Randy Ribay's Blog

Thank you to APALA and the awards committee. And congratulations to Makiia, Gene, LeUyen, and all of the other authors and illustrators whose work is being honored tonight. Growing up, I didn’t read many books by Asian American authors—or a single book by a Filipino American until I was in college. So, I deeply appreciate the way this organization creates space for our stories.

Thank you to my agent, Beth Phelan, my editor Namrata Tripathi, and the entire publishing, marketing, and school & library team at Kokila and Penguin Random House. Special shout-out to Watsonville is in the Heart and The Tobera Project whose digital archives were essential to the writing of the Watsonville sections of the book. And, of course, much love to my supportive and much-wiser-than-me wife, Kathryn, and to my son. He still has no concept of what I do for a living, but this book wouldn’t exist without him since the idea started after he was born, and I spent a lot of time wondering what makes a good father.

Everything We Never Had explores that question by examining four generations of boys in the Maghabol family. It begins in 1929 with Francisco, who immigrated to the United States at 15 years old. Though fictional, Francisco’s life mirrors many such young men from the Philippines—and other parts of the world—who were enticed away from homelands exploited and ravished by colonialism with promises of high-paying work in the Empire. In reality, of course, they were regarded as nothing more than cheap labor, to be used then discarded.

But, as others have noted, freedom is humankind’s natural state. The people brought over as workers inevitably begin to assert their full humanity, just as the Manong Generation of Filipinos did in the 20th century. Rightfully, they demand better wages and improved working conditions as they try to make a home for themselves and their families in a new land.

Empire—and I’m speaking generally here of not only the government, but of all the official and unofficial machinery that sustains it—doesn’t want this. It doesn’t want to do anything that will harm its profits or reduce its power. And it certainly never intended for these workers to make a permanent home in this country.

In an attempt to suppress these demands, the Empire uses threats and violence. It pits one group against another. It criminalizes and demonizes. It erases and rewrites history. It opts-out of difficult truths. It manufactures or invents crises. And the moment it becomes politically advantageous to do so, Empire wields policy and law to shut the door to the group who has served their purpose while looking for the next group ripe for exploitation. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s happened over and over again. It’s happening at this very moment through books bans and immigration bans, the suppression of dissent and protest, assaults on academic freedom and birthright citizenship, and the deployment of ICE to detain and deport and disappear.

These efforts are often unconstitutional and always inhumane. They must always be resisted. Because as much as freedom is our natural state, it’s not automatic. It takes the collective efforts of countless individuals pushing within their own spheres of influence using their specific skills and talents.

While we need to resist at the political level, we must also resist at the personal level. This mentality of defining our worth by material success, of using people for personal gain, of dehumanizing ourselves by dehumanizing others—it only takes hold at the macro level unless it has become engrained in our psyches at the micro level. Unfortunately, for many of us in our culture—especially men—it has.

I hope the story of the Maghabol boys contributes some small piece to this resistance. I hope it’s another testament to the ways in which those oppressive attitudes poison our personal relationships and our very souls as much as they poison our society. But I hope it also leaves readers with a sense that all is not lost. That healing is in the long-game, ongoing and collective. That progress is possible, but it shouldn’t be measured by our ability to increase profit but by our capacity to expand love.

Thank you.

ALAN Keynote, Nov 25, 2024, Boston, MA

I’m going to pretend I’m still an English teacher for the next few minutes and reflect on a line from a poem. Then I’ll close by reading you that poem in its entirety. If you take nothing away except for the poem, that’s okay. In fact, that’s kind of the point.

In this poem, “Manifesto: Mad Farmer Liberation Front” by Wendell Berry, the speaker implores us to “Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.”

As a writer for young people, a former teacher, a parent, and a husband of a brilliant professor of education, I’ve never come across a better description of the work we do as educators: “Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.”
I want to dig into this idea as it relates to the ALAN theme of LET THEM READ and share some insights we can glean from those giant redwood trees endemic to the western slopes of the Sierra Nevadas.

1.
As most people know, giant sequoias are some of the largest trees on the planet, towering up to 300 feet high (the size of a 26 or 27 story-building) and growing up to 100 feet wide. They are also some of the oldest trees, living for over three thousand years. They become so large and live that long because they never stop growing. There’s our first lesson: Keep growing. Not in the exploitative capitalist way of greedily obliterating competition, but in the way that a growing tree becomes crucial to a thriving ecosystem, providing more life and shelter the longer it lives.

