Imposter syndrome and other confessions of Alejandra Kim

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Park (Re Jane, for adults) pens an immersive novel about a teenager grappling with academics, family, grief, identity, and racism. High school senior Alejandra Kim is used to feeling like an outsider as a Korean Argentine American scholarship student at affluent Anne Austere Preparatory School in Queens. She and white best friend Laurel dream of attending Whyder, a small, prestigious college in Maine, where Ale believes she'll be able to leave behind her feelings of otherness and grief surrounding her father's recent death. Ale plans to fly under the radar for the rest of her senior year, so when Laurel begins circulating a petition calling for the removal of a senior lecturer following his directing a microaggression at Ale, she wants nothing to do with it, certain that pursuing action will jeopardize her future goals. But as the petition gains traction, Ale contends with unwanted attention while navigating complicated relationships with her family, friends, and peers. Told across three parts in a distinctive narrative voice and boasting memorable characterization, this humor-infused tale poignantly captures one teenager's experience learning to stand up for what she believes in. Ages 12--up. Agent: Sarah Burnes, Gernert Co. (Feb.)

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 8 Up--Senior year of high school is bad enough, but for Alejandra Kim, there is extra drama, and not just dealing with her misunderstanding mother. She is also dealing with microaggressions for her traditional Spanish first-name and very Korean face and last name, grieving her father's death, and feeling like she doesn't fit in with her clueless white "woke" classmates. On Alejandra's first day of school, a teacher comments about how she will have no problem getting into college. While she lets it slide, her friend, white Laurel, takes action and thrusts Alejandra into a spotlight she never wanted in a school where she feels like she doesn't belong. Alejandra's dream is to escape the city and head to college, but along the way, she will discover who she is and where she fits. Told in three parts, Park's work paints an educational but entertaining portrait of what it is like to be a person of color in today's world. Alejandra often deals with individuals who have good intentions regarding the racial differences she faces but fail in execution; she also meets outright racist individuals. The portrayal of this and her reactions to them ring truthful, though frustrating at times. By using Alejandra's first-person account to tell the story, readers genuinely step into her shoes through the pages. Realistic supporting characters with all their strengths and faults help shape this fantastic read. VERDICT Libraries can't go wrong with adding this timely book to their collection.--Amanda Borgia

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Review by Horn Book Review

âeoeWho is the âe~realâe(tm) Alejandra Kim?âe A high school senior at an affluent prep school, she has her heart set on attending the prestigious but expensive Whyder College while dealing with imposter syndrome as a multiracial young woman (and scholarship student) who asks, âeoeAm I 100 percent Korean, 100 percent Latinx, and 100 percent American...all at the same time?âe Amid insensitive friends and performative allies, and with the relentless need to code switch, Alejandra doesnâe(tm)t really feel at home anywhere. The recent loss of her father means that her actual home life is difficult as well. Given an opportunity to participate in research transcribing immigrant stories, Alejandra begins to understand her parentsâe(tm) experiences and thus discover her purpose and place in the world. It might mean a path other than Whyder, but one that is authentically hers. She navigates the flaming hoops of high school and emerges stronger and more confident, supported by her cultural studies teacher, a longtime friend in her Queens neighborhood, and an unexpected confidante at school. Park immerses readers in her fully realized protagonistâe(tm)s complicated everyday existence, peppering her dialogue with insider New York references and untranslated family conversations in Spanish, expecting readers to keep up. Alejandraâe(tm)s powerful story will leave readers with much to think about. J. Elizabeth MillsMarch/April 2023 p.77 (c) Copyright 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

