Hello beautiful Bookbaggers! It’s been a minute since we last spoke!
I have to apologize for my extended absence from this blog, life has been getting in the way of my posting this semester. I hope you didn’t miss me too much, but to make up for my… procrastination… I have a great lineup of book recommendations and some amazing songs for you all as we head into the 2025 holiday season!
Before I get to any of that however, I would like to take some time to talk about my mama, the original Bookbagger: Dr. Jessica Martin.
This Monday– December 8th– would have marked her 51st birthday. This is the seventh December without her, and the sixth year since her death.
I saw a quote the other day that went something like this: “and so I process grief by running from it until it finds me in the middle of the street on a beautiful sunny day”. This really resonated with me, as much of my life up to this point has been spent learning and re-learning the lesson that grief cannot be deconstructed into stages, nor can it be logically processed. No one can skirt around it, there is no shortcut, no procedure to rid yourself of it– it is something we must learn to carry, something we must learn to grow around. I spent so much time in the past six years pushing the pain of grieving my mother away, that it eventually found me in the middle of the street on a sunny day.
I got sick and tired of running, so for the past year (and some change) I’ve been working to shift the way I think about grief, and I think I’ve come to a conclusion: I don’t think I want to rid myself of it. I think grief is the inevitable counterpart of love. No matter who you are, eventually you will lose someone you love and it will bring you to your knees. This is the human condition. No matter how heavy this loss weighs on you however, the grief that accompanies it is not the enemy. It is how we love people when they are no longer a part of our lives- we make them a part of ourselves. I had to embrace grief because I needed my mom. I needed– and continue to need– her presence, and she is present in this embrace of grief.
My wonderful dad and brother came to visit me on the Sunday before her birthday. We decided to get sushi for lunch and take a trip to a local bookstore– two things we know she would have loved. We embrace her and her life through the rebellious act of seeking happiness. We embraced grief together, and in doing so we were able to embrace Mom. Grief is not the enemy, it does not seek to drag us backwards into the past. Grief is an avenue for the past– and the people who lived in it– to exist with us in the present. I exist with my mother in the present when I look through our photographs, when I spend time tearing through a good book, when I write, when I listen to her music, and when I cry for the loss of her physical presence. Grief allows us to carry the people we have lost with us. It found me in the middle of a sunny street and brought me to my knees, and I suddenly realized that running from grief meant running from her, so I took a breath and embraced it all.
Part of how I hold my mom close is through reading, learning, and through my updates on this blog. My dad and brother and I’s tradition of buying books for my mom’s birthday contributed greatly to this edition of Bookbagginit– as two of the books in this post are ones I acquired through this celebration. So on that note, I’ll get into my recommendations!
Sue me, but I want to kick off my recommendations with some dessert before dinner and start with a graphic novel. Kylooe is an absolutely stunning work of art, with an equally stunning story to match. Little Thunder’s 2012 graphic novel took me all of two hours to read, but I have to say I loved all 120 minutes. The illustrations in this book transported me into another world, creating an entirely magical experience. I don’t think I put the book down once from the moment I opened it.
Little Thunder states that they aim for their illustrations to reflect the feeling of dreaming. All three portions of Kylooe embrace this surreal feeling– in narrative beats and aesthetics alike.
The first segment of the story follows an isolated and emotionally neglected teen girl as she finds some solace from daily life in her dreams. The first story is the most fantastical of the three, guiding readers through Lanyue’s dreams and nightmares alike– inviting them to experience the emotional rollercoaster of teenagehood.
The second segment of the novel is a reflection on past love, where the protagonist– Sanyi– finds himself lost in the memories of the one that got away. Sanyi’s pain is tangible, as he swims in his regret over his past mistakes. The narrative is a reflection on young love, pushing readers to examine their relationship to the past– and the people in it.
The final segment of the novel explores a reality where the government restricts public emotional expression– making it illegal for citizens to smile, laugh, cry, or yell under threat of imprisonment. The narrative boldly examines fatherhood, authoritarianism, and grief in this dystopian world, asking readers to think critically about restriction and power– on a national and interpersonal scale.
All three stories in the novel– though they may seem unrelated– incorporate the character “Kylooe” in one way or another, with the fuzzy monster taking on a new connotation each time to create a meaningful, occasionally absurdist, reading experience.
Overall, I would highly recommend adding this one to your bookshelf. Kylooe is a beautiful, surreal read that I know I’ll be returning to should I find myself in need of artistic inspiration.
Pagan Kennedy’s “The Secret History of the Rape Kit” was simultaneously fascinating and horrifying. Throughout the book Kennedy details her journalistic experience as she delves into the history of the rape kit and it’s invisible creator Marty Goddard. As a survivor of sexual violence when I saw this book on the shelf I was initially hesitant to give it a read, as I feared I might be overwhelmed with the content and never finish the book. I was immediately proven wrong when I opened the book to read a few pages and immediately became invested in Goddard’s story.
