I will greet the sun again :

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Title :

I will greet the sun again : a novel / Khashayar J. Khabushani.

Title:

I will greet the sun again :

Author:

Khabushani, Khashayar J.

Format:

Books

Physical Description:

222 pages ; 22 cm

Edition:

First edition.

ISBN:

9780593243305

Production / Publication Information:

London ; New York : Hogarth, [2023]

Summary:

"The youngest of three brothers, K just wants to be an all-American boy--shooting hoops with his buddies and riding his Huffy around the San Fernando Valley. But K understands there's something different about himself, a longing that draws him closer to his friends while making him feel more and more alienated. At home, K must navigate another confusing identity: that of the faithful son of Iranian immigrants struggling to survive in the United States. To make his mother proud, he tries to do well in school and help around the apartment, but he worries he is disappointing her. On Friday nights K dutifully attends prayers at the Mosque with his remote and unknowable Baba, whose love and violence will distort K's understanding of what it means to be a man"--

Language:

English

Genre:

Bildungsromans.

Geographic Term:

Los Angeles (Calif.) -- Fiction.

Subject Term:

Muslim gay people -- California -- Los Angeles -- Fiction.

Muslims -- California -- Los Angeles -- Fiction.

Iranian American teenagers -- California -- Los Angeles -- Fiction.

Holds: Copies:

Available:*

Material Type	Library	Call Number	Item Barcode	Location
Book	Searching... Andover - Memorial Hall Library	FICTION KHABUSHANI	31330009373469	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Amesbury Public Library	FIC KHABUSHANI	32114002784685	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Billerica Public Library	FICTION/KHABUSHANI	33934004660693	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Chelmsford Public Library	FIC/KHABUSHANI	31480011695993	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Georgetown Peabody Library	FIC KHABUSHANI	32120001438603	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Haverhill Public Library	FIC/KHABUSHANI K	31479007636870	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Lowell - Pollard Memorial Library	FIC KHABUSHANI	31481005719757	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Manchester-by-the-Sea Public Library	FIC KHA	32124002140671	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Methuen - Nevins Memorial Library	FIC KHA	31548003498954	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Newburyport Public Library	FIC KHABUSHANI K	32128004208378	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Tewksbury Public Library	FICTION KHABUSHANI	32132003407569	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Topsfield Town Library	FIC KHABUSHANI	32133002702778	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Westford - J.V. Fletcher Library	F KHABUSHANI	31990005276949	Searching... Unknown

Bound With These Titles

On Order

Summary

"[A] masterful debut . . . a novel of survival and longing and love, and in many ways a modern portrait of an artist as a young man . . . a book written for us , we Iranian Americans whom you don't often hear about." -- Porochista Khakpour, The Washington Post (Best Books of the Year)

"A triumph . . . a book of astonishing accomplishment and bravery." -- Dina Nayeri, The Guardian

Winner of the Alex Award from the American Library Association * Finalist for the California Book Award and the Lambda Literary Award

An Amerie's Book Club Pick * A Phenomenal Book Club Pick

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley with his two brothers, all K wants is to be "a boy from L.A.," all American. But K--the youngest, named after a Persian king--knows there's something different about himself. Like the way he feels about his closest friend, Johnny, a longing that he can't share with anyone.

At home, K must navigate another confusing identity: that of the dutiful son of Iranian immigrants struggling to make a life for themselves in the United States. He tries to make his mother proud, live up to her ideal of a son. On Friday nights, K attends prayers at the local mosque with Baba, whose violent affections distort K's understanding of what it means to be a man and how to love.

When Baba takes the three brothers from their mother back to Iran, K finds himself in an ancestral home he barely knows. Returning to the Valley months later, K must piece together who he is, in a world that now feels as foreign to him as the one he left behind.