I know I’m preaching to the choir when I say this, but reading helps us grow in countless ways. It exposes us to new ideas. It teaches us about the world. It helps us understand ourselves and our societies. It provides context. It helps us imagine lived experiences outside of our own. It reminds us of our shared humanity. It challenges us to strengthen, refine, or change our beliefs. It builds empathy, makes us wonder, inspires us to imagine what is possible. So, let our students read to grow.

2.

One of the reasons sequoias can survive and keep growing is because of their bark. It grows up to three feet thick and contains tannic acids. The thickness and the tannins provide the trees with a natural resistance to fire and insect damage. So there’s our second insight: Develop a thick skin. The wildfires and insects are already here, and there are more on the horizon. They are banning books, criminalizing queer identities, and doubling down on racism and sexism and xenophobia. They are using AI to steal our art and diminish our humanity. They are sacrificing our mental health and destroying our climate for profit. They are waging war and genocide and telling us to look the other way, to believe that some lives are worth less than others.

So, if we are to speak the truth and continue speaking the truth, we need to develop a thick skin. We need to ignore the ridicule and threats. We need to distinguish between genuine criticism and empty insults. We need to stay safe. We need to recognize when to rest or retreat or ask for help. Basically, we need to weather the attacks from those who’d like nothing more than for us to give up or quit, nothing more than to cut us down and turn our bodies to timber.

Reading can help us do this. It shows us that this is not new—there have always been difficult times. Fires have always blazed somewhere. There are always defenders of the status quo. Backlash always follows progress. Reading shows us how others have faced those difficulties. How purpose keeps us grounded. How shared values hold us together. How anger motivates us to resist. How resistance takes innumerable forms, and how it is sometimes illegal and rarely safe. How none of us can do everything. It shows us how sometimes we win. How sometimes we lose. How, regardless of what happens, there is always the next generation waiting in the wings so we cannot give up. So, let them read to grow thick skins.

3.

Thick bark isn’t the only feature that allows sequoias to thrive, though. You might look at these towering trees and imagine that below ground they grow long, complicated roots that burrow deep toward the earth’s core. But they don’t—they can’t. They grow in shallow soil that has gathered on mountainsides, so their roots only extend 6-12 feet. But the trees remain standing because they grow close enough together that they can hold onto one another. Their roots tangle together, and in such a way, they keep each other upright. That leads us to our next insight: Anchor yourself in community. Find those who share your values, your mission. Organize. Know one another, inspire one another, encourage one another. Fight for and protect one another. But also, feed one another, take care of one another’s children, give one another rides or housing, pay one others’ bills, clean one another’s homes, care for one another in a thousand quiet, unheroic ways.

Reading—and writing—help us connect. They help us share our stories across time and space and borders. They help us find one another. They may provide the community that we need but do not have in person due to our particular or geographical circumstances. They help us imagine what such a community can look like and remind us that we need to BUILD that community. They help us remember that though it is normal to feel alone, we are not alone. We have never been alone. So, let our kids read—and write—to anchor themselves in community.

4.

So far I’ve talked about the ways sequoias survive and thrive, but close readers will note that Berry’s poem urges us not simply to be sequoias, but to plant them. Here’s the thing about sequoia propagation: after their cones fall, they only open to release their seeds in extreme heat. In other words, they have evolved to grow amidst fire. Sometimes, a cone will be sitting on the forest floor for decades before that fire comes. So there’s our final lesson: Let the fire bring life.

Our work as librarians and educators and academics and kidlit creators matters the most when we feel the heat of the flames. The text you share, the lesson you teach, the article or book or poem you write or help bring into the world might seem to do little in the moment. But it may be the very thing someone somewhere needs in the middle of a fire—a fire others may or may not see. It may be the very thing that opens them up, helps them sprout among the ashes. And we may not be around to ever know that happened. So, let them read and write so that the fire will bring life.

In case I haven’t extended and mixed this metaphor enough, one last bonus fact about sequoias (which I’ll offer without commentary): they tend to grow in rings. They do not crowd each other out to gobble up all the resources. The young trees NEED to be near a mother tree which provides them with the nutrients they require to mature into adulthood. And when the mother tree finally does return to the earth, it leaves behind several younger trees growing around the spot where it once stood.

So, there it is. Keep growing. Develop a thick skin. Anchor yourself in community. Let the fire bring life. To invest in the millennium, to plant sequoias, let them read and write.

Now, as promised, the poem in its entirety:

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
anymore. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered, he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Thank you.

Delivered 11.23.2020 at the ALAN Workshop

Thank you so much to the committee for selecting Patron Saints of Nothing as a finalist for the Amelia Walden Award. I know you probably read a ton of books this past year, and I know the difficulty of then having to select only 5 titles. It also means a lot to me, especially as a teacher, to be honored by fellow educators.

