This book was promised to be searing, sunlit, exquisite etc on the beautiful pastel cover, but the only word that really comes to my mind is embryonic. I was heartily let down by what was not shy in promising itself to be an evocative coming of age novel wrestling a dual identity of race and sexuality, and what instead felt like a rushed first draft drained of any connection or passion.
There were many promising elements and themes which were simply never developed, almost always just thrown in and ignored for the rest of the book. I enjoyed the emphasis on the sensory, for example his mother brewing Persian tea and how the smell filled the flat, or his grandfather peeling cucumbers in the garden. Sadly, these moments owe their appeal more to the inherent beauty of the images themselves than to any particular skill on the author's part in conveying them. The prose in general felt simplistic in a way which was not effective. I've read other books with a very pared-back writing style which has the potential to embue a real touch of grace and humanity to the work, but this was not the case here. This is depsite the author's assertion, expressed through the protagonist, that he is going to write "his" way rather than perscribe to a anglo-centric monolithic standard of what is 'good' writing. This is brilliant and important, but I didn't really see it actually happen. I feel language was poorly utilised; Khabushani tended to depict sensory and emotional experiences rather literally (he completely failed to 'show not tell', the whole novel being entirely composed of telling), there was little lingusitic diversity or ornamentation, but nor was there an earnest utilisation of contemporary slang (or, beyond literally, of Farsi), his senteces often followed a very similar structure, and there was almost no pacing throughout- the events simply happened one after the other and I felt no sense of climax, nor of temporary slowing down.
I was unconvinced by Khabushani's narrative voice of a 9 year old, in my opinion he failed to inhabit the mentality of a child, and would often express reflections that were not realistic of an infant of that age (yet nor were these reflections presented as retrospective). In fact, as the protagonist grew up between the ages of 9 and 18 there was no shift or development in the narrative voice, it remained exactly the same. The ageing process itself was unclear and I often had no idea if I was reading about a 12 or a 17 year old. In 200 pages the book touched on sexuality, desire, race, religion, terrorism, war, place, misogyny, kidnapping, and for a shocking two pages, incest and child sexual abuse. Not one of these themes was developed or explored in any way. The child rape scene came out of nowhere, there was no precedent, no build up, and indeed no aftermath. It was a swift scene that was then not mentioned until the end of the book, and even then, not unpacked at all, or slotted into the protagonist's wider identity or mental state. The other major characters such as his family or his best friend/lover had extremely 2-D plot lines (I hesitate to say arcs) which for the most part were not resolved, or resolved hastily and unclearly. None of the three named female characters of the book was given any kind of resolution or ending. But then again, the protagonist's emotional resolution simply took the form of him moving (somewhat ironically, given the book's title) from California to New York.
In short, I feel this novel was extremely premature. It's short page count was not to its advantage, and it felt underdeveloped in every single way. I wish the author had waited 20 more years and written 200 more pages, and this then could have been a really poignant and fresh work of art. Instead it felt disconnected from its own emotional offerings, prosaic in style, and fiercely disappointing as a novel which had so much potential to be wonderful.