Big Girl, by Mecca Jamilah Sullivan.
I’m learning that I struggle mightily with directionless storytelling. Joan is Okay, Out of Love, These Impossible Things, Paul… these are a few books I recall off top that pissed me off in a weird way I couldn’t put a name to until now. Not experiencing an arc or an end goal makes me feel like I’m wasting my time in someone else’s mind, and for all that trouble, I could just waste time in my own mind where I prefer to be anyway.
Anyway, coming-of-age stories are for a lot of people, but not me. This book was one of them, and aside from my gripe with this specific genre, I soured at the ending of Big Girl for reasons that will give it away.
If gentrification, Harlem, the 90s, coming-of-age, fat politics, and generational dynamics interest you, give it a twirl. If not, then don’t.