Darius the Great is not okay

Review by New York Times Review

Told in verse interspersed with prose, their stories illuminate an Arizona town divided by political and racial tensions, and at times "People Kill People" reads eerily more like nonfiction than fiction, particularly after the first anniversary of the Charlottesville riots: Ominously, there's an upcoming pro-immigration rally, and protesters are planning to be there too. Hopkins weaves in other contemporary political battlegrounds as well, including homelessness, racism and sexual assault, even mentioning recent acts of violence like the 2016 Pulse nightclub mass shooting. The mystery of which character will be killed propels the book forward, but it becomes increasingly uncertain as the plot develops. Hopkins, the author of several best-selling Y.A. novels in verse, including "Smoke" and "Crank," makes all too clear that any of them could fall victim, as well as be motivated to pull the trigger. Yet her essential message - guns make the killing all too easy - will reverberate with readers long after they put the book down. IN UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 379 pp., $18.99; ages 12 and up), Jen Doll's big-hearted YA. debut, 16-year-old Doris is a buoyant, outspoken feminist who yearns to break out of her Alabama town's conservative bubble. Nell has grudgingly moved there with her family from Chicago, where her boyfriend still lives. Grant is a former high school football star with an alcohol problem. What brings them together is a summer job at Unclaimed Baggage, a store that sells items found in lost airport luggage. The story unfolds at the start of a sweaty summer, with temperatures and unsolicited opinions running high (particularly those of the busybody Mrs. Stokes, a church youth group director who admonishes Doris, "We women must behave as God intended"). At work, Doris, Nell and Grant have to sort other people's baggage, keeping the good stuff to sell (a vintage "Titanic" movie poster) and discarding the rest (including, humorously, a sex toy). Doll breezily alternates among the voices of her likable characters as they move toward new discoveries, new romance and unexpected adventure. There are more serious threads as well, as challenges like racism, mental illness, sexual assault and substance abuse enter the plot. Though what brings these characters together is a job that seems like the height of randomness, they soon realize its deeper meaning - they each carry their own baggage, after all, and by beginning to share it, they solidify a friendship. "JUST BE YOURSELF. Yeah. Sure. OK." Evan Hansen, an anxious loner who feels invisible walking his high school's hallways, knows these words are easier said than put into action. But that changes when a letter he writes to himself, intended for no one to read, ends up in the hands of a family faced with the suicide of their son, Evan's anguished classmate Connor MurphyThat's the setup for DEAR EVAN HANSEN: The Novel (Little, Brown, 389 pp., $18.99; ages 12 and up), by Val Emmich with Steven Levenson, Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, which flips the usual formula by adapting the wildly acclaimed musical of the same name into a book. The authors - Emmich is an actor and novelist ("The Reminders"), and Levenson, Pasek and Paul are the team behind the musical - use a first-person narration that inserts readers directly into the psyche of Evan, who struggles to decide how best to handle the escalating misunderstanding caused by his letter. It may be impossible not to find pieces of yourself reflected in Evan's loneliness and yearning to be accepted. As the Murphys come to believe Connor and Evan were secret best friends, what at first seemed like a harmless fib quickly spirals into a complicated lie Evan can't escape. Yet it's not all bad: Evan goes from being an outcast to finally being noticed - by the Murphys, his peers and even his crush, Connor's sister, Zoe. His anxiety only deepens with the pressure of social media, which further forces Evan and his fabrication into the spotlight. The book, of course, can't offer the glamour and theatrics (or the music!) of Broadway, but it still captures the heartbreaking experience of searching for connection. Evan's character may have been born for the stage, but his earnestness and relatability sing through the book's pages. A WINDOWS-DOWN, feet-on-the-dashboard summer road trip is as American as softserve vanilla ice cream. But in Patrick Flores-Scott's debut, american road trip (Holt, 323 pp., $17; ages 12 and up), Teodoro "T" Avila, a Latino high school student whose family has been hit by the 2008 housing