A stunning, tender novel of identity and belonging, I Will Greet the Sun Again tells the story of a young man lost in his own family, his own country, and his own skin. Staring down the brutality of being a queer kid and a Muslim in America, Khashayar J. Khabushani transforms personal and national pain into an unforgettable and beautifully rendered exploration of youth, love, family--and the stories that make us who we are.

Reviews (4)

Publisher's Weekly Review

Khabushani's beautiful debut centers on K, an Iranian American boy who comes of age in 1990s and 2000s Los Angeles with his parents and two older brothers. His unemployed father, Baba, sees "a light" in K's eyes, which Baba takes to mean that K is destined for great things. But K, who narrates, is less certain about the direction of his life or where he belongs. Through a series of impressionistic episodes, such as the time he searched the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese for lost coins, K recounts his efforts to "become the American boy I want to be." Then Baba takes his sons back to Iran, where he says, "Things will be better for us." They are not--especially when Baba sexually abuses K. After returning home to L.A., without Baba, K, now in middle school, imagines acting on his desires for his neighbor Johnny. As the years pass and his older brothers find their paths in life, K gets a job at McDonald's, where "the must of potatoes and sweat is permanently wedged into the tiles of the walls." After 9/11, K feels the wrath of Islamophobia. Khabushani renders K's experiences in poignant vignettes that speak to the young boy's sensitivity as he dreams of a better, albeit uncertain future. This heartrending tale will stay with readers. (Aug.)

Guardian Review

As an Iranian kid in America, my greatest nightmare was being kidnapped back to Iran. For those of us who had endured the "morality police", gruelling escapes and long asylum battles, Iran was the hell at the border of our new American lives, and later, when I met other Iranian Americans my age, I found that I wasn't alone. I Will Greet the Sun Again, Khashayar J Khabushani's tender and gut-wrenching debut novel, is a tightly constructed three-act drama exploring the long-term impact when three brothers are kidnapped to their father's Iran. Set mostly in a sun-beaten, crumbling Los Angeles apartment complex, the story grabbed me from the start, not just for its vivid characters who never stop trying, or its meticulously realised settings, but for the winking way it speaks to Iranian Americans of the author's generation, with Persian words sprinkled liberally throughout. Baba crushes his family so slowly they hardly notice it - and yet, his sons continue to love and admire him The kidnapping is a danger that looms from the first page, embodied by an abusive, narcissistic father whose failures in America threaten to destroy the family. Baba is one of the most deplorable characters I've read in years, expertly realised by an author unafraid to zoom in close. Calling himself "the best engineer in all of America", Baba refuses to work, because he's too proud to labour for someone else. He loses the family's house, gambles away his hardworking wife's earnings while preening to his sons. He buys a single burger for all three and tells them to "pay close attention and to remember what it looked like when a man was respected all across the globe". Baba crushes his family so slowly they hardly notice it. And yet, his sons continue to love and admire him, and his worst acts are written precisely and unflinchingly, in all their awful detail, without sentiment or pity. At nine, the narrator, K, is the youngest and gentlest of the brothers, who were born in LA but grow up fixated on reaffirming their Americanness. Stolen away to their father's homeland, they are as pitiless and judgmental as any American children would be: "I miss our country ¿ where we had shit to do other than pray and take naps in the middle of the day like we're in fucking preschool." And yet, a few months later when they are rescued back "home" to America and their mother, their first flex is naturally "We're real Iranians now". This struggle with identity is at the heart of the book, and subtly captured. Having attended Columbia - or so he says - Baba reveres western canonical writers and makes the boys write out pages from books he considers great literature. K's love of words is apparent early on and he promises that "when I'm older I'll get to write how I want to write, stories that aren't old or long or in English that's hard to understand. I want to write using my own rules and not the way Baba says I'm supposed to, perfect and neat." Like most Iranians writing in English, I've thought a lot about what it means to write the Persian way or the American way, or my way. I worry about having imbibed western dogmas in American MFA programmes (Khabushani earned his from Columbia). But "my way" is no shield against criticism, of which I have only small ones. The first act builds beautifully to the kidnapping; moving from dual culture struggles and everyday boyish triumphs, it is an honest and riveting dive into the nightmare. The second section in Iran releases the tension too quickly. A horrific and transformative scene unfolds, and we're back in America. In the third section, after the brothers' return from Iran, the pacing shifts and we sprint through their adolescent years and early adulthood with the trauma of what happened in Iran always one layer below the surface, a lifelong subtext to everything, though its deeper impact on K's character and identity are left dramatically unrealised, which leads to a few essayistic wrap-ups near the end. Multiple issues are jammed into those final scenes: identity in a post-9/11 world, gang and military recruitments, heartbreak, sexual awakening, queerness in an Iranian family, all in just a few pages. While the use of Persian words in an English text is part of a larger conversation about language, I'm wary of style at the expense of clarity and efficiency. Yes, there are words without English equivalent or that have crept into English (chai). Some words are just for us, his fellow Iranians: yavashaki (sneakily) or gooz (fart) are inside jokes. But do we need to give words like "yes" or "go" or "please" or "hungry" in two languages when the rest of the text assumes Farsi dialogue? What does it achieve other than to exotify the text? These are small gripes about a book of astonishing accomplishment and bravery. To transport someone so convincingly into their own worst nightmare is a tall order, and Khabushani has done it with such a widely shared bogeyman. This book is a triumph, one that will help the next generation understand our specific American childhood - how it felt to grow up with broken immigrant parents and one foot still in Iran, sitting in front of a TV in a sad apartment complex, dreaming of the good life.

