All the Yellow Suns
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A coming-of-age story about a queer Indian American girl exploring activism and identity through art, perfect for fans of Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.
Sixteen-year-old Maya Krishnan is fiercely protective of her friends, immigrant community, and single mother, but she knows better than to rock the boat in her conservative Florida suburb. Her classmate Juneau Zale is the polar opposite: she’s a wealthy white heartbreaker who won’t think twice before capsizing that boat.
When Juneau invites Maya to join the Pugilists—a secret society of artists, vandals, and mischief-makers who fight for justice at their school—Maya descends into the world of change-making and resistance. Soon, she and Juneau forge a friendship that inspires Maya to confront the challenges in her own life.
But as their relationship grows romantic, painful, and twisted, Maya begins to suspect that there’s a whole different person beneath Juneau’s painted-on facade. Now Maya must learn to speak her truth in this mysterious, mixed-up world—even if it results in heartbreak.
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Anybody could be invisible. The real miracle was to be known, to be loved as you were.
I think I tend to have a preference for invisibility. It's probably not my preferred superpower (that would be flight, also a revealing choice) but it's all too often I feel like being able to vanish would be the best option. I wonder what would have happened if I'd had a high school year like Maya's, or even a book like this. Perhaps I'd be a little less avoidant, or perhaps I'd just have more practice at it. The vexing thing with visibility is that I want to be seen, I want the validation just like anyone else. And yet it's agonising; every piece reminds of you of the lack, of your own awareness of your own flaws. It's particularly intolerable when it's coming from a parent, when you're their “whole hearts”. There's no other time when I want more to disappear. And yet the nature of joy is apparently wrapped up in the intolerable - the distinction from pleasure is supposed to be accepting this kind of discomfort, the pressure of becoming known. That's the miracle, if I can let it happen.
