Review | Those Opulent Days, by Jacquie Pham

The murder mystery in Those Opulent Days serves as a jumping-off point for a deep dive exploration and expose of the various complexities around racial and class disparities during 1928 French-colonial Vietnam.

As someone unfamiliar with Vietnamese history, I was fascinated by this glimpse into the country’s history. The way Vietnamese characters (referred to as “Annanites” in this novel) automatically provide more deference to French nationals, and the way in which wealthy Vietnamese characters set themselves apart from their poorer counterparts by adopting aspects of French culture, felt raw and distressingly true. They reminded me of how colonization by Spain and then the United States of America also resulted in similar ripple effects in the Philippines, where I grew up. Almost a century since independence, and we still talk about “colonial mentality,” and how we must fight against some of these beliefs that we have internalized.

The murder mystery centres on a quartet of friends from wealthy families: Duy, Phong, Minh, and Edmond. One of them ends up dead during a weekend at Duy’s family’s vacation home, and it isn’t till much later in the book that we learn who the victim was, and who may have wanted him dead. There isn’t much of an investigation, nor much suspense over the reveal. While the incident serves as a focal point for the events of the story (most of the novel’s events happen within a week of the death), the murder itself isn’t actually the focus of the story.

Rather, the story is about the lives of these four young men, and how the social inequities during the period play out in their families. I love how Pham explores the subtleties in their relationship through minor details, like how Duy’s family’s opium business makes them powerful in one way, but Minh’s family’s rubber business actually makes him the wealthiest of the group. More significantly, Edmond being French and white immediately accords him and his family prestige that even Minh’s wealthy and powerful family can’t achieve.

We learn how Phong is the smartest of the group, and how his father maintains his deceased first wife’s primacy by sending the children of all his subsequent wives to work in Minh’s factories and fields. We also learn how Edmond’s mother is so racist that she rubs her hand raw when a Vietnamese man accidentally brushes against it, never mind that he’s literally royalty. Pham sprinkles all these details throughout that truly make this world come to life. Whomever is killed, and whomever the murderer turns out to be, it’s clear that the villain in this novel is French colonization, and the way that Vietnamese people are second-class citizens on their own land.

Possibly because of this theme, the chapters I found most powerful are those from the perspectives of Vietnamese servants in Minh’s household: Hai, a kind-hearted maid whose romance with Minh threatens the elevated place in society that Minh’s mother has fought so hard to attain, and Tattler, an ambitious housemaid who hates the upper class until she realizes she actually really wishes to be one of them. Both are doomed by the circumstances of their birth and the society they must learn to navigate, and amongst all the glitzy glamour — the opulence, so to speak — the four main characters inhabit, Hai and Tattler’s chapters provide us a grittier counterpoint. Their stories show us that, however much we sympathize with Duy, Minh, Phong, and Edmond for their struggles within social structures, the four men are also somewhat complicit in keeping those structures going.

Hurt people hurt people, and this novel explores the many ways that power imbalances can lead to people lashing out to those who are less powerful. There’s a powerful moment near the end where characters are forced to confront the harsh limits of their own power, and yet there’s another, equally powerful, moment where power structures are subverted when a character takes control of their own destiny. Overall, this is a fascinating, multi-layered, and textured historical novel, one where a murder mystery is a powerful metaphor for all the complex and simmering tensions amongst a people longing to regain control over their own homeland.

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Thank you to Publishers Group Canada for an advance reading copy in exchange for an honest review.

Review | The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards, by Jessica Waite

How do you grieve someone when you’ve just learned of all the many ways that they’ve done you wrong? Jessica Waite’s memoir, The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards, begins with an arresting image: the author confronted with nine photos of vulvas, arranged in a three-by-three grid “like the Brady Bunch family” (page 1). It’s a tiny subset of her recently-deceased husband Sean’s porn collection, and his secret stash of digital images is the least of his transgressions.

As Jessica processes his loss, and tries to help her young son, Dash, heal, she continues to unearth more of Sean’s secrets: he regularly pays for sex while on vacation, he’s had a long-time affair with a colleague, and his debts put Jessica’s financial security in jeopardy. This memoir may have started with a pointed, darkly humorous observation about Sean’s secrets, but most of the book takes us on Jessica’s raw and rather emotional journey in the aftermath of Sean’s death.

There’s anger: in a moment of petty revenge that Jessica deliberately conceals from friends until it’s too late for them to stop her, Jessica sets out to ruin Sean’s affair partner’s Christmas. Jessica’s barrage of texts and emails are straight-up harassment, and her threats involve not just the affair partner’s holiday cheer, but also her career. So it’s hard to cheer for Jessica in that moment, yet the act alone proves to be enough catharsis without having to escalate, so all’s well that ends well?