I also want to thank all of the teachers and librarians who have been reading and sharing PSON with their students. To borrow Dr. Bishop’s language, for some students PSON will be a “mirror.” It would have been for me–I never read a book by a Filipino American author, or even knew of one, until college. So it means everything to me that this book is out there for Filipino American kids coming up today and that this recognition will increase the chance they’ll find it.

For many others, it will be a window. There’s a pretty good chance this might be the first (hopefully not only) book they read set in the Philippines or about the Drug War. So I want to take a brief moment to remind us–myself included–that we must be mindful of how we engage students with “window” texts because a fetishization of “windows” can become its own kind of Othering.

To prevent this from happening, we must recall that Dr. Bishop’s metaphor does not separate the two. It is not that each book is either a “mirror” or a “window.” Instead, she discusses how the window BECOMES the mirror, how it BECOMES the sliding glass door. To me, this means that we must remember to invite our students–especially those part of the dominant group–to connect at a meaningful, personal level with all stories–especially with those from the marginalized and minoritized. I believe we do this by finding ways that foster empathy instead of sympathy.

It seems like an easy enough thing to do. We hear “empathy” praised all the time as the goal of fiction. But I think it’s easier said than done, and even the best among us sometimes confuse the former for the latter. It’s not enough to put a sad or painful book like mine in front of them. Fostering empathy is complex, deep, and communal work. We, as educators, must constantly strive to do that kind of work. At the end of the day, sympathy will only reinforce prevailing dynamics of oppression, while it is empathy that will transform the individual and transform our world.

Thank you.

Americans who read Patron Saints of Nothing often tell me that my story made them cry. It means a lot to me that something I’ve written moves people so deeply, but our tears are not enough. 

At midnight in the Philippines on July 18, the country’s Anti-Terror Law (ATL) went into effect. Its vague language allows virtually any individual or organization critical of the government to be labeled as “terrorist.” They can then be arrested without a warrant, jailed for up to twenty-four days without charges, and imprisoned for life without parole. Given the Duterte administration’s track record of violating human rights, they will likely wield the law to suppress free speech and dissent, as already being predicted by Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and the United Nations. In fact, there’s already been a fresh crackdown on activism since Duterte signed it on July 3.

While this may seem to many like one more example of an unfortunate political tragedy in a faraway nation, it’s time for Americans to acknowledge and take responsibility for the role our country has played and continues to play in the rapid erosion of Philippine democracy under Duterte’s creeping fascism.  

[image error]Photo credit: ABS-CBN

For example, look at the Drug War, his signature effort to rid the country of illegal drugs by encouraging police and vigilantes to arrest and kill suspected dealers and users. According to a recent report from the UN, since 2016 there have been anywhere between 8,000 to 30,000 extrajudicial killings as a result of these operations, and prisons are operating at a 534% congestion rate. This tough-on-crime hyper-criminalization of drug use was inspired by America’s own unsuccessful and racist campaign. More directly, we even help fund the killings in the Philippines, contributing over $50 million of US tax dollars to aid their police in conducting the drug war.

[image error]Photo credit: AFP Noel Celis

Then there are the ongoing threats to press freedom. In the midst of a pandemic when access to information is vital, the government has followed through on Duterte’s threat to shut down ABS-CBN, the nation’s largest broadcast network (last done during the Marcos dictatorship). They have also convicted Maria Ressa, the founder/CEO of Rappler, of cyber-libel to intimidate other journalists from shining a critical light on the administration as she has. America is in part responsible because US tech companies like Facebook and Twitter have allowed Duterte to weaponize their platforms, undermining the country’s free press. Their complacency and refusal to take responsibility has given the government’s hired trolls free rein to harass journalists and political opponents while spreading disinformation to gain public support for such attacks. 

[image error]Photo credit: Ezra Acayan/Getty Images

And there are many other abuses that have not found traction in American headlines. Over the last few years, military bombings and operations have led to the displacement of up to 450,000 civilians. Human rights defenders, environmentalists, indigenous leaders, journalists, legal professionals, trade unionists, LGBTQ+ activists, and political opponents have been harassed, jailed on false or trumped up charges, or unjustly killed. And the government’s militaristic response to COVID-19 has crushed the economy, failed to provide for people’s basic needs, led to an array of human rights violations, and fostered the fastest rising infection rate in the Western Pacific. The Philippine military and police can carry out all of these abuses in part thanks to the $550 million we’ve contributed to their defense forces since 2016 and thanks to the US-manufactured weapons provided by our government. As I write this, our country is preparing to sell an additional $1.5 billion in arms to the Philippines, which will surely perpetuate further abuses in the name of the ATL.  

