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Acclaimed young-adult writer Woodson (Maizon at Blue Hill) crosses over to adult fiction with this family novel that's brilliant, moving, semi-surreal-and daring, as the author fearlessly loads her palette with words that can offer great color but little sense. Set in Brooklyn mostly during the Vietnam war, the story opens on a nameless black narrator, who's in the fifth grade, and her four siblings, then lets 12 years pass like gray pages of a tabloid. Chapters come in small chunks broken off from the narrator's nerve-tossed heart. Her new baby brother, Cory, is half white (and ``the proof that a black man can't leave his woman for one minute without her making a fool out of him,'' says her annoyed father). Her gay eldest brother, Troy, spends his last night home before going to Vietnam prancing around the kids' bedroom in his mother's high heels. Her third brother, Carlos, has blue eyes whose origin baffles him, and her mother falls into a bad mood and for a week saturates herself with a new Al Green record. Nearly every stage of the narrator's growth is a kind of death, though punctuated by falling in love and by traveling to Coney Island, Cape Cod and the Statue of Liberty. Troy comes home in a casket. Daddy drinks, beats Mama, slips off. Mama gets a bad job with the phone company, then loses her voice forever, while the narrator comes into puberty and ever increasing understanding that this ``world can hold a million little girls in its hand. This world can drop them.'' QPB featured alternate. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
From Booklist, Copyright © American Library Association. Used with permission.
Woodson's little novel is a coming-of-age story set in the Vietnam era, when the picture-perfect Brady Bunch set a national standard for the ideal family. Her heroine-narrator, a little African American girl, has another kind of family. She has an older brother who's a drag queen. Her younger, half-white half-brother is an endless reminder to her father of her mother's infidelity. Mother, who presses dolls on the less than enthusiastic narrator, plays Al Green records over and over and slowly waltzes with the broom, encased in her own world, wearing panties on her head when she can't find a scarf. Woodson brings the narrator to her mid-teens, poised on the brink of an awakening, struggling to come to terms with her sexuality, and literally screaming to leave her earlier life behind, "where we're the pitiful ones." This faux memoir, told with painful clarity and fervor, deserves its share of general readers as well as those who home in on women's and African American literature. ~--Whitney Scott