55 books like Cursed

Being a poet, I love verse novels, and this one grows richer every time I read it. Seventh-grader Selah works hard to follow rigid, self-imposed rules so she’ll be seen as a “normal” girl in school, someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by crowds or noise or jump from unexpected touch as though she’s been shocked.

What’s amazing about Selah is that, when keeping to those rules proves impossible and she gets in trouble, she trusts herself. With a few clues, she comes to understand she’s on the autism spectrum and finds simple tools that make a big difference.

She also starts expressing herself by writing poems. It moves me so much that poetry is represented here as a source of strength and that being unique is recognized as an asset.  

The candor and vulnerability of seventh-grader Al Schneider grabbed me from the start. Her best and only friend is drifting away, she hasn’t told anyone she likes girls, and a constant urgent need to poop has taken over her life. When Al learns she has Crohn’s disease, she is terrified at first, but then the unexpected happens.

Her diagnosis brings a new group of friends into her life. They call themselves the Bathroom Club, and they’re warm, funny, understanding, and, above all, welcoming. What a gift to a kid who, until now, has found it “mortifying just to be alive and have a body.” What a gift to readers who have yet to discover that, if you let it, disability can offer entry into a rich, vibrant, and accepting community.

What makes this novel so compelling to me is how it captures the exuberance and intensity of teen friendships. That intensity has really revved for seventeen-year-old Andrea now that she’s realized she’s in love with her best friend Hailee. Unfortunately, she’s certain—partly because of her cerebral palsy—that Hailee couldn’t possibly feel the same.

Despite these doubts, Andrea has confidence and sass, which makes her a great model for readers with disabilities. That, along with her loyal, affectionate friend group, are my favorite aspects of the book. Andrea’s friends adore her, even as she makes a mess of things in an attempt to fall out of love. Also, they treat her disability matter-of-factly, as does the author. Andrea’s C.P. is real and present but never takes over the story.

So many of us, especially as teenagers, have felt the need to hide what’s different about us from classmates and friends. This spare, lovely verse novel captures those feelings perfectly. Natalie, who lives with chronic pain and frequent bone dislocations due to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, is so invested in this facade that she hides her wheelchair and forces herself to walk in school despite the pain and damage to her joints.

But secretiveness is, of course, born of shame. And disability, Natalie eventually learns with the help of a fiery, self-possessed disabled friend, isn’t what’s shameful. Inaccessibility is. Ableism is. Eventually, the two girls join forces to confront both in their school community, making this book a call to action and self-acceptance. I also find it to be an unputdownable page-turner.

Not everyone loves a festive romance, when it involves everything we ourselves may neither want or need.

For Rob and Evan, their Christmas has been mostly hell, and as Evan crashes his car outside Rob’s remote farm? Well, it’s a classic opener. Add a snowstorm, a bull named Watermelon and a dislocated shoulder? You have the setup for a very happy end of the festive season indeed.

Fearne Hill writes stories full of warmth and British charm, and if you feel hungover on the festive season already? This might just be the book for you.

I was lucky to get the opportunity to read an advance copy of Dr. Kerschbaum's latest monograph, Signs of Disability (in the press and available in both print and open access in Fall 2022). The book focuses on the signs of disability we can recognize everywhere around us: yellow diamond-shaped “deaf person in area” road signs, that wheelchair parking icon, the telltale shapes of hearing aids, or white-tipped canes sweeping across footpaths. But even though the signs are ubiquitous, Kerschbaum argues that disability may still not be perceived as anything but a token or an apparition. This engaging, accessible book builds on Kerschbaum’s already-award-winning scholarship on difference and discourse, constructing new research methods and approaches, but also building community on these pages. Drawing on a set of thirty-three research interviews, as well as written narratives by disabled people, this book builds a new system of signs and significance for disability.… show more.

This story is told in bouncy rhyme and teaches children an important message of self-love and acceptance of others. Most importantly, the message of the book is genuinely charming and heartwarming. The rich and engaging illustrations in this book are a joy to look at and perfectly fit with the theme of this book. I especially appreciate the variety of characters shown in the book: every gender, ethnicity, and body type is showcased beautifully. 

I was absolutely stunned when I read "Unspeakable Conversations" by Harriet McBryde Johnson, one of the many brilliant pieces included in this reader. My edition is from 2010, but new and updated editions have come out since. It explores questions of interdependency and independence, gender, the body, sexuality, biases in science and medicine, and physical disabilities, and investigates issues around pain, mental disability, and invisible disabilities.

Becoming familiar with some disability theories has been invaluable to me. My capacity to read myself as disabled has grown and still fluctuates. To know that sharp minds have been working on this and that it isn’t only a private issue but a political and theoretical one, one that can be marked by joy and humor as well as grief, struggle, and hardship, is immensely helpful. 

This younger and gentler World War II book is also a great family read aloud—one I read to my own.

After her brother is evacuated during the Blitz, Ada, a young Londoner with a disability kept home by her abusive mother, runs away after him.

Bradley’s story follows a familiar turn: namely the introduction of a seemingly hard-hearted caregiver who turns out to be the very parent Ada needs. But the book hits these notes with precision and warmth, evoking older, beloved classics. There’s also a great sequel!

I find Puar’s work to be very useful even if the theoretical framework she uses is different from, though adjacent to, mine. Usually I find the “biopolitical” analysis cloying and idealist, but Puar has developed her own materialist use of this framework that I have learned a lot from. In The Right to Maim Puar examines the liberal state’s use of maiming and debilitation as part of the reproduction of its hegemony. Not only does she examine the way a liberal disability discourse functions to exclude marginalized and targeted populations—proposing a vector of disability, debility, and capacity—she also interrogates how maiming functions in capitalist, colonial, and imperialist state policing. Moreover, her case study of Palestine, based on her own fieldwork, makes the more abstract aspects of her theory concrete.