Kirkus Review

An Iranian American boy comes of age in 1990s Los Angeles. Khabushani's novel follows several years in the life of narrator K, who is 9 when the book opens in Los Angeles in the early 1990s. He's the youngest of three brothers: "I'm getting closer to Justin's ten and to Shawn's twelve." It's the boys' father who proves to be the most disruptive element in their lives: He gambles and has a tendency to turn violent when one of his children misbehaves. Khabushani creates a memorably lived-in world here, from K's desire to win a spelling bee so as not to have to wear hand-me-down shirts to references to K's relatives living in Iran. The boys' father is haunted by regrets of his own, including a now-deceased college friend. Unfortunately, he's channeled those regrets into resentment--"Baba turns to me before starting the ignition and tells me he should have never allowed [Maman] to enroll in school, that he should have never brought her to this country"--and unsettling treatment of his children. When he takes the children to Iran one summer, things come to a head in an especially harrowing scene of abuse. The boys return to Los Angeles while their father does not, and the novel's second half follows them forward in time as K explores his own sexuality and the family struggles with Islamophobia in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, which prompt one of K's brothers to enlist. Khabushani's novel ends on an elliptical note, and at times this feels like the prologue to a much longer work. But it also features its own compelling momentum. Movingly balances emotional realism with a tactile eye for details. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Booklist Review

An Iranian American teen confronts divisions within his family and his identity. Growing up in a stucco-walled apartment in the San Fernando Valley, our narrator, K, plays basketball with his brothers, swims in the surf, and checks his armpits for signs of puberty. But K's idyllic SoCal boyhood and burgeoning intimacy with his best friend, Johnny, are cut short when K's mercurial father takes his sons back to Iran after a falling out with the boys' long-suffering mother. In Isfahan, K learns perspective on his heritage--"Iran's long history of beauty and art but its darkness, too."--and also discovers the depths of his father's cruelty. When K eventually returns to the U.S., it's not the same; post--9/11, hateful new graffiti appears in the old neighborhood. If K belongs anywhere, it may be with his beloved Johnny, but their relationship can only succeed if K can find peace within his fractured family. Khabushani's debut relates a difficult coming-of-age tale with a focus on the physicality of male bodies, their vulnerability and resilience.