Beyond the anger is also a lot of fear. Jessica takes us through her anxieties about getting tested for STDs, and about waiting for all the legal stuff around Sean’s death benefits to come through. Worse is the lingering fear of what else remains unknown; if Sean had succeeded in keeping all this from her till now, what other secrets had he been keeping that could end up ruining the life she’s building?

Jessica deliberately leaves vague her own personal beliefs about the afterlife, or lack thereof, but the memoir also takes us on her deeply spiritual journey in exploring those questions for herself. This, too, rings true. There’s nothing like losing someone to make us wonder where they may be now, and if we’ll ever see them again, and while Jessica’s exploration does stay within particular paths of spirituality, her curiosity and yearning are also very real.

There’s a wonderful metaphor from someone Jessica goes to for counsel: when the day of Sean’s death began, Jessica was at the 12:00 point of an analogue clock, steady, secure, and with an entire clock’s worth of stability beneath her. Sean’s death plunges her all the way down to the 6:00 point in a moment, and suddenly, she’s scrambling to figure out where she can find her footing again.

Jessica’s response rings so true for anyone who’s gone through grief: after a ‘decent’ period of mourning (the length of which differs by person), her loved ones expect her to be back to the woman she was at the 12:00 point. Yet even if she does manage to climb back up there, she’s no longer the same woman. Grief has forever changed her, and it’s tough to quantify how, much less explain it to others. It’s a powerful and heartbreaking message, yet one that reminds me of my own experiences of grief, and makes me feel less alone.

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Thank you to Simon and Schuster Canada for an advance reading copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Review | Becoming Ted, by Matt Cain

Becoming Ted is a heartwarming and feel-good novel about a 40-something man who pursues his lifelong dream of becoming a drag queen after his husband of 20 years leaves him for a younger man. It’s a story of friendship, romance, and mustering up the courage to be truly and unapologetically yourself, and it’s an absolute delight to read.

Ted Ainsworth won my heart pretty much from the first page. It’s clear how much he gives of himself to the people he loves. For example, even though he hates ice cream and dreams of becoming a performer, he agrees to manage his parents’ ice cream shop to make his parents happy and allow his sister to pursue her dreams of superstardom. He adores his then-husband Giles’ good looks and charisma, and thinks only of how lucky he is to be married to such a man. He leads a comfortable, if vaguely dissatisfying life, punctuated mostly by his weekly Fri-date with his best friend Denise to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Ted’s rather lukewarm combination of comfort and dissatisfaction is deeply relatable to anyone who’s ever gotten stuck in a rut that’s just too safe to climb out of. Fortunately for Ted, he does get forced out of his rut when an idyllic Sunday morning is interrupted by the revelation that Giles has been cheating on him, and worse, actually wants to leave him for this other man.

Ted’s heartbreak and major drop in self-confidence feels very real, and his journey to fulfilling his drag queen dreams and truly come out as fully himself is an absolutely rousing tale that’ll make you cheer him on all the way. I love how Matt Cain details all the little insecurities and doubts Ted experiences at each stage of his drag queen journey, and I especially love how Cain shows all the love and support Ted gets along the way. Community plays a major role in Ted’s story, and it’s heartwarming to see so many people, both old friends and new, step up to give Ted the boosts he needs.

Ted’s romance with Oskar is equally heartwarming. Throughout the story, we see little glimpses into Ted’s life with Giles, and fairly quickly realize that Giles isn’t actually as perfect as Ted had initially believed. There are many instances when he puts Ted down, or makes Ted feel self-conscious about the things he enjoys doing. So seeing that relationship contrasted with the one gradually blooming with Oskar makes you even happier for where Ted’s story is headed.

Oskar is far from perfect. He comes from a super conservative Catholic upbringing in Poland, and as a result, is still reluctant to live openly as a gay man. As sweet as their first few dates are, Ted raises a really valid concern that Oskar’s secrecy about their relationship feels a bit like going back into the closet for Ted, which hurts given how much he’s risked to come out of the closet in the first place. And when Ted finally risks revealing his dream of becoming a drag queen, Oskar’s response is… well, it wasn’t great, but it was understandable. In fact, it’s kudos to Cain’s masterful craftsmanship that, in that moment, we feel for Oskar just as much as feel for Ted.

Overall, this is a delightful, heartwarming, heart-expanding book. A fitting choice for Pride Month, and a lovely read year-round.

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Thank you to Kensington Publishing for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.