Phil Hanley’s frank, vulnerable, funny memoir recounts his journey from struggling student to successful comedian who wears his dyslexia “like a badge of honor.”
Phil Hanley’s frank, vulnerable, funny memoir recounts his journey from struggling student to successful comedian who wears his dyslexia “like a badge of honor.”
Preventable and curable, tuberculosis is still the world’s deadliest disease. John Green illuminates why in Everything Is Tuberculosis.
Preventable and curable, tuberculosis is still the world’s deadliest disease. John Green illuminates why in Everything Is Tuberculosis.
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Of all the tough jobs that Gabriel Thompson did while he was researching his book on immigrant labor, the toughest was not the most physically demanding. Picking lettuce and cutting up chickens were exhausting and dull, but not nearly as discouraging as the verbal abuse and disrespectful treatment he faced while he hauled plants at a wholesale flower business.

Luckily for him, it didn’t last long: He was fired for smiling too much. His good cheer unnerved his supervisors. Such are the indignities of low-wage work in the United States.

In Working in the Shadows, Thompson, a labor union researcher and freelance journalist, shows us what it’s really like to be an undocumented immigrant worker, employed in jobs that most Americans can’t or won’t do.

To that end, he spent two months each working undercover in the farm fields of Yuma, Arizona, a poultry plant in Russellville, Alabama, and the delivery trade in New York City. In every case, prospective employers were baffled that any non-Latino would want such awful work. He wouldn’t last long, they told him—and indeed, he struggled, even though he’s young, healthy and motivated. Although his sympathies clearly lie with the workers, Thompson recounts his experiences dispassionately, fairly and with considerable wry humor about his own failings. He never did become much of a lettuce picker.

Thompson found wage and safety rule violations, aggressive anti-union campaigns and lackadaisical government oversight. But he also encountered some decent companies and a majority of workers who regard employment in the U.S., however life-shortening and underpaid, as a vast improvement over Latin America.

In every job, he was treated with consideration by fellow workers, Latino immigrants and native-born Americans, in what he calls “a strong ethos of cooperation.” Even American workers at the poultry plant (there were none at the other workplaces) who complained in the abstract about illegal immigrants got along well with Latinos on a personal level. Thompson’s experiences were heartening about human nature, if not about what he sees as employer exploitation.

Thompson believes the solution isn’t any intellectual mystery, just immigration reform and labor organizing. He acknowledges that those goals will be hard to accomplish—but perhaps not nearly as hard as years killing chickens on the overnight shift.

Anne Bartlett is a journalist in Washington, D.C.

Of all the tough jobs that Gabriel Thompson did while he was researching his book on immigrant labor, the toughest was not the most physically demanding. Picking lettuce and cutting up chickens were exhausting and dull, but not nearly as discouraging as the verbal abuse…

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<b>John Brown’s civil disobedience</b> In a hearing before a special committee of the U.S. Senate in 1860, George Luther Stearns said he believed John Brown to be the representative man of this century, as Washington was of the last. Stearns, a Massachusetts millionaire, had been the principal source of funds and arms for Brown’s failed raid on the U.S. armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, several months before, the avowed purpose of which was to rally slaves to freedom and also to bring about a radical change in the way Americans thought and acted about slavery. In a public lecture shortly after the seriously flawed mission, Henry David Thoreau declared the raid the best news that America has yet heard, because, among other things, it was an idealistic act of civil disobedience that focused attention on an evil American citizens might now be prodded to actively oppose.

The debate about John Brown’s state of mind continues to this day. In historian Evan Carton’s engrossing <b>Patriotic Treason: John Brown and the Soul of America</b>, we follow the life of a man who took his Christian faith and his hatred of slavers seriously enough that he was willing to give up his own life and the lives of others to advance the abolitionist cause. For the Calvinist John Brown, Carton writes, the Old Testament stories were living guides to understanding and conduct in the present. . . . As it was for many black but few white Americans in the 1840s, Christianity for Brown was a liberation theology. Brown believed in both the Golden Rule and the Declaration of Independence; for him they were the same thing.