[image error]Photo Credit: Eric Panisan Ambrocio

So I’ll say it again: Our tears are not enough. 

Blood is on our hands. We must move beyond pity and empathy. We must take action to stop the US from continuing to enable Duterte’s escalating human rights violations and attacks on Philippine democracy. And given the increased dangers Filipino activists face under this new law, it’s more important than ever that Americans support their fight for freedom. 

[image error]Photo credit: Ruthie Arroyo/Kabataan Alliance

WHAT DOES “BLACK LIVES MATTER” EVEN MEAN?

The movement wants to build a society that truly treats everyone equally. But to do that we need to admit that we’re not there yet, understand why that is, and then apply corrective solutions. The expression is meant to remind us that Black people are inherently equal to those of other races (If it helps you understand, you can read it as, “Black lives matter, too”). This reminder is necessary because historically, the Black community has not been treated equally (see Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “Case for Reparations” to learn more about the long-term impact of 250 years of slavery, 90 years of Jim Crow laws, 60 years of segregation, and 35 years of housing discrimination).

[image error]

(Image source: Zerflin.com) 

As a result of these discriminations, there are a number of inequalities that persist in such a way that the Black community overall is still not treated equally in America. Sometimes this occurs at the individual level (e.g. Someone saying a racial slur), but the most damaging are the discriminations baked into our systems (e.g. legal, education, voting, law enforcement, employment, housing, etc.). Of course, you can always find exceptions, but when you look at the bigger picture, glaring disparities are undeniable. The killing of George Floyd brought attention once again specifically to the disparity that Black people are murdered by the police at higher rates than any other racial group. The abundance of video recordings of recent killings have led mainstream America to confront this reality.

[image error]

(Image source: Statistic.ly)

WHY IS IT OKAY TO PROTEST FOR BLM DURING A PANDEMIC BUT NOT FOR OTHER REASONS?

The lockdowns, physical distancing, urgings to wash hands frequently, and mask guidelines were put in place to help us slow down the spread of COVID-19 so that our healthcare system didn’t get overwhelmed. This was meant to buy time for our government to prepare to safely and slowly re-open our communities using methods that have been effective in slowing the spread of the virus in other countries (e.g. continuing to wear masks, contact tracing, mass testing, etc.).

(Image source: UofMhealth.org)

The people who were/are protesting against these restrictions were doing so because they viewed it as an attack on their personal freedom. They wanted to go to the beach, get a haircut, etc. They didn’t wear masks because it was uncomfortable or because they didn’t want to be told what to do. However, these reasons are ultimately selfish. They prioritized personal desire over our country’s well-being. 

Those of us who have been protesting for BLM have done so out of concern for our country’s well-being by protesting ongoing racial inequalities, not because we wanted pedicures. Another one of those systemic disparities is that Black people are impacted by COVID-19 at much higher rates of the virus than White people.

[image error]

(Image source: CDC.gov)

But we’ve tried to protest safely. Nearly everyone wears a mask and maintains physical distancing when possible. Many self-quarantine afterwards or get tested to ensure that that they don’t keep attending protests if they’ve contracted the virus. Recent studies seem to show that BLM protests did not lead to spikes in COVID-19 infections, suggesting that these precautions were effective.   

Some of the anger in the protest is also about how our government did not use the lockdown to  prepare any kind of national response. They gave up and just started urging states to re-open, which is why our infection rate continues to be among the worst in the world. Much of this—over 2.5 million are infected and nearly 130,000 confirmed deaths as of the time of this writing–could have been prevented with effective leadership.

WHICH EXPERTS SHOULD YOU TRUST, ANYWAYS?

Listen to the people who are experts in the specific fields in which you are seeking knowledge . Keep in mind that there are many types of doctors, so someone with a MD is not automatically an expert in every topic related to medicine. There will be many different thoughts at first (e.g. Wear a mask! vs. Don’t wear a mask!), but as time goes on, the experts in a given field usually home in on a more accurate understanding and come to a general consensus (e.g. Wear a mask, esp indoors!).

Science is a process. No single experiment or study is perfect. No single experiment or study leads to an immutable truth. If an experiment/study gets a certain result, the methods need to be carefully examined to be sure the conclusion’s reliable, then the same experiment/study needs to be repeated several times to confirm the results.

Of course, there will always be a few experts who disagree with the general consensus. Sometimes they might be right, but a vast majority of the time they are not. If the consensus about masks is right and you refuse to wear a mask, then the consequence is you might contract and spread the virus. If the consensus about wearing masks is wrong and you wear a mask, then the only consequence is the very minor inconvenience of wearing a mask.

HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO WHEN ALL OF THE ADVICE SEEMS CONTRADICTORY?

You practice critical thinking. Distinguish fact from opinion. Get your news from a variety of reliable sources, not a single news network–and definitely not from memes.

Read books. Listen to podcasts. Watch movies and documentaries. Study history. Participate in discussions. Listen to different leaders, but also listen to the most vulnerable. Befriend people with different life experiences and identities from yourself. Notice patterns. Analyze and acknowledge biases and motivations, especially your own.  When you come across new information that seems reliable, change your mind. When you make a mistake, apologize and learn from it.

Sound like a lot of work? It is. It’s much easier to be uninformed or to let someone else think for you by mindlessly consuming news from a single source that already confirms your beliefs. But if you do either, you’re much more likely to be misled, to accept lies. There’s a reason the first move of a fascist leader or dictator is often to ban books and discredit the free press. 

The following is the text of the speech I delivered at the 2019 ALAN Workshop session on November 25, 2019:

Thank you, Jason, for that introduction, and thank you to Steven Bickmore and ALAN for inviting me to speak today. And thank you to all of you who for some reason have not used this to take an opportunity to hit up lunch early.

PREPARING KIDS FOR THE WORLD

I often get the question-about why I chose to write about such a dark, depressing subject as the Drug War in the Philippines, which has taken the lives of over 30k people according to an estimate from the Human Rights Commission. “Isn’t it too depressing?” They ask. “Are teens ready to learn about that?”

If you work with teens, you already know the answer the that question. The real question is are we, as educators, ready?

I heard Jason Reynolds say once, that as people who write for or work with children, we’re not here to protect kids from the world, but to prepare them for it. This is the world. The Drug War in the Philippines is real, as are numerous other violations of human rights occurring all over the globe. It’s our responsibility to teach reality but also to equip them with both the intellectual and emotional capacity to process, respond, and repair the world. Because if we, as writers or educators, don’t examine challenging issues because they’re too controversial or too sad, then we’re turning our students into adults who turn a blind eye to injustice because it’s too controversial or too sad. And, in my opinion, there are far too many of those adults already.

So what’s our role as English teachers? What, exactly, can we do in our classrooms to prepare kids?

I was in the DisruptTexts session on Friday–which was absolutely amazing. They’ve articulated a fantastic framework, and I think what I’m going to talk about today fits into their third core principle: applying a critical lens to our teaching practices.

TEACHING LITERARY THEORY

Specifically, I think part of what we should be doing is explicitly teaching critical literary theory. Of course, that’s some heavy stuff and I think most of us didn’t get any of it until college–if at all. But I think critical literary theory is an essential mode of thinking for making sense of the world everyone should possess. Again, some might be thinking, “Are they ready for it?” I know they are. I’ve been doing it with my own freshmen and sophomores. Yes, these are complex ideas. But when we teach math, we don’t begin with calculus. So I believe we can boil some of these theories down to their core ideas and train learners to apply critical lenses to ANY text.

If we believe that stories shape us, that they shape our world, then literary theory is a tool for allowing us to understand the ways in which they do so. It contextualizes the reason we study stories and literature specifically. It’s about not just teaching kids to read, but teaching them to READ.

Of course, there are many literary theories, but I believe the three foundational ones we can and should start with are feminism, postcolonialism, and Marxism. Each theory presents a counternarrative of equality that stands in moral contrast to the destructive dominant ideologies that have, unfortunately, historically shaped much of our world: patriarchy, racism, capitalism. Over the centuries, these ideologies of male/white/wealth supremacy have worked together to poison so many of our systems, which, in turn, has poisoned so many individuals.

Unfortunately, stories have often been the syringe delivering this poison, convincing or confirming the superiority of one group over another, sometimes subconsciously, sometimes consciously. However, stories can also be the syringe delivering the antidote with messages of equity and love. Equipping our students with literary theory ultimately helps students figure out what’s in the syringe.

USING THEORY TO ANALYZE CHARACTERS

I believe that at its core, teaching literary theory is about teaching students to ask piercing questions. And a good place to begin is by using it as a framework for asking questions about the characters. One can look at each character in a story and ask

1.) Is the character reinforcing ideas about male, white, and/or wealth supremacy, are they challenging those ideas, or are they doing a mix of both? How so? (Evidence!)

2.) Where does that seem to come from?

3.) How does that impact their life and the lives of those around them?

4.) Does the character change in this regard throughout the story? Why or why not?

