I read much more fiction than nonfiction, but lately I've been on something of a nonfiction kick and have recently finished two works of nonfiction that I recommend.
These Truths: A History of the United States, by Jill LePore, is a political history of the nation--and in considering whether we have lived up to the ideals laid forth in our founding documents covers much of the dark side of our history. Even as a social studies nerd (so dubbed by my nine-year-old grandson), I learned a great deal from this book. From the fact that explorers prior to Columbus did not claim lands they "discovered" for their patrons to the similarities between Harding and Trump to the role of women's clubs in creating the conservative movement and the shocking fact that 90 percent of Americans now refuse to participate in polls, I encountered more new facts and ideas than I could absorb. I particularly would like to reread the latter sections of the book, which provide some new ways (for me) to think about how we have arrived at our current state of miasma.
Trying to "summarize" this rather massive book in any meaningful way is impossible (at least for me), but I can say that reading it will be edifying for virtually anyone. All of that is not to say the book is perfect--LePore has been roundly criticized for not dealing with how "these truths" applied to indigenous peoples throughout U.S. history. But it is still a worthwhile starting point for opening one's mind to new ideas.
An American Summer: Love and Death in Chicago, written by Alex Kotlowitz, is an example of long-form journalism. Kotlowitz also wrote There Are No Children Here, a book that profoundly affected me back in the 1990s. In that work, Kotlowitz followed closely two brothers living in public housing in Chicago; over the course of three years in the 1980s, the author observed and interviewed the boys, their family members, friends, and others who came into contact with them. The resulting narrative demonstrated how poverty and society's inadequate response to it affected every aspect of Lafayette and Pharoah's lives, in essence destroying their innocence and childhood.
In An American Summer, Kotlowitz 's reporting is broader but shallower. He examines how violence affects Chicago's poor, particularly those who are African American and Latinx. While he intended to tell the story of violence that occurred during one summer, he found it impossible to do so without going both backward and forward in the stories of the mostly young people affected by Chicago's epidemic of violence, violence that is often deadly or disabling. One of the most compelling stories is Marcelo's. Marcelo was a 17-year-old who had "straddled two worlds," his South Side neighborhood, where he had been shot and gotten into trouble with the law, and the world of the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls, where he had begged to be admitted and was known as a hard worker and good student. Marcelo ends up on "house arrest" in Mercy for more than two years, a strange and isolating experience for a young man struggling to find a path forward.
But Marcelo survives, which many of the people Kotlowitz profiles do not. It's heartbreaking and infuriating--but it doesn't provide a way forward. Kotlowitz allows us to see how violence devastates lives, families, and communities; to find solutions we must look elsewhere. Some reviewers have chastised Kotlowitz for not discussing that the murder rate is lower than it was in 1990--but a safer city overall does not do much for the young people in the neighborhoods the author observed in his four years reporting the book. I recommend reading the book--and then learning more about what can be done to help and taking action to make sure it does.
Favorite passages:
To study the past is to unlock the prison of the present. The past is an inheritance, a gift and a burden. It can't be shirked. You carry it everywhere. There is nothing for it but to get to know it.
--Jill LePore, These Truths
Violence has a way of catching up with you. Best not to stand still. Best to keep moving. Violence has a way of making you feel sullied. Best not to raise questions. Violence has a way of taking over your narrative. Best not to let it shape who you are. Violence has a way of exposing cracks in your universe. Best not to speak of those you love. Cathlene Johnson, who owns Johnson Funeral Home with her sister, once told me she might of added, on everyone around you as well.
--Alex Kotlowitz, An American Summer