Carton demonstrates how Brown, virtually alone among nineteenth-century white Americans, was able to develop personal relationships with black people that were sustained, intimate, trusting, and egalitarian. Of particular interest is Brown’s long friendship with Frederick Douglass. Despite the latter’s refusal to be part of Brown’s Harpers Ferry raid, and his advice against it, six months after Brown was hanged, Douglass said, To have been acquainted with John Brown, shared his counsels, enjoyed his confidence, sympathized with the great objects of his life and death, I esteem as among the highest privileges of my life. The John Brown that emerges from these pages is a religious and patriotic revolutionary, a flawed individual, who sees no other way for God’s will to be done than the path he takes. Carton gives us a rich portrait of a man of vision. <i>Roger Bishop is a retired Nashville bookseller and a frequent contributor to BookPage.</i>

<b>John Brown's civil disobedience</b> In a hearing before a special committee of the U.S. Senate in 1860, George Luther Stearns said he believed John Brown to be the representative man of this century, as Washington was of the last. Stearns, a Massachusetts millionaire, had been…

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When a young Muslim of Moroccan descent slaughtered Theo van Gogh in 2004 as punishment for the Dutch filmmaker’s perceived offenses against Islam, it propelled the people of Holland into a state of national soul-searching. How could such a tolerant and generous society could spark such lethal and self-righteous rage? In Murder in Amsterdam, Ian Buruma, a native of the Netherlands who teaches at Bard College, attempts to answer this question, first of all by de-mythologizing both the victim and the killer.

For all his acknowledged talents, van Gogh was a monstrously annoying figure, even to his friends: uncouth, quick to insult and uncanny in pricking his adversary’s soft spots. Mohammed Bouyeri, despite his contempt for all things Western, wore Nike sneakers under his black jellaba at his murder trial and had a history of getting high on hashish and flirting with Dutch girls.

Buruma speculates that Holland’s zeal for multiculturalism which nurtured the rise of militant Islam within its borders was, in part, a reaction to the country’s shameful failure to protect its Jewish citizens against the Nazis during World War II. Welcoming and supporting immigrants became a way of lessening this stain. But the European model of welfare, which demands little from its recipients, ensures neither contentment nor gratitude, Buruma argues. Immigrants appear to fare better in the harsher system of the United States, where there is less temptation to milk the state. The necessity to fend for oneself encourages a kind of rough integration. Rather than using van Gogh’s murder as an occasion to pillory Dutch tolerance or radical Muslim intolerance, Buruma probes the psychological world of unassimilated outsiders who are caught between a homeland that couldn’t sustain them and a new one that can’t fully embrace them. What happened in Holland, he concludes, could happen anywhere as long as men and women feel that death is their only way home. Edward Morris is a writer in Nashville.

When a young Muslim of Moroccan descent slaughtered Theo van Gogh in 2004 as punishment for the Dutch filmmaker's perceived offenses against Islam, it propelled the people of Holland into a state of national soul-searching. How could such a tolerant and generous society could spark…
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The pictures are burned into our collective brains, and the facts are familiar to people all over the world. But five years after 9/11, many of us still want to know: How did those spouses cope? How would I manage if faced with such overwhelming tragedy? The story of how four 9/11 widows coped and healed and found love again is told in Love You, Mean It: A True Story of Love, Loss, and Friendship. Patricia Carrington, Julia Collins, Claudia Gerbasi and Ann Haynes were vibrant young women, almost all of them newlyweds, when their loved ones left for work one September day and never came back. Their shared memoir traces their storybook courtships and marriages, how their lives were wrenched apart after the attack and how fate brought them together as The Widow’s Club based on true understanding and the gruesome bond they share. We’ve learned that life isn’t always easy or predictable or fair, the women write.

As they rebuild lives now vulnerable to horror, and sink into routines where his side of the bed doesn’t exist, they drown their tears together in New York restaurants and bars and heal each other through constant calls and e-mail (the book’s title is taken from a favorite way to sign off). They also take trips to the beach and foreign places where any and all emotions can surface (a trip to the island where Julia eloped with her husband nearly proves too much) and attend yearly memorials at Ground Zero.

It’s impossible to truly understand another’s sorrow, but Love You, Mean It manages to demonstrate the massive personal devastation of the 9/11 attack, and as the women begin to date and even marry again ( Maybe it was ungrateful to pray for more than the enormous amount we’d already been given, they write), the generosity and resiliency of the human heart. Deanna Larson writes from Nashville.