I would argue that this is my favorite book I’ve read this year. Kennedy’s passionate search for Marty Goddard paralleled my own search for comfort and guidance in the wake of the assault I experienced as a young teenager– I felt Kennedy’s desperation in the core of my being, and her mindful approach to the horrifying subject matter of the book allowed me to learn without feeling isolated due to my sensitivity.
Everything Kennedy revealed in the book- from Marty’s creation of the kit, to Playboy’s involvement in its establishment, to the modern issues Kennedy investigated in regards to survivors and their care– was new information to me. There was a sense of urgency within me as I read, as if I had just gained access to a forbidden wealth of information and if I didn’t finish the book quickly enough it might be ripped from my hands.
The book struck me, placing a persistent question in my head: “why did I never know any of this before?”
Even as a survivor of sexual violence, an undergraduate history student, and a gender studies minor, I had never been presented with detailed information about the rape kit. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that all I knew about the kit itself was that it was invented sometime in the 70s, and it was a resource for survivors to tell their story in court through evidence collected in an invasive exam. I had no idea that sexual assault was largely considered an “unsolvable crime” prior to the late 20th century, I had no idea Marty Goddard existed, I had no idea that Marty changed the world and then disappeared.
I genuinely think everyone needs to read this book at some point in their lives. Even if you aren’t a survivor or an AFAB person, the historical and sociological implications of the information in the pages of this book are so incredibly important. Kennedy’s book creates an avenue for the uncomfortable conversations surrounding rape and sexual assault: the patriarchial systems which perpetuate sexual violence, the racialized aspects of sexual assault legislation and survivor care, and the ways in which sexual violence has been combatted throughout American history.
Kennedy and Goddard are both examples of the transformative power of history, and I believe Marty’s story is one that everyone should know. I genuinely cannot recommend this book enough– as horrifying as it was, I finished the book with a newfound assurance. The subject matter is grim, but the people Kennedy interviews– their stories she tells– brought me so much hope. If you had to pick just one book from this post to read, I genuinely hope it’s this one.
If you know me, you know that I absolutely ADORE Audre Lorde and her work. Her essay “The Erotic and its Uses” is nothing short of sacred to me, and I’m always on the hunt for more of Audre’s work.
I was recently lucky enough to take a short trip to Washington, DC and spend a day museum hopping with my grandmother. During our romp through the national museums (and the National Archives AH) we explored the National Museum of African American History and Culture. The museum was absolutely incredible, I spent hours combing through the exhibits and chatting with fellow museum-goers, the experience was absolutely inspirational for me as a history student. On our way out, we made a pit-stop in the gift shop, where I was delighted to find a robust selection of books on Black history, intersectional feminism, Black Queer social movements, and of course a smattering of works from Audre herself.
When I saw “The Cancer Journals” I immediately knew it had to come home with me– carry-on baggage be damned.
The intersection of my favorite author and her reflections on her experience with cancer called to me– as cancer is a beast I am all too familiar with. I was excited to find a new work by Lorde, and curious to see how her experiences might differ from my mother’s reflections on her own journey with cancer treatment.
Lorde’s reflection on her diagnosis, treatment, and remission from breast cancer is incredibly moving. Her style of writing is poetic and emotionally evocative, as she guides readers through her life at the intersection of multiple identities and experiences. As a Black, Lesbian woman, Lorde’s experience with breast cancer does not exist in a vaccumm– it exists in the context of her intersecting identities. Lorde unpacks this intersection, discussing how her cancer diagnosis forced her to re-frame her perspective and approach to her body, life, and relationship to femininity.
Lorde re-frames her relationship with fear, life and death, stating: “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid”. Through the various works included in Lorde’s book, I came to an understanding of her relationship to fear– a relationship to fear I saw mirrored in my own mother years ago. We do not have to be fearless to be powerful, to make change in the world or our lives. We need to do it afraid. Radical acceptance of fear– fear of dying, fear of nonconformity, fear of change– enables us to pursue our goals with more power than we could harness should we be fearless. Fear is a tether, but it is not a prison– it is a reminder that we are human, and it becomes less and less important when we dare to harness our own strength in the service of our fulfillment and passion. This is the erotic as described by Lorde– the radical pursuit of our passion. In harnessing the full power of eros, fear loses its power over us and our lives.
Overall, “The Cancer Journals” was an incredible read. Audre Lorde will always hold her position in my heart, mind, and ideological framework– and this book only reinforced my love for her, her life, and her work.
Bell Hooks is another author I have a long-standing admiration for. Her work is eternally courageous, thoughtful, poetic, and transformative– and “The Will to Change” is no different.