I think you can use this approach to examine ANY story. Let’s use PATRON SAINTS OF NOTHING as an example.

With a feminist lens, for example, students would hopefully understand the extent to which Tito Maning’s ingrained patriarchal thinking alienates everyone in his family and plays an enormous role in Jun’s death. Or the ways in which ideas about stoic masculinity have negatively impacted Jay by causing him to repress his sensitivity and empathy.

With a postcolonial lens, students would hopefully find much to analyze in Jay’s biracial immigrant identity. The confusion of self he experiences on a daily basis, the loss of language and culture he’s suffered through the pressure immigrants feel to assimilate. The contradictory nature of Tito Maning’s pride in Filipino culture juxtaposed with his colorism.

With a capitalist lens, one would hopefully understand how Jay’s economic privilege isolates him from injustices and makes him complicit. Or how Jun completely rejects the individualistic call to pursue economic success by caring more about the well-being of others, how he rejects the deeply capitalist impulse to ignore and devalue the lives of those lacking material means.

But I also hope they’d discover that learning more about Jun actually prompts Jay to develop. That people can change.

These are just a few examples. I hope students would find much more in the story.

Ultimately, I believe in the full humanity of every single person, so examining the ways in which these ideas play out at the human level is essential to maintaining that humanity. It allows us to decouple the person from the ideas, to understand that our true enemy is not each other, but rather any idea that proposes one particular group is superior while others are inferior. It helps us see that men are not the enemy, but that ideas about male superiority are, to understand that white people are not the enemy, but ideas about white supremacy are, to discover that economically privileged people are not the enemy, but the idea that we should value money above people is.

USING THEORY TO UNDERSTAND SYSTEMS

In the same way we can use critical literary theory to teach students to examine characters, we can and need to use it to examine the overall text itself to gain a deeper understand of how stories shape and are shaped by systems. Here the questions would be similar:

1.) Is the text overall reinforcing ideas about male, white, and/or wealth supremacy, challenging those ideas, or doing a mix of both?

2.) How so? (Evidence!)

3.) How does that impact the audience?

Again, let’s use PATRON SAINTS OF NOTHING to do so. Using a feminist lens, I hope your students would realize how the story is challenging patriarchy in a number of ways: through its depiction of the way masculinity negatively impacts the male relationships. Through its portrayal of sensitive male characters who develop into fuller human beings by learning to grapple with and articulate their emotions. Through its acknowledgment of the male-driven sex-trafficking industry that’s thriving in throughout the country. Through its inclusion of (what I hope are) fully developed female characters.

Using a postcolonial lens, I would hope that your students find my story rejects colonialist ideas in a number of ways. First and foremost by centering a story from a historically marginalized and underrepresented ethnic group (Filipinos are the third largest immigrant group in the US, but one of the most underrepresented in media). By offering nuanced depictions of Filipino/FilAm characters, by showing the joy and love that exist in the community instead of giving you one-dimensional, poverty porn. By calling out the colorism in the Philippines that holds up light skin as the ultimate standard of beauty. By understanding that the Drug War of the Philippines is directly imported from US policy. By learning, as Jay does, about the colonial history.

Finally, using a Marxist lens, I hope students would understand how the story challenges the most dehumanizing aspects of capitalism. By showing how wealth not only insulates people from exploitation, but how they benefit from that. By revealing that the Drug War is perpetuated by capitalistic principles in which police officers get bonuses for killing people and in which a whole new job prospect has arisen where one can be a “vigilante,” paid by the police to murder. By rejecting the notion that we only should be looking out for ourselves.

Again, these are just a few examples. I truly believe students using literary theory to examine the text itself would discover much more.

SO HOW DO WE ACTUALLY DO THIS?

There are endless ways I think you can actually have students engage with texts using critical literary theory. Debates, Harkness discussions, writing projects, podcasts, videos, creative nonfiction, etc. And, of course, there are endless ways to challenge students when they’re ready: secondary sources, primary sources, more nuanced understanding of these three theories as well as introducing other literary theories such as critical disability studies, queer theory, environmental criticism or others. And, of course, you can use this approach with literally any text: the dead white guy canon, MG or YA, poetry, history, movies and TV shows, even one’s own life.

Now, I don’t believe in a one-size-fits all approach to education, so my intention here is not to give you a curriculum or a textbook for teaching critical literary theory in middle school or high school. I think that would actually be a huge disservice. From my point of view, I’m proposing the WHAT, it’s up to you to figure out the HOW. The most transformative and liberational teaching requires creativity, authenticity, cultural relevancy, passion, and personality. It’s up to you–both individually and collectively–to figure out how to make the complex comprehensible for your specific communities and students, it’s up to you–again, both individually and collectively–to figure out the best way to prepare kids for the world, the best way to spread the antidote.

