The comparison titles alone made me thrilled to finally read this book: “For fans of Everything, Everything, Bone Gap, and All-American Boys.”
And American Street lived up to its comps, telling the gorgeous and gut-wrenching story of Fabiola Toussaint, a Haitian immigrant adapting to life in Detroit on the corner of Joy Road and American Street.
When Fabiola and her mom enter the US, Fabiola’s mother is detained, setting off a series of tangled-up events that complicate Fabiola’s new American life. The novel offers a beautiful portrayal of religion, and it doesn’t take any easy outs when it comes to exploring right and wrong and the things we’re called to do for our families.
Here are a few things writers can learn from American Street.
Use the specific to capture the universal.
I’m an immigrant with an experience that couldn’t be more different from Fabiola’s. Yet there’s so much about her story that resonates with me. This speaks to the strength of Zoboi’s craft. There’s a special kind of loneliness, confusion, and wonder in navigating daily life in a culture and language that’s not your own. Zoboi captures this brilliantly, using the specific details of Fabiola’s situation to evoke the search for one’s identity amidst a fluctuating idea of home.
Shortly after arriving to Detroit, Fabiola takes in the view:
“The sun hides behind a concrete sky. I search the landscape for yellows, oranges, pinks, or turquoises like in my beloved Port-au-Prince. But God has painted this place gray and brown. Only a thin white sheet of snow covers the burned-out houses and buildings. The flakes seem to appear from out of nowhere, like an invisible hand sprinkling salt onto zombies.”
The foreignness of the scene permeates everything. The language is so vivid and specific that even readers who are more familiar with snowy cityscapes than they are with the colors of Port-au-Prince will see this bleak new world through Fabiola’s eyes.
Fabiola’s struggles with English also affect her relationship to her new surroundings. Zoboi offers up one of the best portrayals of the language learning process that I’ve read in a novel thus far. (For another, I highly recommend Inside Out & Back Again by Thanhha Lai.)
Fabiola’s frustrations and achievements with English make even the smallest encounter––bumping into someone on the street, for example––a whole lot more complicated:
“I quickly apologize with my very best English and step away. Any hint of an accent could be an invitation for judgment––that I’m stupid and I don’t belong here.”
This feels so true-to-life. It’s heartening to see a character deal with these mundane, awkward moments. Moments that are very relatable for anyone who’s learned a new language! And because this process is portrayed so well, it’s all the more rewarding to watch Fabiola grow and gain confidence over time, making English her own.
As Fabiola changes, so, too, does her relationship to her new language, her new family, and her new country . This adds an extra element to her character arc that makes the story even richer. It’s a familiar progression for anyone who has slowly begun to call a new place home.
Use style and word choice to craft your story’s emotional atmosphere.
American Street is full of beautiful, re-read-them-just-to-savor-them sentences. But those carefully-chosen words aren’t there for aesthetic purposes alone.
A few examples:
“And maybe it was because this first act of violence at the crossroads of hopes and dreams that death lingered around that house like a baby ghost.”
“But as thirteen-and fifteen-year-old girls, with no mother and father to watch over us, our bodies were like poor countries––there was always a dictator trying to rule over us.”
These are deeply creative, provocative, devastating metaphors. They’re also perfect vehicles for conveying the story’s theme and tone. This haunting language reminds us: we are part of the world. We’re part of a shared history––the history of our families, our homelands. In American Street, the past plays an integral role in the present day; history is inescapable, and the forces that led to violence a hundred years ago continue to propel us toward those same bloody ends. We can’t escape this interconnectedness, nor all the good, bad, sad, and beautiful things it bears.
Here’s another passage:
“I am superstitious about money now. It is like rainwater here. It pours from the skies. But if you try to catch all of it with wide hands and fingers spread part––it will slip through. If you try to catch it with cupped hands, it overflows. Here, I will tilt my head back, let it pour into my mouth, and consume it.
We have to become everything that we want. Consume it. Like our lwas.“
Fabiola frequently sees the world through the lens of religion. That religion, and the power that comes with it, play a crucial role in the world of the story and its plot. Zoboi brings us closer to that world by deftly mixing “high” and “low,” crafting prose that is firmly rooted in the everyday––but with a cadence and poetry that evoke a world of spirituality and wonder. Of something beyond. Thus, she reminds us of the magic and power woven into our daily lives.
American Street is a beautiful story. And Fabiola is one of those protagonists who makes it sad to say goodbye. I recommend this novel to any writer looking to learn a bit more about their craft––and anyone who wants to reflect on the identity we create for ourselves, and the places and families we call our own.
Want to chat about American Street and other great YA and middle grade novels? Find me on Twitter @beckererine.