crash, is sure it's a less than ideal way to spend the summer. His audacious sister, Xóchitl, tricks him onto the road in an attempt to save their older brother, Manny, an Iraq vet struggling with PTSD. Their drive down the West Coast toward New Mexico is fueled by sacrifice and fierce, unconditional sibling love. Above all, T says of his siblings, "I want them to be safe." Written in T's vulnerable, observant voice, "American Road Trip" holds true to classic road-trip themes like the emotional power of singalongs and unexpected detours, but it also wades into the darker waters of mental illness with both realism and sensitivity. Along the way, Flores-Scott provides rich slices of Latinx culture - like making tortillas with cheese and a green chile that "stings so sweet I jump out of my seat" - that pave paths for T's self-discovery. Striking a balance between heavy subject matter and lighthearted humor, Flores-Scott isn't afraid to dive into the deep end, then come up for a blissful gulp of air. LIKE MANY TEENAGERS, Darius Kellern, the protagonist of Adib Khorram's darius THE GREAT IS NOT OKAY (Dial, 314 pp., $17.99; ages 12 and up), feels as if he doesn't belong. The self-described "fractional Persian" (on his mother's side) is bullied by jocks, struggles with his weight and has little in common with his father other than a shared depression diagnosis and a love of "Star Trek." But when his grandfather's illness prompts a family trip to Iran, Darius begins to see himself differently. Though Darius's relationship with his father is still strained in Iran and his grandparents (judgingly) question why he needs medication, things start to look up when Darius meets Sohrab, a boy who lives next door. They play soccer and hang out, confiding in each other about their "father issues." Darius even embraces being called Darioush, the Persian version of his name. For the first time, he has a true friend - one who knows "what it was like to be stuck on the outside because of one little thing that set you apart." Yet the more at ease he feels, the more apparent it is that he eventually must go back to his life in Portland, Ore. As a teenage outcast story, "Darius the Great Is Not Okay" may seem familiar, but it's layered with complexities of identity, body image and mental illness that are so rarely articulated in the voice of a teenage boy of color. Khorram writes tenderly and humorously about his protagonist's journey of self-acceptance, making it hard not to want to reach through the pages, squeeze his hand and reassure Darius that he is, in fact, going to be O.K. TAYLOR TRUDON is a former editor at MTV News and The Huffington Post.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 23, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Darius Kellner has more than his share of teen troubles to manage: racist bullies, clinical depression, complications with his father, and feeling like a misfit. So he does not expect much when his family travels to Iran to visit his maternal grandparents. Darius is a keen observer of life and very much aware of his emotional mechanisms. He is loving, sensitive, and a connoisseur of tea: steeping, drinking, sharing with family. He views the world through analogies to Star Trek and the Lord of the Rings trilogy in ways that are sometimes endearing and other times cumbersome. The trip to Iran opens new places of tenderness as Darius connects with people, places, and history that feel simultaneously familiar and new. But most significant is his friendship with Sohrab, which is tinged with an intimacy that suggests it is something more than platonic. This is a refreshing bildungsroman and an admirable debut novel that will leave readers wanting more. Hand to readers of Sara Farizan's Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel (2014) and soul-searching teens.--Amina Chaudhri Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

First-time author Khorram's coming-of-age novel brings to life the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of a culture steeped in tradition. After learning that her Iranian father is ailing, high school sophomore Darius's mother decides to take the family to visit her father and relatives in Iran. Suffering from chronic depression and bullied at school in America, Darius isn't sure how he'll fare in a country he's never seen. It doesn't take him long to adjust as people welcome him with open arms, however, especially after he meets Sohrab, his grandparents' teenaged neighbor, who invites him to play soccer and quickly becomes Darius's first real friend ever. While the book doesn't sugarcoat problems in the country (unjust imprisonment and an outdated view of mental illness are mentioned), it mainly stays focused on the positive-Iran's impressive landscape and mouthwatering food, the warmth of its people-as it shows how a boy who feels like an outcast at home finds himself and true friendship overseas. Ages 12-up. Agent: Molly O'Neill, Waxman Leavell. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 8 Up-Darius is a bullied American teenager dealing with numerous stigmas. His mom is Persian and his "Übermensch" dad is white. He is overweight. He takes medication for depression. He is a devotee of artisanal tea, Star Trek (all seasons), and Tolkien. And there is an unspoken awareness that Darius is gay. He is certain that he is a constant disappointment to his father who also takes antidepressants, which they both consider a weakness. When his family travels to Iran to see his mother's parents because his grandfather (Babou) is dying, Darius experiences shifting perceptions about the country, his extended family, and himself. Debut author Khorram presents meticulous descriptions and explanations of food, geography, religion, architecture, and English translations of Farsi for readers unfamiliar with Persian culture through characters' dialogue and Darius's observations. References to Tolkien, Star Trek, and astronomy minutiae, on the other hand, may be unclear for uninitiated readers. Despite the sometimes overly didactic message about the importance of chronic depression treatment, Darius is a well-crafted, awkward but endearing character, and his cross-cultural story will inspire reflection about identity and belonging. VERDICT A strong choice for YA shelves. Give this to fans for Adam Silvera and John Corey Whaley.-Elaine Fultz, Madison Jr. Sr. High School, Middletown, OH © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

Sophomore Darius Kellner doesnt fit in at his Oregon high school, where hes bullied by Trent Bolger and his Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy. But Darius also doesnt fit comfortably in his own life due to clinical depression, confusion about his half-Persian heritage, and constant awareness of his white bermensch fathers disappointment in him. Darius has only met his mothers family over Skype, but when the news comes that his grandfather is dying, the family embarks on an extended trip to Iran. Here the book ripens into an exploration of understanding ones identityboth personally and culturally. When Darius meets his grandparents neighbor Sohrab, a Bah young man, in Yazd, a tender and natural friendship begins. Unlike the Level Seven Awkward Silences he shares with his stern father, the teen feels comfortable and safe with this virtual stranger: I could be silent with Sohrab. Thats how I knew we were going to be friends. Khorrams debut novel is an affectionate portrait of Iran: the food and aromas, the rich traditions and eclectic culture; the somewhat choppy first-person narrative also explains Farsi phrases and their complex etymology. As Dariuss palpable discomfort begins to give way, readers will understand that home can be more than the physical place you live, and that people who make you feel at home can come into your life unexpectedly. katrina Hedeen (c) Copyright 2018. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Darius Kellner suffers from depression, bullying by high school jocks, and a father who seems to always be disappointed in him. When Darius' grandfather becomes terminally ill, Darius, along with his parents and younger sister, travels to Iran for the first time in his life. Iranian on his mother's side and white American on his father's side, Darius never quite fits in. He's mocked for his name and nerdy interests at Chapel Hill High School in Portland, Oregon, and doesn't speak enough Farsi to communicate with his Iranian relatives either. When he arrives in Iran, learning to play the Persian card game Rook, socializing, and celebrating Nowruz with a family he had never properly met before is all overwhelming and leaves Darius wondering if he'll ever truly belong anywhere. But all that changes when Darius meets Sohrab, a Baha'i boy, in Yazd. Sohrab teaches Darius what friendship is really about: loyalty, honesty, and someone who has your back in a football (soccer) match. For the first time in a long time, Darius learns to love himself no matter what external forces attempt to squash his confidence. Khorram's debut novel is filled with insight into the lives of teens, weaving together the reality of living with mental illness while also dealing with identity and immigration politics.This tear-jerker will leave readers wanting to follow the next chapter in Darius' life. (Fiction. 