I want to leave you with two final questions you can equip students with as they engage with texts using critical literary theory.

1. As they analyze individual characters or the text itself from these different perspectives and they start to notice inequities playing out in different ways, teach them to ask themselves: How do you feel about that? Give them a safe space to work through and name their emotions. The soul requires it.

2. Then, after they’ve had a chance to do so, you can ask them what I believe is, at the end of the day, the single most important question that hits at the heart of why we do any of this: What are you going to do with those feelings?

Thank you.

 

HUGE news this week: Patron Saints of Nothing was named a finalist for the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature! The other finalists in the category are Pet by Akwaeke Emezi, Look Both Ways by Jason Reynolds, Thirteen Doorways, Wolves Behind Them All by Laura Ruby, and 1919 by Martin Sandler. It’s an absolute honor to be considered alongside these authors, and thank you to all who have expressed excitement and support along the way! The winner will be announced on Nov. 20 at the awards ceremony in NYC, which will be hosted by legend Levar Burton!

 

When I was growing up, I never felt like I fully belonged anywhere. As a half-white, half-Filipino American who very much appears mixed race, my ethnicity was constantly interrogated. Friends, acquaintances, teachers, coaches, and even the occasional stranger would ask, “What are you?” or “Where are you from?”

I understand that (in most cases) there were no ill-intentions. They were simply curious about my ethnicity or heritage. I didn’t live in a community with a significant Filipino immigrant population, so most of those asking had no concrete visual reference point for my physical features.

But intentions aside, being asked this question so frequently had the effect of reminding me that I visibly stood out, of reminding me that I could never pass for someone who truly belonged. The fact that my family integrated certain aspects of Filipino culture into our American lives that none of my classmates could relate to magnified this feeling. And when I visited the Philippines, I quickly understood that returning to the place of my birth did not equate with finding a sense of belonging.

While I felt this sense of displacement deeply for a long time, I couldn’t name it until I went to college and read W.E.B. Du Bois for an English lit course taught by Professor Vincent Woodard. Du Bois writes, “It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness, an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife- this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He wouldn’t bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of opportunity closed roughly in his face.”

Despite the fact Du Bois was writing about Black Americans, I remember reading that passage and feeling seen for the first time. Du Bois had so accurately articulated what I had struggled with internally my entire life.

I had never felt very connected to the English canon, so as I continued my undergrad studies, I took pretty much every English course my college offered that focused on authors of color. It was through these classes (and the wonderful professors who taught them) that I got to explore the writings of Langston Hughes, Jean Toomer, James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, Zora Neale Hurston, Ralph Ellison, Assata Shakur, Toni Morrison, Richard Wright, Alice Walker, Malcolm X, Audre Lorde, June Jordan, Saul Williams, and other Black Americans. Through their words, beautiful and painful at turns, these writers helped me make sense of my own identity and my own feelings of disconnection from the US. As I did so, I learned about the ways in which their/their characters’ experiences and struggles as the Other differed from my own, all of which better helped me to understand the ways in which power structures have impacted and continue to impact communities of color in this country.

At the time, I also sought Filipino American writers. But it wasn’t until my second year of college that I read one for the first time. Professor Woodard turned me onto Carlos Bulosan and then from there I ended up finding Jessica Hagedorn and the poet Patrick Rosal. Sadly, though, the list of Filipino American writers was short (at least, from what I could find back then). I’m not sure if I was aware of it at the time, but I think this planted the seed of my desire to use fiction to speak to my own experiences, and in doing so, contribute to the body of Filipino American work so that others might not feel as alone as I did when I was growing up.

This June, my third young adult novel comes out. My first featured a Filipino American character as part of the main cast, and my second a half-Black, half-Filipino American character. My third takes a much closer approach to the personal, as it features a half-White, half-Filipino American character who travels to the Philippines. I’m extremely proud of my contributions to YA literature. Growing up, I had never read a single book for children or teens that even featured a Filipino American character, and now I can proudly say I’ve put three on the shelves, and that I’m part of the ever-growing number of Filipino American authors doing this work in children’s lit (Erin Entrada Kelly even won the Newbery in 2018!).

I don’t think I’d be doing any of this if not for my Black professors offering the classes that they offered, if not for those Black writers and historians writing what they did and what they continue to write. So consider this post a small acknowledgment and honoring of what their work meant to me as a writer and as a hyphenated American. Black writers and activists continue to inspire me, and I’ll continue to teach and read their works all year long.

