Wednesday, 11 December 2024 05:07 pm
Book Review: Ballad & Dagger
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deckardcanineThis Daniel José Older YA novel is the first in a duology called Outlaw Saints, which somehow rang a bell for me. I probably added it to my wish list because of an article about the best fantasies of 2022. The series is not significant enough for its own Wikipedia article, but someone must have meant to prioritize diversity.
The isle of San Madrigal was settled in the Age of Exploration by various people escaping persecution, taking advantage of the perception that it was too small to bother conquering. Fifteen years ago, the isle sank, but only one "Galerano" drowned; most migrated to a Brooklyn neighborhood now called Little Madrigal. To this day, their culture is dominated semi-separately by Sephardic Judaism, Santería, and career crime. (The criminals still call themselves "pirates," but I don't know that they do anything at sea anymore.)
The first-person, present-tense narrator is Mateo Matisse Medina, a gawky 16-year-old who thinks he bombs at everything except music. His parents are constant travelers, so he didn't spend much time in Little Madrigal until they left him in the care of his aunts, hence a feeling of almost being an outsider. But on a big day that kicks off the several weeks of the story, he becomes the last Galerano to find out he has a unique role to play in their destiny. It's not just a coming-of-age tale; he's on the verge of extraordinary self-realization.
In case the fictitious nation didn't tip you off to the fantasy nature, one of Mateo's aunts is a ghost, and he's not the only one who can see and hear her. Galeranos take this phenomenon in stride. Nevertheless, Mateo is surprised at confirmation of the existence of non-ghost spirits (whether to call them gods, angels, or demons is up for debate). He is also, unpleasantly, surprised to learn what legends of San Madrigal turn out to be false.
The first sign of conflict comes when Mateo sees Chela, a classmate he vaguely knows, fatally stab someone else he vaguely knows. He does not tell anyone, partly because Galeranos have an unwritten rule against calling 911 and partly because someone removes all evidence fast. He spends a long time unsure what to make of Chela, both scared and intrigued. Others sense he has a crush before he does. He'll need longer to find out what she thinks of him.
Of course, the main plot is much bigger. Several prominent community figures have a plan to raise San Madrigal. Sounds uncontroversial, but others object that the newly repopulated isle would become a tourist trap and dilute their dignity. I don't see why that's any less of a risk in Little Madrigal. Regardless, the pro-raising side proves to be allied with entities considered evil even by Galerano criminal standards. Mateo and Chela will have to work together to thwart them.
I could be wrong, but I get the impression that Older intends an anti-capitalist message. It certainly wouldn't be the only thing woke about the book. Ethnic and religious minority presence aside, Mateo's aunts are a lesbian couple, and at least one of his friends is nonbinary. (That gets confusing because the NB is a twin. "They? Both of them?")
Philosophy is not the main thing that bugs me about the story. It's hard to reconcile, for instance, a rabbi with tolerance of elements highly contrary to his faith. And I'm none too fond of spirits taking over live humans, no matter what the alleged level of consent.
That said, I do like the writing overall. For a guy who can barely speak to people, Mateo sure narrates well, sometimes funnily on purpose. And the action gets pretty exciting.
I also appreciate the cultural education. Now I finally know a few things about Santería. Most of the non-English words are Spanish, with or without translation. We also get snippets of Ladino and Yoruba. It took me a while to discover the (incomprehensive) glossary near the back of my edition.
At the very back are the first two chapters of the sequel, Last Canto of the Dead, which includes a second narrator. I think I'll pass, but I don't mind having partaken of B&D.
I have tentatively picked up N.K. Jemisen's The Fifth Season, but I can't promise I'll finish. It gets off to a weird start that's hard to follow.
The isle of San Madrigal was settled in the Age of Exploration by various people escaping persecution, taking advantage of the perception that it was too small to bother conquering. Fifteen years ago, the isle sank, but only one "Galerano" drowned; most migrated to a Brooklyn neighborhood now called Little Madrigal. To this day, their culture is dominated semi-separately by Sephardic Judaism, Santería, and career crime. (The criminals still call themselves "pirates," but I don't know that they do anything at sea anymore.)
The first-person, present-tense narrator is Mateo Matisse Medina, a gawky 16-year-old who thinks he bombs at everything except music. His parents are constant travelers, so he didn't spend much time in Little Madrigal until they left him in the care of his aunts, hence a feeling of almost being an outsider. But on a big day that kicks off the several weeks of the story, he becomes the last Galerano to find out he has a unique role to play in their destiny. It's not just a coming-of-age tale; he's on the verge of extraordinary self-realization.
In case the fictitious nation didn't tip you off to the fantasy nature, one of Mateo's aunts is a ghost, and he's not the only one who can see and hear her. Galeranos take this phenomenon in stride. Nevertheless, Mateo is surprised at confirmation of the existence of non-ghost spirits (whether to call them gods, angels, or demons is up for debate). He is also, unpleasantly, surprised to learn what legends of San Madrigal turn out to be false.
The first sign of conflict comes when Mateo sees Chela, a classmate he vaguely knows, fatally stab someone else he vaguely knows. He does not tell anyone, partly because Galeranos have an unwritten rule against calling 911 and partly because someone removes all evidence fast. He spends a long time unsure what to make of Chela, both scared and intrigued. Others sense he has a crush before he does. He'll need longer to find out what she thinks of him.
Of course, the main plot is much bigger. Several prominent community figures have a plan to raise San Madrigal. Sounds uncontroversial, but others object that the newly repopulated isle would become a tourist trap and dilute their dignity. I don't see why that's any less of a risk in Little Madrigal. Regardless, the pro-raising side proves to be allied with entities considered evil even by Galerano criminal standards. Mateo and Chela will have to work together to thwart them.
I could be wrong, but I get the impression that Older intends an anti-capitalist message. It certainly wouldn't be the only thing woke about the book. Ethnic and religious minority presence aside, Mateo's aunts are a lesbian couple, and at least one of his friends is nonbinary. (That gets confusing because the NB is a twin. "They? Both of them?")
Philosophy is not the main thing that bugs me about the story. It's hard to reconcile, for instance, a rabbi with tolerance of elements highly contrary to his faith. And I'm none too fond of spirits taking over live humans, no matter what the alleged level of consent.
That said, I do like the writing overall. For a guy who can barely speak to people, Mateo sure narrates well, sometimes funnily on purpose. And the action gets pretty exciting.
I also appreciate the cultural education. Now I finally know a few things about Santería. Most of the non-English words are Spanish, with or without translation. We also get snippets of Ladino and Yoruba. It took me a while to discover the (incomprehensive) glossary near the back of my edition.
At the very back are the first two chapters of the sequel, Last Canto of the Dead, which includes a second narrator. I think I'll pass, but I don't mind having partaken of B&D.
I have tentatively picked up N.K. Jemisen's The Fifth Season, but I can't promise I'll finish. It gets off to a weird start that's hard to follow.