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The Leavers is about belonging, and who we are when we lose the people who make us, well, ourselves.
There’s no better time to read a powerful book than when the world feels cold and unfriendly. While using fiction as an escape from reality is incredibly rewarding on its own, what’s even better is when a novel’s lessons lift from the pages and inform our lives with renewed compassion.
On the surface, The Leavers is a novel about a mother and son who are separated by forces more powerful than thei...
One morning, Deming Guo’s mother, Polly, an undocumented Chinese immigrant, goes to her job at a nail salon'”and never comes home. No one can find any trace of her.
With his mother gone, eleven-year-old Deming is left mystified and bereft. Eventually adopted by a pair of well-meaning white professors, Deming is moved from the Bronx to a small town upstate and renamed Daniel Wilkinson. But far ...
The day before Deming Guo saw his mother for the last time, she surprised him at school. A navy blue hat sat low on her forehead, scarf around her neck like a big brown snake. "What are you waiting for, Kid? It's cold out."
He stood in the doorway of P.S. 33 as she zipped his coat so hard the collar pinched. "Did you get off work early?" It was four thirty, already dark, but she didn't usually leave the nail salon until six.
They spoke, as always, in Fuzhounese. "Short shift. Michael said you had to stay late to get help on an assignment." Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, and he couldn't tell if she bought it or not. Teachers didn't call your mom when you got detention, only gave a form you had to return with a signature, which he forged. Michael, who never got detention, had left after eighth period, and Deming wanted to get back home with him, in front of the television, where, in the safety of a laugh track, he didn't have to worry about ever letting anyone down.
Snow fell like clots of wet laundry. Deming and his mother walked up Jerome Avenue. In the back of a concrete courtyard three older boys were passing a blunt, coats unzipped, wearing neither backpacks nor hats, sweet smoke and laughter warming the thin February air. "I don't want you to be like that," she said. "I don't want you to be like me. I didn't even finish eighth grade."
What a sweet idea, not finishing eighth grade. He could barely finish fifth. His teachers said it was an issue of focus, of not applying himself. Yet when he tripped Travis Bhopa in math class Deming had been as shocked as Travis was.