Sadly, Vincent Woodard passed away in 2008. His book, published posthumously, can be purchased here.

 

[image error]

I’m excited to kick off the new year with a new (and free) short story for you all to read thanks to the awesome folks at Foreshadow! The story is titled “Ours” and I’m not exactly certain how to categorize the genre. Maybe YA Filipinx American contemporary horror/paranormal? I don’t know. I don’t want to give too much away, but I tried to make it real weird and creepy, so I hope you enjoy! And while you’re over there, make sure to check out Malinda Lo’s “Red” and Joanna Truman’s “Glow”!

I was invited to join a session at this year’s NCTE convention about complexity in YA literature. As part of the session, Dr. Jennifer Buehler (author of  Teaching Reading with YA Literature: Complex Texts, Complex Lives) and Dr. Cathy Fleisher asked me and the other authors (Elizabeth Acevedo, David Arnold, Sharon Draper, David Levithan, Emily X.R. Pan, & Ibi Zoboi) each to speak for five minutes about how we approached complexity in our own craft. Here’s what I shared: 

When I was in training to be an English teacher, a teacher I admired told me that one of the most important things I would do is choose the books; therefore, I should choose texts that speak for themselves.

I nodded my head because that sounded deep as hell—but I didn’t really know what that meant at the time. But now, almost a decade and a half of teaching later, I think I have a better idea.

The longer I’ve taught, the more discussion has played a central role in my English classroom because I came to realize that if students can’t think at a certain level, they can’t read or write beyond a certain level. I use a style of discussion called Harkness, which is an approach that fosters proactive intellectual engagement by explicitly teaching students to ask questions, participate responsively, and self-facilitate in such a way that encourages an equity of voice—it also requires the teacher to get out of the way and trust that students can do this if given the space. What I’ve learned in doing so is that essential to having a good discussion is having an interesting, complex text to explore together. However, what I think this means is not that a text that speaks for itself in that it’s didactic—when that’s the case, there’s nothing left for anyone to say and the discussion falls flat on its face. Rather, I believe a text speaks for itself by asking important, complex questions and not offering easy answers. It invites readers to wonder.

So when I write, I start with an authentic question, one that I don’t already know the answer to. The idea for After the Shot Drops began as I thought about all of the traditional narratives of black and brown kids in poverty whose lives are saved through sports. Those stories always left me with the question: What happens to those who are left behind?

To explore that question I created my two main characters: Bunny, a black teen and star basketball player on track to make it; and Nasir, Bunny’s half-black, half-Filipino best friend who’s not a standout athlete and who feels abandoned because of Bunny’s decision to transfer schools. The story’s told in alternating first-person POVs to approach that initial question from both angles.

Like a true complex question, there was not an easy answer. In fact, the more I wrote, the more questions arose.

As I developed Nasir & Bunny’s friendship: How have they been impacted by toxic masculinity? Can that be undone, and if so, how? How do we forgive?

As I tried to figure out Bunny’s inner conflicts as he struggled with competing pressures to take care of his family, his community, his friends, his own future: To whom are we responsible?

As I developed the setting of St. Sebastian’s, where Bunny transfers: What are the systemic effects of such high-stakes athletic programs on those communities both with and without successful programs? How does race and class factor into that? How does all of this affect the individual?

There’s also a third main character to the story, who plays the role of antagonist: Wallace. In early drafts, Wallace was a cardboard bad guy. He moved the plot forward and served as a foil to Bunny, but other than that, he wasn’t very interesting. But as I delved deeper into Wallace’s character during revisions, I was led to a new question, one which I think is ultimately the most important underlying my initial question: Whom do we value? And this of course, leads to another question, an even more important question: Whom should we value? It’s our answer to this question which determines the limits of our empathy, and the limits of our empathy determines the limits of our world.

So as a writer, I see the complexity of my work as growing organically out of my attempt to explore a complex question. If I build such a question into the story’s foundation, I believe its complexity will resonate fractally throughout every aspect of the work as I make decisions about setting, characters, plot, theme, and style.

As an educator, I try to imagine my book being used as the basis for the kinds of class discussions I facilitate. I feel it has succeeded as a complex text when readers encounter questions worthy of discussion: that is, questions that don’t have easy answers, questions that will demand empathy and multiple perspectives, questions that will lead to other questions, and questions that help us appreciate the asymptotic nature of knowledge. And to me, it is essential that we acknowledge the paradox at the heart of complexity: that is, though wrestling with these questions leads to a fuller understanding, we will never understand anything fully.