Excerpts

Chapter I Named After a King I climb down the bunk ladder and leave the small room me and my brothers share. The apartment is still and stuffy and Maman is asleep on the living room floor. I head out the door, careful to close it quietly behind me. In the courtyard I run my fingertips along the yellow stucco wall. On my forearm I have this bright bumpy scrape from when Shawn tackled me against the building playing Smear the Queer. It's like a tattoo and reminds me how good it feels to become older, tougher. Early morning is the only time I get to be out of the apartment on my own. The Valley's sky is white and empty. A leaf blower runs loud somewhere. I can't see the city from here, but I know one day I'll have more than just these stucco walls and patches of brown grass. For once the laundry room isn't coughing out its weird smelly steam. I take the pebble-stone staircase to the second floor, clearing two steps at a time. Back inside through a chalky metal door, down a sticky hallway and then another, stamping over brown soda stains and cigarette burns in the carpet. I knock on Johnny's door loud enough for him to hear, but quickly. I don't want to bother his mom, who's probably pouring a cup of coffee, halfway through her first cigarette. She barely cracks the door open. Still getting his beauty sleep, Cynthia says, a quick stream of smoke passing through her lips. I'll come back later, I tell her and hurry back to our apartment before Baba gets home. Maman hasn't woken up yet. Her breathing is silent and her face shiny with sweat. A thin beige bedsheet pulled up to her chin, her chest gently rising, Maman looks beautiful as she sleeps. Shawn's sitting on the floor in front of the triple bunk Baba built for us, crunchy boogers in the corners of his eyes. He blows the snot from his nose onto the sleeve of his shirt. And you wonder why girls don't like you, Justin says, leaning over from the top bunk. Shawn laughs and I do, too. Shawn asks, Doesn't Johnny's mom get tired of you running upstairs and knocking on their door at the crack of dawn? Like I haven't already thought of that myself. I don't want Shawn to come with me when I go back, so I lie and say, Nobody answered. Shawn passes a controller up to Justin, whose scrawny legs are dangling over the wooden ledge. Justin asks Shawn for the millionth time why, if he doesn't like playing basketball in real life, he would want to in a video game? What are you talking about? says Shawn. I love basketball. I just don't get to do it. Why not? I ask. Why do you think. Look the f*** around. It's Friday, our last weekend of summer break. In the living room I hear Maman starting her morning. First folding up her bed, which isn't actually a bed, just a couple of sheets and a pillow on the floor and the thick fuzzy blanket she brought with her from Isfahan, then storing it all in the closet. She is setting the kettle on the stove for chai when Baba gets home. Baba calls for me and my brothers, his voice booming through our bedroom walls. I find Baba emptying out his pockets onto the floor. Dozens of twenty-dollar bills. More money than I've ever seen Baba have. His face is proud after a rare good night at the casino. We're going to celebrate, he promises. He walks over to the sofa, where we're not allowed to make a sound while he sleeps, slowly peeling off his crinkled button-up shirt and gray dress pants. Maman stays seated at the dining table, eating her breakfast, the same one she has every morning. Noon barbari with paneer and walnuts and honey, always a plate of fresh sabzi on the side. A clip at the back of her head holds her long black curly hair. No makeup on and still Maman looks so pretty. Are you hungry? she asks me, holding out a bite of bread covered with crumbly cheese. A pot of tea sits on the samovar on the stove. She waits for it to finish steeping as I pick up a few of the twenty-dollar bills. When Baba isn't looking I hand one to Maman. She tucks it into her purse and brings a finger to her lips. We agree without words that we won't give the money back even if Baba asks. Baba is now lying stretched out on the sofa with the back of his wrist over his forehead. I lean down to hug him, the smell of cigarette smoke heavy all around. He brings me close to his stubbly face and kisses me once on the cheek. His eyes are heavy and red with puffy bags. It looks like he's never going to wake once he falls asleep. I make sure to be quiet as I go to tell my brothers about all the money. Instead of pausing the video game