This book was a miss for me. I'll discuss my many issues with it in a moment, but I want to start by saying that the book creates false expectations with its subtitle: 'A Memoir in Essays'. There are no essays in here, but rather a collection of anecdotes and small incidents from the author's life, provided with minimal to no meta-commentary. I was hoping to read a book about feminism from the perspective of a woman of color, but while the author often talks about being a feminist, we don't get to see her developing consciousness of the concept, or her awareness of the concept in the world around her, or any insightful discussion of it at all. It's not just that the author has nothing new to say about the subject -- she often doesn't say anything at all.
The stories she tells about her life are ordered in a vague chronological order from childhood to recent years. They feel cobbled together, unstructured and unified only by a vague theme. None of the topics touched upon in these stories is ever examined with much depth or nuance. In fact, the author mentions things like patriarchal beauty standards imposed on women, but then lets her own internalized patriarchal beauty standards shine through in her narrative: saying that teenage women are 'at the peak of their beauty', calling a soft stomach 'not perfect', talking about her recently face-lifted and tummy-tucked mother as 'a marvel' and 'glorious', describing herself as 'ugly' because her hair is 'frizzy' or 'kinky'.
These internalized prejudices appear in other contexts as well: the author compares her experiences of patriarchy with wearing a hijab, of wearing a mask during covid with wearing a burqa. When an acquaintance implies that she might be a lesbian, she feels herself becoming 'instantly defensive', going as far as to say 'how dare he belittle me'. She comments on the male gaze, yet seems unaware of her own gaze when she describes, in great detail, the breasts of an (underage) friend that she once observed while they were changing. When a family member cuts her hair, she describes it as 'mannishly short', while another friend cutting her hair is described as 'tamed'.
The worst thing about the book, however, is its lack of substance. With one notable exception, all the stories the author tells us are about minor incidents: seeing a man urinate in public, the father of a friend watching her swim, a man on the street blowing her a kiss as she passes him by on a bus. Are these things gross? Absolutely, but they are also depressingly normal experiences for women and girls to have. If these kinds of experiences are enough to warrant the writing of a memoir, then literally every woman could write a memoir.
These stories might have been more interesting if the author had had some larger commentary to make about how normalized these things are or how, together, they create a culture of fear for women. This meta-commentary never materializes, however -- instead, the author draws out these small incidents to extract as much drama from them as possible. I do want to note here that publishing often seems to expect the performance of trauma from women authors, especially women of color, so I understand the author wanting to conform to this expectation.
However, the lack of interesting substance manifests in other ways as well. Much of the book feels like filler, written down merely to inflate the word count. The writing is repetitive, with the author often giving three or more synonyms to express the same thought. She also engages in futile thought exercises, such as conjecturing about what Cleopatra or Jane Austen would think about the modern practice of breast implants.
The more problematic filler content, however, appears when the author 'borrows' trauma and drama from the people around her. She tells us stories about childhood friends that were molested, about adult friends' abusive marriages, about her family's 'soap opera' drama. She does this, as far as I can tell, without changing names or asking consent from the people involved (mentioning several times about these people that they have 'lost touch' or 'drifted apart').
On the whole, this book was written with very little awareness of the world around the author and no acknowledgement at all of the author's significant privileges. A disappointment.