The pictures are burned into our collective brains, and the facts are familiar to people all over the world. But five years after 9/11, many of us still want to know: How did those spouses cope? How would I manage if faced with such overwhelming…
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In The Long Way Home, journalist David Laskin sets out to tell the stories of 12 immigrant men who served in the U.S. armed forces during World War I. Like half a million other non-native combatants fighting for Uncle Sam in “the war to end all wars,” Laskin’s dozen—three Jews, four Italians, two Poles, an Irishman, a Norwegian and a Slovak—were relatively new to America, having endured  Ellis Island during the great wave of U.S. immigration in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Still struggling to establish themselves in an alien land where they spoke little English, where low-level employment was the norm and where they were looked on with some suspicion, these plucky fellows embraced the U.S. mission in Europe and distinguished themselves with honor. Three died in France, two won the Congressional Medal of Honor and all fought in major engagements, including the breaking of the Hindenburg Line and the taking of the Argonne Forest. Laskin’s thorough research into these lives encompassed digging into letters, diaries, battlefield reports and the National Archives and, whenever possible, conducting interviews with family members, including a face-to-face sit-down in 2006 with one of his subjects, Tony Pierro, who lived to be 111.

A marvelous craftsman, Laskin interweaves the soldiers’ personal profiles into a greater context, which positions his work equally as a history that deftly covers the background of the war and all its contemporary political ramifications, and also as a keen piece of social reflection on the role of the immigrant in shaping the fabric of American society. Laskin’s work also proves invaluable for readers interested in World War I military operations, as he follows the 12 men into battle, offering detailed accounts of their experiences and bravery on the front lines. A concluding chapter summarizes the postwar lives of those who survived, all of whom returned to America to live relatively quiet and productive lives, fully committed to the new homeland for which they fought.

Martin Brady writes from Nashville.

In The Long Way Home, journalist David Laskin sets out to tell the stories of 12 immigrant men who served in the U.S. armed forces during World War I. Like half a million other non-native combatants fighting for Uncle Sam in “the war to end…

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The death of Roger Rosenblatt’s daughter Amy at age 38 was completely unexpected. She collapsed on the treadmill at home, felled by a heart abnormality that affects less than two thousandths of one percent of the population.

Statistics are of little comfort to Amy’s hard-working surgeon husband, Harris, who was left with three young kids: Jessie, 6, Sammy, 4, and infant James. Rosenblatt and his wife of 46 years, Ginny, decided to lend a hand, moving from Long Island to Bethesda, where they took up residence in their son-in-law’s guest bedroom. Their commitment was real. Roger scaled back his workload considerably; Ginny got back into a matronly rhythm that impressed her friends.

In Making Toast, an understated yet gripping memoir, acclaimed writer Rosenblatt recalls a period of loss, adjustment and memories as they became parents for the second time. Better known as “Boppo” to his grandkids, Rosenblatt doesn’t ask for sympathy or tears. He chronicles his new life as expert toast-maker and guardian/playmate/professor with a mixture of wonder and love.

What makes the book so absorbing is the way Rosenblatt interrupts his short chronicles—the slim book has no chapters—with a thunderbolt observation or statement. Ginny remarks that she feels like she’s now living Amy’s life; Roger initially eschews therapy because “we will never feel right again. No analysis or therapy will change that.” One section consists of the following: “Ginny has a choking fit at breakfast. It lasts only seconds, but Jessie freezes. Sammy runs from the room.”

Rosenblatt puts a life-altering event in simple, clear terms. By employing restraint (which, considering the circumstances, had to be excruciating), he reveals volumes about the power of family without wallowing in sentiment and self-help hooey. The big points come across loud and clear, including the following: A close family may suffer more, as Rosenblatt writes, but that closeness allows everyone to return to doing the simple, necessary things. Like making toast.

Pete Croatto is a freelance writer who lives in New Jersey.

The death of Roger Rosenblatt’s daughter Amy at age 38 was completely unexpected. She collapsed on the treadmill at home, felled by a heart abnormality that affects less than two thousandths of one percent of the population.

Statistics are of little comfort to Amy’s hard-working surgeon…

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