father “has [] pillaged it from the peasants who worked so hard for it on the land he rents to them.” Malim, on the other hand, is an apprentice who arrives to fix a window in the judge’s home. While he is there, he is falsely accused of stealing, which launches Khaled’s opportunity to put his intellect into action. Khaled’s activism is much against the wishes of his father, who in turn, alternates between punishing him and dangling bait to draw him in again.

In Khaled’s pursuit to test his own intellectual morality, he ends up doing more harm than good to Malim. It was oddly parallel to a contemporary American novel I recently wrote about (Such a Fun Age: Navigating the White & Woke) where a very similar dynamic plays out between two women. In both novels, the characters use another person to measure themselves, as evident when Khalid thinks of Malim: “Malim, who was the symbol of all that was noblest in him.[…] Malim, Khaled’s conscience given human form[.]” I think this is a fairly easy trap to fall into – and yet, doesn’t the best fiction show you yourself?

In the end…

After his pursuit of radical justice and way of life, Khaled eventually caves. “I am just a simple man but I am now a sane one. And all this sanity has made it clear to me that obedience to our fathers is the only way sons to be happy.” The book finishes with a monologue from a drunk Khaled about the disconnect between his conscience and chosen path: “We now know things with our minds only, but we don’t know how to know things with our whole being[.]”

As much as I reread the ending, I can’t quite put my finger on what’s being expressed through Khaled’s final thoughts. As part of his monologue, Khaled speaks to a lack of wisdom in society in spite of its cleverness, remarking, “I cannot singlehandedly raise the wisdom of being of an entire nation[.]” And yet, I think there must something in between this and Khaled’s eventual unraveling into gluttony, over-drinking, and womanizing… no? It seems like a “why try at all?” ending, which still may be an incredible honest feeling, though not conventionally “uplifting.”

The last line of the book:

Khaled glanced at him in despair. “Oh, Egypt,” he replied, “always burying your head in the sand.”

Sure, this story is about Egypt, but as an American reader, that sounds about right for the US as well. Still, the story and the ending provokes the questions: what does it mean to be an individual in a society where the collective change is so slow it seems nonexistent? How quick and easy is it for the privileged to “despair” and ultimately lose heart… or interest? The author himself was pressured by his father to study law, which he did. He then wrote works of literature for four years before ultimately going back to his law practice, never publishing again. It’s interesting to think of how much of himself he might’ve put into Khaled.

‘The Magnificent Conman of Cairo’ was originally written in Arabic. Here is an interview with the translator, Waleed Almusharaf: Adel Kamel’s Characters are ‘Despicable and Lovable with No Contradiction’

‘The Black Cathedral’: A Neighborhood Cacophony

“Disorienting and choppy (eh, sometimes literally), yet robust and dripping with a dark vibrancy”—that’d be my book blurb for ‘The Black Cathedral‘ by Marcial Gala (if anybody asks).

The black cathedral itself is more of the symbolic backdrop to the story as the varying plot lines unravel. The characters’ narratives—all 12 of them—begin in Cienfuegos, Cuba as an outsider family moves into a gritty and mistrusting neighborhood and begins construction on a grand cathedral.

That man from Camagüey ate, lived, and breathed Jesus Christ, always had Him at the tip of his tongue. The day of their arrival, he threw five pesos at the kids who were playing soccer so they would help him unload the stuff, and then he came over to greet us. He had a polite smile and a thin, strong, dry hand. “Blessings,” he said. “My name is Arturo and this is my wife, Carmen.” “Blessings,” echoed that Carmen, who was walking a few steps behind; you could tell she was too hot for a guy like him, in his 50s and pretty run-down, you could tell that wouldn’t end well.

All of the narrators relate to each other, finishing each other’s stories, or cross paths to varying degrees. They do not seem to be converging on a common link other than tragedy, which is heavily foreshadowed from the beginning. Being so, I found the chaos to be purposeful—a traditional narrative arc wouldn’t have fit the characters or overall tone. It took a little work to hit the rhythm of the story and I think that adds another dimension: as a reader, I had a feeling of being outsider from the onset as I tried make sense of the neighborhood’s inhabitants, their actions, and the shif between what’s real and what’s magical. If the story was tidy or easier to follow, I think it also would’ve been flat and lacking what made it a compelling (even if uncomfortable) read.

‘The Black Cathedral’ was translated from Spanish by Anna Kushner. I originally found it on this ‘watchlist’ for titles in translation.

‘Such a Fun Age’: Navigating the White & Woke

Ooh, a biting commentary on white (elitist?) progressives, one that periodically had me thinking of the author, “ope, she sees me.”