12-adult) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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My grandmother loomed large on the monitor, her head tiny and her torso enormous. I only ever saw my grandparents from an up-the-nose perspective. She was talking to Laleh in rapid-fire Farsi, something about school, I thought, because Laleh kept switching from Farsi to English for words like  cafeteria  and  Heads-Down, Thumbs-Up . Mamou's picture kept freezing and unfreezing, occasionally turning into chunky blocks as the bandwidth fluctuated. It was like a garbled transmission from a starship in distress. "Maman," Mom said, "Darius and Stephen want to say hello."  Maman  is another Farsi word that means both a person and a relationship--in this case, mother. But it could also mean grandmother, even though technically that would be  mamanbozorg . I was pretty sure  maman  was borrowed from French, but Mom would neither confirm nor deny. Dad and I knelt on the floor to squeeze our faces into the camera shot, while Laleh sat on Mom's lap in her rolling office chair. "Eh! Hi, maman! Hi, Stephen! How are you?" "Hi, Mamou," Dad said. "Hi," I said. "I miss you, maman. How is your school? How is work?" "Um." I never knew how to talk to Mamou, even though I was happy to see her. It was like I had this well inside me, but every time I saw Mamou, it got blocked up. I didn't know how to let my feelings out. "School is okay. Work is good. Um." "How is Babou?" Dad asked. "You know, he is okay," Mamou said. She glanced at Mom and said, "Jamsheed took him to the doctor today." As she said it, my uncle Jamsheed appeared over her shoulder. His bald head looked even tinier. "Eh! Hi, Darioush! Hi, Laleh! Chetori toh?" "Khoobam, merci," Laleh said, and before I knew it, she had launched into her third retelling of her latest game of Heads-Down, Thumbs-Up. Dad smiled and waved and stood up. My knees were getting sore, so I did the same, and edged toward the door. Mom nodded along with Laleh and laughed at all the right spots while I followed Dad back down to the living room. It wasn't like I didn't want to talk to Mamou. I always wanted to talk to her. But it was hard. It didn't feel like she was half a world away, it felt like she was half a universe away--like she was coming to me from some alternate reality. It was like Laleh belonged to that reality, but I was just a guest. I suppose Dad was a guest too. At least we had that in common. Dad and I sat all the way through the ending credits--that was part of the tradition too--and then Dad went upstairs to check on Mom. Laleh had wandered back down during the last few minutes of the show, but she stood by the Haft-Seen, watching the goldfish swim in their bowl. Dad makes us turn our end table into a Haft-Seen on March 1 every year. And every year, Mom tells him that's too early. And every year, Dad says it's to get us in the Nowruz spirit, even though Nowruz--the Persian New Year--isn't until the first day of spring. Most Haft-Seens have vinegar and sumac and sprouts and apples and pudding and dried olives and garlic on them--all things that start with the sound of  S  in Farsi. Some people add other things that don't begin with  S  to theirs too: symbols of renewal and prosperity, like mirrors and bowls of coins. And some families--like ours--have goldfish too. Mom said it had something to do with the zodiac and Pisces, but then she admitted that if it weren't for Laleh, who loved taking care of the goldfish, she wouldn't include them at all. Sometimes I thought Dad liked Nowruz more than the rest of us combined. Maybe it let him feel a little bit Persian. Maybe it did. So our Haft-Seen was loaded with everything tradition allowed, plus a framed photo of Dad in the corner. Laleh insisted we had to add it, because  Stephen  begins with the sound of  S . It was hard to argue with my sister's logic. "Darius?" "Yeah?" "This goldfish only has one eyeball!" I knelt next to Laleh as she pointed at the fish in question. "Look!" It was true. The largest fish, a leviathan nearly the size of Laleh's hand, only had its right eye. The left side of its head-- face--(do fish have faces?)