A Manhattan private school senior caught between cultures navigates microaggressions while grieving the death of her father. Alejandra Kim, daughter of second-generation Korean Argentines, feels like she fits in nowhere. She's uncomfortable at elite Anne Austere Prep, a progressive school where she's surrounded by wealthy classmates who are clueless about her life as a scholarship student. But with her Korean face and Spanish name, she doesn't fit in in her ethnically diverse neighborhood of Jackson Heights either. Worse still, Papi, the parent she felt really understood her, died eight months ago, leaving her alone with critical, perpetually exhausted Ma. Ale just wants to get through this year and attend her dream liberal arts college in Maine with her White best friend, Laurel. But her life turns upside down when aggressively, self-righteously activist Laurel--without Ale's approval--starts a petition against a teacher who insinuated that Ale's heritage made her a shoo-in for college. Ale must figure out and stand up for what she believes in. Weighty topics such as appropriation, passing, privilege, and inclusivity are seamlessly addressed in this entertaining, well-paced story. The characterization, both of main characters and of the supporting cast members, is well-rounded and spot-on, and Ale is a thoroughly appealing protagonist, managing to be wry and vulnerable at once. This skillful depiction of a common sort of subtle, pervasive, and multilayered racism and classism rings true. A satisfyingly accurate account of zealotry and personal growth. (Fiction. 13-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Part I Chapter 1 Origin Story When you have a name like Alejandra Kim, teachers always stare at you like you're a typo on the attendance sheet. Each school year, without fail, they look at my face and the roster and back again, like they can't compute my súper-­Korean face and my súper-­Spanish first name. Multiply that by eight different teachers for eight periods a day, and boom: welcome to my life at Quaker Oats Prep. I mean, Alejandra is like the "Jessica" of Spanish girl names--­basic as all hell. It's not like my parents named me Hermenegilda or Xóchitl. And yet people still find a million and one ways to butcher my name. I've been called: 1. Alley-­JOHN-­druh Mr. Landibadeau, our college guidance counselor, who apparently never took Spanish 101. (Hello, the "j" is pronounced like an "h.") 2. Alexandra Mr. Schwartz, sophomore year, who ironically "Ellis Islanded" me even though he teaches US history. 3. Ah-­leh-­CHHHHHAN-­durah! Ms. Sanders, junior year physics. Technically this is correct--­the third syllable is pronounced like the "Chan" in "Chanukah." (Hanukah? Hanukkah? You get my point.) But Ms. Sanders was trying so hard to sound muy auténtica, which was almost as bad as if she'd just Ellis Islanded my name in the first place. You know, like those annoying people who go to a bodega and order a "CWAH-­sson," when the rest of us commoners just say, "cruh-­SAHNT." But if you're the one ordering croissants from a corner bodega, that's the least of your pretentious problems. For the record, I just pronounce it "Ah-­lay-­HAHN-­druh." But I usually tell people to call me "Ally." I say it the easy gringo way: "Alley." As in, alley cat, alleyway, back-­alley. That's what everyone at Quaker Oats Prep calls me. Our school's not actually named Quaker Oats. It's officially Anne Austere Preparatory School, named after a Quaker from the 1600s who was literally burned at the stake for trying to better humanity. But everyone just calls us Quaker Oats. We're not like Brearley or Chapin or Dalton. We're more "progressive" (read: "hippie" and "weirdo"). We're like the minor leagues for the big Quaker colleges like Whyder and Swarthmore and Bryn Mawr. Laurel Greenblatt-­Watkins, my first and best friend here, says we're a hotbed of granola crunchiness in the middle of Chinatown. I don't know what to think. I'm just a scholarship kid (90 percent). And Ma never lets me forget about that 10 percent we owe each year. Back in my neighborhood in Queens, they call me "Ale." Except when Ma gets súper pissed, then it's all, "Alejandra Verónica Kim, ¡andate a tu cuarto!" Papi always used to call me "Aleja-­ya." If I were Dominican or Puerto Rican or Colombian or Mexican, then at least I'd have some solidarity in New York with "mi gente," my people. Which might sound vaguely racist, but it is what it is. But my parents are Argentine, and there aren't a whole lot of us here. Both sets of my parents' parents were Korean immigrants who were aiming for America-­North back in the day but washed up in America-­South. Sidebar: the Korean name for America is Mi-­Guk--­Beautiful-­Country. For South America, it's Nam-­Mi--­South-­of-­Beautiful. Which is all kinds of linguistically fucked up. It sounds random, how a bunch of Koreans ended up in Argentina. The short answer is immigrant labor exploitation. They were sent over to farm and "populate" Patagonia, but the land was basically a barren desert. The Koreans were like, yeah, nope, and hightailed it to Buenos Aires, where they settled in a villa miseria called Baekgu and sewed clothes all day. Every time I get upset about something first-­world, like how they forgot the ketchup packet with my fries, I have to stop myself and remember: Papi grew up in literal miseryville. He worked in a sweatshop, forced into child labor by his own parents. That's what happens when you're the kid of immigrants: your whole life is one big guilt trip. Nothing about my family is "normal." Not even the Spanish we speak, which is all weird and Porteño--­aka Buenaryan. Apparently there's a hierarchy within the Latinx community, where everyone thinks Argentines are snobby, white European wannabes looking down their noses at the rest of Latin America with their hoity-­toity accents and weirder verb conjugations and stubborn refusal to use normal words like "tú"--­you. Instead Argentines say "vos," which was súper trending in Spain in the 1500s but has since fallen the way of the pay phone and the postage stamp. Also, Argentines use the word "che"--­hey--­a lot, which is how Ernesto Guevara got his nickname. Anyway, Ma and Papi knew each other as kids back in Baekgu, but they re-­met here in New York as adults, and the rest, as they say, is historia. Che, that was exhausting. What's kind of annoying is how people--­adults especially--­always expect you to lead with your Origin Story like you're in a Marvel comic, sans the superpowers. Like, ooh, tell me the exotic story behind your name/face/race/peoples. Walk me through that radioactive spider bite that transformed you into the Super Freak you are today. (Peter Parker, by the way, is also from Queens.) I am 94.7 percent sure they wouldn't do that if I looked like my ancestors had stepped off the Mayflower. Excerpted from Imposter Syndrome and Other Confessions of Alejandra Kim by Patricia Park 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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