Books like Some Places More Than Others: 100 fan favorites

This historical novel has been heralded as a fresh look at the era of the Little House books, and it does a wonderful job of looking at frontier life in Dakota Territory in 1880 from the perspective of Chinese-American Hanna. It’s also an examination of a daughter trying to navigate an often prickly relationship with her white father, made even more difficult after the death of Hanna’s Chinese-Korean mother. I love Hanna’s careful study of everyone around her—observances that are borne from a need to protect herself from racism, but which are also windows to empathy and understanding. Despite her father’s resistance to Hanna following her dream to become a dressmaker, Hanna prevails, using her knowledge of her father’s own nature to win him over.

Haydu is a master at using fantasy as a metaphor for real-life trauma. What I love about One Jar in particular is Haydu’s delicate pacing as Rose, who has always idealized her father, slowly comes to the realization that he’s been manipulating her into believing she’s destined for a special kind of magic and—in an even more devastating betrayal—has made her believe there is only one definition of special. When Rose doesn’t measure up to that definition, she blames herself until the evidence against her father becomes too overwhelming to ignore. It’s a masterful portrait of an abusive parent using divisiveness to keep everyone in their place, and of a young girl rising above her father’s machinations and redefining “special” for herself.

Zoe Washington’s situation grabs at our heartstrings: On her 12th birthday she receives a letter from the father she’s never known - a letter from prison. She knew Marcus had been convicted of a terrible crime, but she’s been growing up happily with her mom and stepdad, with her birth father firmly out of mind.

But in the letter Marcus claims he’s innocent, and Zoe sets out to uncover the secret of his incarceration. The issues in this book go beyond the promising new father-daughter relationship, extending to the systemic racism of the US criminal courts. It’s a challenging but heartwarming read. 

Ava and her dad have the kind of relationship that would have fascinated me at the age of twelve, because they get along great! Ava doesn’t remember her mother; it’s always been just her and her dad. When Dad introduces Ava to the Girlfriend, Ava’s anxiety disorder kicks in and she can’t stop her thoughts from spiraling into all the negative possibilities. I love the way Crocker uses humor to gently poke at some of Ava’s fears (killer ground squirrels!) while never belittling them and even offering tips on dealing with anxiety at the end of some chapters. This is a great look at how changing relationships and blending families can be a challenge to process for kids and adults alike.

The main characters in this book were the first relationship goals for me as a teenager. I loved their relationship; the story flow was vividly in my mind as I read it.

I really shouldn’t have seen the movie because often, it doesn’t follow the same storyline, but I will forever love this book and love the main characters' relationship. It was and still is golden to me.

I love this book because it gives you all the juicy stories and details about Black artists during the Harlem Renaissance. Their relationships with each other were all so messy and complicated, and I love learning about my favorite artists and writers who have inspired me as people who were deeply imperfect rather than untouchable, saint-like literary figures who could not be critiqued. It helped me see this as more human.

Although presented as a novel, this book is a memoir of Brown’s life growing up as a Black boy in Harlem in the 1940s and 50s amid poverty, violence, and addiction.

Marlene was in Paris in the summer of 1969 when a young white American man gave her a book to read. Brown’s story smacked me in the face. He lived in an America that was foreign to me—poverty, addiction, violence, incarceration. His experiences growing up on the streets of Harlem were so different from mine in suburban New Jersey.

What I remember most is my wonder at Brown’s description of “conking” his hair—straightening it with chemical relaxers that damaged his hair and burned his scalp. His description has stayed with me for all these years as a reminder of how little I knew and know about the lives of Blacks and their position in a white world.

This novel may be my favorite book of the 1970s and a woefully underappreciated deep satire not just of its moment, but of ours as well. I think about the mere fact of museums being renamed "centers of art detention" once a day or so, and I haven't reread the book in a decade.

Thomas’s memoir is a seminal text of Nuyorican Literature (a sub-genre of Diasporican Literature) and the Latinx canon. It also belongs to the urban literature genre that emerged in the 1960s. His, however, was the first Latinx version of a narrative that depicts, some would say sensationalizes and exploits, the gritty, raw life of the inner city. As such, it had a tremendous impact on developing Latinx writers who had few role models at the time. His work, along with others of that genre, still holds influence stylistically and thematically with some Latinx authors. Written in the traditional Augustinian autobiographical model, Mean Streets tracks Piri’s fall into crime and drugs and final transformation and redemption. More significantly, this memoir introduces the issue of Latinx black identity and the complication of it within the American black-white paradigm. 

Only when I arrived in Paris did I discover the works of this major African American writer.

Back then, Himes—still under-recognized in the USA—was a long-time household name in France. Himes not only brought the American crime novel to the Black part of town, he did it with a satiric bite that is his distinguishing feature.

The Black police detectives Grave Digger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson are at the center of the nine novels in Himes's Harlem Cycle, an epic achievement in crime fiction.

Himes's Harlem is a violent phantasmagoria where Digger and Ed—in order to protect the poor, ordinary working folk of the community—are forced to be the baddest of the bad.

Cotton Comes to Harlem is my favorite work in the collection. Published in 1965, it skewers both Black militants and white racists with wicked glee.