--was all smooth, unbroken orange scales. "You're right," I said. "I didn't notice that." "I'm going to name him Ahab." Since Laleh was in charge of feeding the fish, she had also taken upon herself the solemn duty of naming them. "Captain Ahab had one leg, not one eye," I pointed out. "But it's a good literary reference." Laleh looked up at me, her eyes big and round. I was kind of jealous of Laleh's eyes. They were huge and blue, just like Dad's. Everyone always said how beautiful Laleh's eyes were. No one ever told me I had beautiful brown eyes, except Mom, which didn't count because (a) I had inherited them from her, and (b) she was my mom, so she had to say that kind of thing. Just like she had to call me handsome when that wasn't true at all. "Are you making fun of me?" "No," I said. "I promise. Ahab is a good name. And I'm proud of you for knowing it. It's from a very famous book." "Moby the Whale!" "Right." I could not bring myself to say  Moby-Dick  in front of my little sister. "What about the others?" "He's Simon." She pointed to the smallest fish. "And he's Garfunkel. And that's Bob." I wondered how Laleh was certain they were male fish. I wondered how people identified male fish from female fish. I decided I didn't want to know. "Those are all good names. I like them." I leaned down to kiss Laleh on the head. She squirmed but didn't try that hard to get away. Just like I had to pretend I didn't like having tea parties with my little sister, Laleh had to pretend she didn't like kisses from her big brother, but she wasn't very good at pretending yet. I took my empty cup of genmaicha to the kitchen and washed and dried it by hand. Then I filled a regular glass with water from the fridge and went to the cabinet where we kept everyone's medicine. I sorted through the orange capsules until I found my own. "Mind grabbing mine?" Dad asked from the door. "Sure." Dad stepped into the kitchen and slid the door closed. It was this heavy wooden door, on a track so that it slid into a slot right behind the oven. I didn't know anyone else who had a door like that. When I was little, and Dad had just introduced me to  Star Trek,  I liked to call it the Turbolift Door. I played with it all the time, and Dad played too, calling out deck numbers for the computer to take us to like we were really on board the  Enterprise . Then I accidentally slid the door shut on my fingers, really hard, and ended up sobbing for ten minutes in pain and shock that the door had betrayed me. I had a very sharp memory of Dad yelling at me to stop crying so he could examine my hand, and how I wouldn't let him hold it because I was afraid he was going to make it worse. Dad and I didn't play with the door anymore after that. I pulled down Dad's bottle and set it on the counter, then popped the lid off my own and shook out my pills. Dad and I both took medication for depression. Aside from  Star Trek --and not speaking Farsi--depression was pretty much the only thing we had in common. We took different medications, but we did see the same doctor, which I thought was kind of weird. I guess I was paranoid Dr. Howell would talk about me to my dad, even though I knew he wasn't supposed to do that kind of thing. And Dr. Howell was always honest with me, so I tried not to worry so much. I took my pills and gulped down the whole glass of water. Dad stood next to me, watching, like he was worried I was going to choke. He had this look on his face, the same disappointed look he had when I told him about how Fatty Bolger had replaced my bicycle's seat with blue truck nuts. He was ashamed of me. He was ashamed of us. Übermensches aren't supposed to need medication. Dad swallowed his pills dry; his prominent Teutonic Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he did it. And then he turned to me and said, "So, you heard that Babou went to the doctor today?" He looked down. A Level Three Awkward Silence began to coalesce around us, like interstellar hydrogen pulled together by gravity to form a new nebula. "Yeah. Um." I swallowed. "For his tumor?" I still felt weird saying the word out loud. Tumor. Babou had a brain tumor. Dad glanced at the turbolift door, which was still closed, and then back to me. "His latest tests didn't look good." "Oh." I had never met Babou in person, only over a computer screen. And he never really talked to me. He spoke English well enough, and what few words I could extract from him were accented but articulate. He just didn't have much to say to me. I guess I didn't have much to say to him either. "He's not going to get better, Darius. I'm sorry." I twisted my glass between my hands. I was sorry too. But not as sorry as I should have been. And I felt kind of terrible for it. The thing is, my grandfather's presence in my life had been purely photonic up to that point. I didn't know how to be sad about him dying. Like I said, the well inside me was blocked. "What happens now?"  "Your mom and I talked it over," Dad said. "We're going to Iran." Excerpted from Darius the Great Is Not Okay by Adib Khorram 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.

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