while I was gone, Shawn kept on playing. You snooze you lose, he says. He wasn't snoozing, you idiot, Justin says, still in bed. He was with Baba. What did he want? he asks me. Baba hit the freaking jackpot, I say. Yeah? Shawn says. How much you wanna bet by tomorrow morning the money's gone? I tell Shawn he's wrong and so does Justin, pulling a crumpled bill from his Nowruz stash, which he keeps tucked underneath his mattress. He dangles it down at us. Five bucks says Baba keeps winning, he bets Shawn, who stands up from his bed. Deal. But don't go crying to him when I take your dough. Shawn spits into his palm and my brothers shake on it. I climb up into my bed to hide the money I kept for myself from Baba's jackpot. Johnny will be so impressed when I show him. Baba marches into our room, clapping his hands. His shoulders are loose and his cheeks shiny from a fresh shave, the tiny bit of hair left on the top of his head combed to the side. He's wearing his gray slacks and a clean dress shirt, tucked deep into his waist. Tavalod, tavalod, tavalod-et mobarak, Baba chants, shutting off our game and swaying his body, dancing how he does at mehmoonis after the shirini has been served, the music turned up high. A Persian Happy Birthday just for me. It's a week after my actual birthday, but Baba announces we're going to celebrate today just as he promised. Together, he says, like families are meant to. I race down from my bunk, careful to skip the missing third step of the ladder. After seeing the f*** you Justin had carved into its wood, Baba hammered off the step. He didn't bother asking which one of us it was, then had the three of us line up together, facing our bunk, a shoe in his hand, and Justin didn't say a single word, just stood there taking it. I was crying the hardest even though Shawn got it the worst. As the oldest, Baba said, he's supposed to know better. Even though he's the oldest, Shawn is the shortest, shorter than Justin, even shorter than me. Now standing beside him, I ask Baba to do his special Persian snap for me. Injoori, he shows me, bringing his thick and worn hands together. I watch and try to learn how he does it, the tip of his middle finger sliding against his index, where snaps like tiny firecrackers echo through our bedroom as he whistles. And now with Baba making music I lift my arms in the air, gently twisting and twirling my wrists, swaying my hips the way I've seen him do when he's taken his place in the middle of the dance floor, Baba always the first to bring life to the party. How old? he asks, like he doesn't already know. I hold up a five and a four, showing him that I'm getting closer to Justin's ten and to Shawn's twelve. Any day now, Baba says, you'll become a man. Mashallah, he chants, smiling even bigger, the top of his gums shiny and pink. His eyes are small as he dances, my body following his. Maryam-jan, he yells, calling for Maman. Hurry and look, he says, come see your son. Right here in our own building, Baba tells us, a grill and two benches, just for us. Doesn't-- Get any better than this, Shawn interrupts, finishing off Baba's favorite line. He walks out of our room, and Baba, Justin and me follow behind. Maman joins us outside in our building's small picnic area. She has everything prepared. Sliced onions and tomatoes. Raw chicken shining bright gold with turmeric and oil. She wears her long black blouse and a scarf tied loosely around her hair. She fans the charcoal with a piece of cardboard, trying to get the coals to come to life. She asks Shawn to pick up the trash our neighbors left on the ground around us, which he does. Paper plates with spots of ketchup and used napkins, from whoever was here before. For you, Baba says, handing me my birthday present as my brothers look on. A golden paper crown from Burger King. Baba knows it's my favorite. He tells me to stand in front of the grill, says he wants a picture for Iran, for them to see just how handsome his youngest boy is. Shawn sits on the old splintery bench to watch, telling me how stupid I look as Baba tells me where to place my arms. Justin's already wandered off collecting dandelions that grow along the concrete path winding through our building. He likes bringing the ones that haven't yet died into our room, placing them by the window in the vase Maman let him have. Something nice to look at, he says. Our version of a hotel room. Excerpted from I Will Greet the Sun Again: A Novel by Khashayar J. Khabushani All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.