100 books like We Are the Ants

In this novel in verse, Elizabeth Acevedo beautifully evokes the landscape and feel of Harlem through the observant character of Xiomara Batista.

Having lived in upper Manhattan for years, I recognized the neighborhood in the vibrant descriptions. I identified with Xiomara’s need to express herself, how she fills the pages of her notebook with what she feels she can’t speak aloud. Her emotions as she confronts the challenges of friendship, romance, and family feel very real.

When a high school teacher opens up for her the world of spoken word poetry and a whole new set of possibilities for self-expression, I find myself rooting for Xiomara to be brave and take the steps she must take on her personal and artistic journey towards sharing her voice.

Cemetery Boys was the first time I truly felt represented in a fantasy novel, and once I started, I couldn’t put it down. 

The navigation of family dynamics in the story is brilliant - we follow Yadriel, a gay Latinx trans teen whose family is made up of brujas (women) and brujos (men). The struggle to find his place in that system, and the way that his family members seem accepting in one moment, then dismissive in another is unbearably relatable for many queer kids growing up in Latinx households.

In an effort to prove his worth to his family (and himself) Yadriel accidentally summons the ghost of a very cute dead boy, and together they go on a journey full of both danger and self-discovery.

This book has the most badass female protagonist of all young adult novels I’ve read!

Talking about a resolute heroine set on overhauling an entire misogynistic system. She’s not restrained by what society deems as appropriate or moral, and despite their constant attempts to oppress her, she grows even more determined to break free. 

The book blends mecha-science and fantasy perfectly. It has Pacific Rim vibes, but they are based in a Chinese composite of history and culture, while also rooted in traditional Chinese Qi magic.

I appreciate that Gen’s journey of faith is a rather begrudging one. He certainly doesn’t want the gods involved in his life. Yet he is honorable (despite many appearances to the contrary) and he accomplishes, at great cost to himself, the vital task he sets out to do. His courage, despite his complaining, is still courage (and I wonder if his complaining was a mask for his fear). Sometimes faith feels like that—doing what is right even when you would rather do anything else. And sometimes that is the hardest journey of all.

This is a peculiar and marvelous book about birth families, adopted families, and “found” families, and how each of these can be equally screwed up.

Starting in Ireland in the 1940s, the story is peppered with sharp, clever dialog and vivid, fully-human characters. I love how the narrator struggles with his own heart for decades, unable to decide what he wants, who he loves, what’s right, what’s wrong, etc.—in other words, all the stuff I haven’t figured out yet myself. 

Coincidence also plays a huge role in this book, basically making an ass of everyone, which I find oddly comforting since it reminds me that part of being human is having very little control over my own life. Painfully funny and brilliant from cover to cover. 

On the surface, this is a coming-of-age story with a protagonist similar to many others in the genre—bright, witty, snobbish, and pissed off at almost everybody he meets. But what makes this book so good is the narrator’s intelligence and self-awareness, and the complexity of all the characters and their relationships. 

My own upbringing was a far cry from the wealthy, highly-cultured world depicted here—I grew up in a tiny town in southern Iowa, and though there was a college in town I had little access to culture—yet I could completely relate to the gay narrator’s fish-out-of-water feeling and his desire to be understood. I also loved his close relationship with his grandmother, since my grandmother was equally important to me.    

This is one of the funniest things I’ve ever read. It’s about a neurotic, hypochondriacal, middle-aged college professor in a small town who does one absurd thing after another as he attempts to sort his life out. 

His wife, daughter, and father are all as much of a wreck as he is, as are his lunatic colleagues in the English department. Being a middle-aged, neurotic, and hypochondriacal man myself—and having grown up in a small, claustrophobic college town with maladjusted academic types much like these—this novel had me crying with laughter. (There’s an over-the-top scene with a goose and a news reporter that almost made me wet myself.) 

But as often happens in a Richard Russo novel, there are also tons of lovely, sweet, and insightful moments. This is a great book.

I love this novel. It’s about a young man mourning the death of his wife and trying to deal with crippling grief while also repairing his relationship with his sixteen-year-old stepson. With such a premise you wouldn’t think the book would be funny, but it’s both hysterical and emotionally touching. 

Trooper has a gift for making extremely dysfunctional characters lovable, putting them in ludicrous situations and turning them loose on each other. This book really resonated with me because of the damaged-yet-enduring family dynamic after the death of a loved one, which is similar to my own experience following the death of my father. 

The evolving relationship between the main character and his stepson is also great, and Tropper nails the adolescent angst I remember so well from my own childhood.

This is one of my absolute favorite books. It’s beautifully written, telling a compelling story about Molly Williams, who shared a love of baseball and a deep connection with her father through the long hours they spent talking while he taught her to pitch a knuckleball. When he dies in a car accident, Molly’s world falls apart. Her mother descends into depression, and communication between them stops. Molly slowly puts her life back together when she earns a place on a boys’ baseball team and builds friendships with her teammates. The power of this book lies in its central metaphor: the need for communication. Between pitcher and catcher, between base coach and runner, between parent and child, between friends. 

Lisa’s husband dies as he is being treated for cancer. She writes about the first year after in which grief, madness, confusion, isolation, and fury coincide with Britain’s beginning Brexit madness. Nothing can be made sense of and yet we need words to express what’s happening. And then words provide for consoling and managing.