‘Such a Fun Age‘ by Kiley Reid examines the dynamics between a white 30-something progressive mother, Alix, and her black 25-year-old babysitter, Emira. The plot starts with a security guard accusing Emira of kidnapping Alix’s toddler. This is assumably problematic, but Reid goes further, turning the lens on the white liberals involved. While Alix takes overcompensation to an outright creepy level, Reid shows the “measuring up” thought processes of white progressives striving to achieve “wokeness” (for performances, or even genuinely), which can lead to being weird or even detrimental. The perspective shifts from Alix to Emira throughout the book – Emira’s is a coming-of-age story where she navigates these racial dynamics on top of figuring out her life. In sum, Emira is just trying to work and get paid, get health insurance, etc., and meanwhile:

“Alix fantasized about Emira discovering things about her that shaped what Alix saw as the truest version of herself. […] That Alix’s new and favorite shoes were from Payless, and only cost eighteen dollars. That Alix had read everything that Toni Morrison had ever written. […] Alix often and unsuccessfully tried to drop these bits of information[.]”

Have you ever seen Facebook ads for something oddly specific towards something you’ve only said out loud? This last line had me eyeing my phone thinking, okay, so Kiley Reid has my voice data now. [side note: in the acknowledgements, Reid cites the book, ‘Uneasy Street: The Anxieties of Affluence‘ by Rachel Sherman, as an inspiration for Alix (I’ve already added it to my “to-read” pile). Since I’m an IT consultant and not quite hedge fund financier, “privileged” seems more accurate for myself than “affluent.” Then again, the need to distance myself here is probably examined in the book. Also, I hope there’s something about trying to level the playing field with surface level wokeness instead of questioning larger structural inequities. I’m ready for it.]

Anyways, I thought “Such a Fun Age” had an engaging, fast-moving plot, even though some of that plot and the character development didn’t quite add up for me (i.e. Alix becoming CREEPY creepy so quickly seemed like a stretch). Still, the contemporary themes were fresh and had me self-reflecting, which more than made up for it. I watched a BookTube review that said this would be an excellent book club choice for the discussion it’d bring, and I couldn’t agree more.

My thoughts on the ending (if you’ve read it):

Alix did something undeniably malicious to Emira, but I almost wish Reid had kept her on that edge as someone who is still convinced they are doing the “right thing.” Alix obviously knew it was wrong to steal and secretly leak the video, especially when Emira already told her she didn’t want it made public. Furthermore, Alix set it up as though Kelley, Emira’s boyfriend, leaked it, in order to break them up. Based on my understanding of Alix’s character, it seemed implausable that she could still twist this in her mind until it’s self-justified. I think it would’ve been more convincing if Alix had accidentally come across the video, not having previously known about it or Emira’s thoughts, and published it, thinking she was “acting for justice” or “speaking up” (on her business instagram, maybe). For me, Alix simply barreling ahead and not considering Emira’s agency and privacy would have been a far more complex (and believable) transgression.

Still, I was pleased to see Alix and Kelley get dropped. In the end, Emira is the main character that gets to transform and I didn’t think it was critical to see Alix’s growth as well. As I was reading the last few pages, I was HOPING Reid wouldn’t end it by tying Emira and Kelley back together again and I was amped to see she let her move on. It was also cool to see, in somewhat of an epilogue, that Emira grew into adulthood at her own pace and wasn’t forced into being something exceptional for the sake of it. She got to be “average” and still make her way.

‘An American Sunrise’: A Living Memory

“An American Sunrise: Poems” is a collection of poems by Native American musician, playwright, author, and US Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo. The pages weave and connect tribal history with Harjo’s personal and ancestral story, evoking earth, memory, and song. The lines are rich with joy and and an array of love, but they also show trauma embedded in generational memory and a culture stifled by colonial law — and yet, through these poems, Native memory and song persevere. Laying claim to being heard, Harjo writes for Natives to “call out even in a whisper” (Directions to You) while pointing to a tension within her medium itself: “there is no word in this trade language, no words with enough power / to hold all this we have become —” (Exile of Memory).

I’m a non Native American. As an experience, I feel as though “An American Sunrise” gave me an emotional understanding of this history, and maybe more accurately, an emotional understanding of contemporary reality. It made me think, why did my classes teach about the Trail of Tears as though it’s disconnected from our current experience? as though there aren’t any present day reverberations of a recent genocide followed by mass cultural erasure? We teach our difficult history like it happened in a vacuum.

I read Harjo’s work on the heels of finishing another book written by a Native author, Tommy Orange, titled, “There There.” In this multi-generational story, complex and diverse Native Americans exist and live in American cities with storylines seemingly unrelated, yet they ultimately coverage and connect on their shared cultural heritage. As context in “An American Sunrise,” Harjo shares an anecdote of a native Bolivian woman telling her, in reference to being from the United States, “we thought John Wayne had killed all of you.” Both “There there” and “An American Sunrise” hit me over the head: HEY! Native people exist outside your history books! In a powerful claim to heard existence, these Native stories, Harjo’s poetry, and especially her song on the audiobook, ring soft and then ring loud in my mind.

Listen: Joy Harjo: Poet Laureate of the United States | Beautiful Writers Podcast