Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

Yesterday did slip away from me, I admit–I kept meaning to post and then got distracted–but here I am this morning, reviewing my latest read-aloud with my 14-year-old. (I’m so glad she still wants to read with me!) I acquired Lila Quintero Weaver’s My Year in the Middle from a library sale some time ago because it looked so good, and apparently my girlie thought so too; I’ve been giving her 3-5 books to choose from every time we start something new, and last time, Middle won out.

The premise is autobiographical–both Lila and Lu, her protagonist, immigrated to the US from Latin America at a young age and grew up in a small town in Alabama. Lila remembers the music, the major news stories, and the day-to-day details that make up Lu’s world; beyond that, Lila doesn’t share. Lu’s middle position, however, is both literal and metaphorical; she is neither white nor black, and so she–along with 3 other students–sits in the middle row in class, with neither the white kids nor the black ones. (The other 3 students are white but with integrationist parents.) As the year progresses, however, the middle becomes a more and more difficult place to be. Former Governor Wallace (“Segregation forever!”) is running again, and Lu’s background status is threatened as her P.E. class begins a unit on running and she discovers both an affinity and an ability for it. When I was in junior high, my friends and I agreed together NOT to discuss abortion, as our differing views only led to arguments; Lu and her classmates, however, don’t exactly have the same luxury. Unlike abortion, civil rights and race relations in Alabama in 1970 involve daily choices about who to talk to, walk with, and befriend in school. How long can Lu remain in the middle row?

My Year in the Middle is full of music, expressions, and the realities of life in 1970; I spent some time Googling bits like “you bet your sweet bippy”. (Not that context clues didn’t make the meaning fairly obvious, but I kind of had to see the evidence to believe it was a real expression.) Lu’s worries, frustrations, and obstacles felt authentic to me–44-year-old mother that I am, yes–and I was thoroughly engaged in her story. The one thing I did notice is that the writing is a bit more journalistic than that in the average novel; given the intensity of the issues, the emotional aspect of the story feels a bit more restrained than I expected it to. The power of Lu’s experiences still shines through, however, making this a completely worthwhile read.

My copy is going in the bag of stuff for my sister.