Querida reader, ultimately I hope these stories do for you what they’ve done for me – at the very least I pray they offer you an opportunity for communion. A chance to listen, if not to the parrots of our world, then to some other lone voice struggling to be heard against the great silence.~~ Junot Díaz, Introduction, BASS 2016
If there was ever a particular anthology I needed at a particular time, this was it.
Did I like it because I wanted to like it? I won’t rule this out. In fact, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. “Oh, you just want to like it because it’s multicultural” isn’t an insult. Why isn’t the desire to embrace different voices a good thing, something to be celebrated? I’ve enjoyed plenty of nice-suburban-white-lady-struggles-with-family-issues stories. I give middle-aged-white-guy-trapped-in-marriage-and-job stories the benefit of the doubt. And we all know there’s plenty of rich-white-city-folk-upset-about-something-they-did-to-themselves fiction. Why shouldn’t I, when starting a volume guest edited by a writer known for his promotion of diversity, look forward to something different? Why shouldn’t we all grab the opportunity to see the world through a different set of eyes, as much as we can?
Yes, I want to fight back against the global tide of nationalism in general, and in particular against the terrifying brand of neo-Nazi fundamentalist Christian white supremacy that’s becoming more entrenched in America every day since Nov. 9. But I also genuinely want to know more about what it’s like to be someone who isn’t me, and that includes differences in era, age, gender orientation, race, nationality, religion, language, class, aspirations, and fears. What does it mean to be a young woman, born in Ethiopia but brought to the US as an infant, to connect with her family there? How does life look to a transgender woman in Japan who confronts a figure from her adolescence? Who made these clothes I’m wearing, what is her life like, and what was she thinking about? What was it like during the Depression in America? Is there any way to see midwestern funeral thieves through the eyes of compassion? And invariably, though our lives may differ in major ways, there is some point of commonality to be found. I can learn something from all of them.
These are fictional people, sure, but the more we imagine, maybe the more we are open to the unfamiliar when we encounter it, and the less it frightens us. And by the way, I’d love to read some stories about neo-Nazi fundamentalist Christian white supremacists who struggle with decisions and consequence, if anyone out there writes some that aren’t merely megaphones for hate and power. I’m sure there’s insight to be found there, too.
I can’t begin to pick three favorites from this anthology; I’d say more than half of the stories were favorites in very different ways, and half of the rest were very close runners-up. So I’ll instead present my Sloopies, awards for my own private categories:
Story that made me change my epitaph: “The Great Silence” by Ted Chiang.
Story that’s come back to me every day since I read it: “The Politics of the Quotidian” by Caille Millner.
Story that brought back a memory and made me cry: “Secret Stream” by Héctor Tobar.
Story that made me believe we can find compassion for everyone if we look closely enough: “Treasure State” by Smith Henderson.
Story that proved again the value of putting just a little effort into understanding what the author was doing: “For the God of Love, For the Love of God” by Lauren Groff.
Story of harsh reality told with lyric beauty: “On This Side” by Yuko Sakata.
Story of wild imagination: “The Bears” by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum.
Story of everyday simplicity: “The Suitcase” by Meron Hadero.
Story that hit the perfect end note: “Williamsburg Bridge” by John Edgar Wideman.
We’ve all just about come through an annus horribilis that may wring its wretchedness out on us for years to come. I’m grateful for the moments of light I’ve been fortunate to encounter along the way. BASS 2016 was one of them.