“The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love” is a think-piece in the realm of feminist conversation, as Hooks’ analysis of the patriarchy throughout the book seeks to address a contentious subject within the feminist movement: the role of men and masculinity in perpetuating or dismantling patriarchal institutions.
Hooks is intentional in the ways she deconstructs masculinity, emphasizing the coexistence between the patriarchal violence and oppression that men often reinforce and the unforgiving expectations and roles that the patriarchy necessitates men to conform to. Men and boys are not exempt from being harmed by patriarchal institutions, but this does not erase the harm they may have caused– nor does this unburden them from engaging in the deconstruction of patriarchy or their responsibility to resist these systems.
The world of feminist literature– specifically white feminist thought– tends to centralize the feminist movement and its ideological frameworks around femininity, and this is not inherently wrong. However, where “popular feminism” tends to fail is in the acknowledgement and analysis of patriarchy through an intersectional lens. Intersectionality requires us to engage with unfamiliar experiences and think critically about the ways in which our own identities– whether that be gender, sexual orientation, race or ethnicity, disability status, or class– have impacted the ways we experience systems of oppression. Feminist movements built on restricted experiences have restricted outcomes. In order to successfully deconstruct systematic oppression, these intersections of identity and experience need to become a part of the larger conversation, and this conversation cannot be restricted to discussion of femininity.
Hooks’ work does not discount the violence inflicted onto feminine individuals by men– she simply guides readers to confront the ways in which they think about men and their place in society. She poses a powerful argument against misandry, encouraging a shift in the way we collectively conceptualize masculinity as a whole.
I would highly recommend this book to anyone interested in gender studies, as Hooks is an incredibly thoughtful and engaging voice in the intersectional feminist movement, and her work is reflective of her own journey in deconstructing systematic violence. I never seem to get enough of her work, and I always come away with a more thoughtful analysis of my own lived experience.
Hooks’ work wraps up my reading recommendations for this post, so I would like to thank you my dear Bookbaggers for sticking with me! I hope you feel inspired to visit your public library (which reminds me: I need to return my books…) or pick up the next book on your reading list!
To wrap up this post I would like to leave you with a few songs that have been getting me through finals season!
The first of my recommendations is a song that might not be everyone’s jam, but one that I’ve had on repeat for the past couple weeks. Machine Girl’s “Necro Culture Vulture” is a brazen mix of hardcore punk, industrial, and breakcore with a fantastically energetic bridge. The song blends its hardcore edges with dreamy internet soundscapes to create a unique listening experience– though I must warn my Gen X readers that this is the exact kind of song my dad would deem as “just a bunch of noise”, so take my recommendation with a grain of salt. This song has been on constant repeat as I exhaustedly work my way through ridiculously long research articulations and final projects, and it has definitely brought some energy into the end of the semester.
My next song recommendation: Soccer Mommy’s “Your Dog” is a hauntingly beautiful indie ballad and a reflection on toxic relationships. Despite only discovering this song shortly before the “Spotify Wrapped” cutoff date on November 1st, I managed to listen to it 106 times in the span of two months, landing it a solid spot in my top five songs of 2025. Despite the masterful composition, catchy tune, and dreamlike vocals, the lyrics of “Your Dog” take the spotlight for me– articulating the way I struggled through past relationships in an uncannily accurate manner. The story the song tells is relatable across many experiences with unhealthy relationships, making it easy to connect to the lyrics on a deeper level. With sickening accuracy, Soccer Mommy conveys self-betrayal, anger, codependence, and isolation all in one go. No matter your lived experience, the emotion behind the phrase “I don’t want to be your fucking dog” is tangible.
My final recommendation for you– wonderful Bookbagginit collective– is one every “Cranberries” fan needs to hear at least once in their life. During the Cranberries hiatus– lasting from 2003 until 2009– the band’s lead singer, Dolores O’Riorden, released two albums: “Are You Listening” in 2007, and “No Baggage” in 2009. Both albums are incredible, and stand as a testament to Dolores’ talent as a singer and songwriter. Personally I’m partial to “Are You Listening”, which includes my final song: “Loser”.
“Loser” is an energetic romp through the alternative rock genre, with Dolores’ vocals serving as the star of the show. The song perfectly captures teen and young adult angst alike: the anger just for anger’s sake, the wanting to reject “taking the higher road”. Dolores shouts: “I’d rather wind up with nothing at all than take a loser like you through it all”, reaching out to connect with the angry teenage girl that lives in so many of us. If you have a chance, I would highly recommend giving it a listen!
And with that Bookbaggers, I bid you adieu for today. I want to be more consistent and intentional with my posts here, so I hope to have another issue out in the next month or so! Thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to be here with me, I wish you all a beautiful holiday season and I’ll be back in the new year!
Jay
