The Book of Dead Birds [NOOK Book]

Overview

Ava Sing Lo has been accidentally killing her mother's birds since she was a little girl. Now in her twenties, Ava leaves her native San Diego for the Salton Sea, where she volunteers to help environmental activists save thousands of birds poisoned by agricultural runoff.

Helen, her mother, has been haunted by her past for decades. As a young girl in Korea, Helen was drawn into prostitution on a segregated American army base. Several brutal years passed before a young white ...

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The Book of Dead Birds

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Overview

Ava Sing Lo has been accidentally killing her mother's birds since she was a little girl. Now in her twenties, Ava leaves her native San Diego for the Salton Sea, where she volunteers to help environmental activists save thousands of birds poisoned by agricultural runoff.

Helen, her mother, has been haunted by her past for decades. As a young girl in Korea, Helen was drawn into prostitution on a segregated American army base. Several brutal years passed before a young white American soldier married her and brought her to California. When she gave birth to a black baby, her new husband quickly abandoned her, and she was left to fend for herself and her daughter in a foreign country.

With great beauty and lyricism, The Book of Dead Birds captures a young woman's struggle to come to terms with her mother's terrible past while she searches for her own place in the world.

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Editorial Reviews

O Magazine
A moving and perceptive first novel.
Library Journal
Ava Sing Lo is a 25-year-old virgin still living in her mother's California home. Despite a freshly minted master's degree, her search for full-time work has been fruitless. Ava doesn't know what to do with herself until news about the poisoning of fish and pelicans in the nearby Salton Sea grabs her attention. Although Ava knows very little about either species-in fact, over the past two decades she has accidentally killed several of her mother's pet birds-she decides to volunteer. Once at the rescue site, she gets more than she bargained for. Not only is she overwhelmed by the array of decaying wildlife, but someone in the area is also murdering young females. As the drama unfolds, Ava confronts her own family history and learns important lessons about love, sisterhood, and friendship. Although Brandeis's writing is at times heavyhanded, the book is poignant and well researched, weaving corporate malfeasance, prostitution, racism, and sexual dysfunction into Ava's coming-of-age story. Winner of Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize, this unpredictable first novel is highly recommended for all libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 1/03.]-Eleanor J. Bader, Brooklyn, NY Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Korean folklore and ornithology figure in the lives of a former GI prostitute and her black fatherless daughter in an earnest, sad-funny debut, winner of Barbara Kingsolver’s Bellwether Prize. At 25, Ava Sing Lo lives with her mother, Omma, in San Diego, has a music degree, and feels crushing guilt about her ancestry. She also has an unfortunate history of accidentally killing her mother’s beloved birds. Wanting to surprise her mother by having the carpet cleaned, she destroys the parrot by chemical fumes; or, after refrigerating the robin eggs she finds in the kitchen, she learns that Omma was hoping to hatch them. In penitence, Ava enlists as a volunteer on Salton Sea to help the California brown pelicans that have been poisoned by pesticides. Meanwhile, Omma keeps a journal chronicling the long history of her daughter’s bird slaughter--it also functions as a metaphorical history of Omma’s inability to fly free of the curse of her past as a prostitute. In alternating chapters, while Ava adjusts to the stinking daily death of pelicans, the reader learns of Omma’s early attempt to escape her adolescence as a sea urchin diver on Cheju-Do Island: she runs away to her friend Sun, sings at a folk village, then at a striptease joint for black GIs. Known as Helen, and pregnant, she manages to get to San Diego as the fiancée of a white soldier, who then abandons her when the black baby is born. Brandeis gives enormously sympathetic qualities to both Ava and her strangely impassive and emotionally scarred mother. Too many elements, however, fight for ascendancy and resolution: murdered prostitutes washed up on the shores of Salton Sea; the sorrowful, desperate history of Helen’s and Sun’s livesas GI prostitutes; and the early massacre at Cheju-do in 1948. While the writing can be breezy and lightweight for such gravitas, the plight of the mother and daughter is still heartbreaking. In all, a wrenching tale exploring similar Korean-American identity as Nora Okja Keller’s Fox Girl (2001). Agent: Arielle Eckstut/James Levine Communications
San Francisco Chronicle
“[A] vivid tale of a woman learning to save and cherish life.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Moving … powerful and strangely interesting.”
Bust Magazine
“An emotional story forged in crystalline prose.”
O magazine
“A moving and perceptive first novel.”
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Brandeis’s writing is sensitive, lyrical and diverse.”
Rocky Mountain News
“A uniquely inventive novel.”
Denver Post
“Intricate and elegant ... a novel that illustrates a compelling search for meaning that is ultimately familiar.”
O Magazine
"A moving and perceptive first novel."
Barbara Kingsolver
“Lyrical, imaginative, beautifully crafted, and deeply intelligent. Before anything else, its characters take you by the heart.”
Toni Morrison
“[It] has an edgy beauty that enhances perfectly the seriousness of its contents.”
Donna M. Gershten
“THE BOOK OF DEAD BIRDS is a story of healing—a skillful, textured weaving of dark and light.”
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780061860324
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 10/13/2009
  • Sold by: HARPERCOLLINS
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 840,615
  • File size: 284 KB

Meet the Author

Gayle Brandeis is the author of  The Book of Dead Birds, the winner of Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize, an award in support of a literature of social change. Reviewers have highly praised this, her first novel, and Toni Morrison said: "It has an edgy beauty that enhances perfectly the seriousness of its contents."  She is also the author. Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write. 

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Read an Excerpt

Book of Dead Birds, The Chapter One

I remember the first time I flew.

I was four years old. My mother decided to take me to Balboa Park for the afternoon. I watched the back of her short-sleeved blouse as we crossed the parking lot to the playground; the sky-blue fabric tightened, then loosened, tightened, then loosened, across her shoulder blades, pointy as chicken wings. I tried to catch up, but my mother was too fast. Even then, I knew she didn't like to be seen with me in public. I knew it was because of my skin — so much darker than my mother's, dark like the treats she made out of dates that morning, the ones that stuck between my teeth, filling my mouth with a prickly sweetness.

We didn't go to the park very often, but this day was special — New Year's Eve, 1975. Not December 31, when midnight bullets flew through our San Diego neighborhood and we crouched together in the closet; this was a few weeks later — the lunar New Year, the Korean New Year, the day when girls stand up on seesaws and swings.

At four, I was already as tall as my mother's ribs. I broke into a run and tugged at my mother's shirt, pulling it out of the elastic waistband of her lime-green pants. She shook herself loose and kept walking. I could see the scar on her lower back as her shirt flapped up — a crescent moon, beaded with pale tooth marks. I reached to swipe a finger over it, but she walked even faster.

She let me catch up to her when we reached the grass. Without looking at me, she looped two fingers around my wrist and guided me over to the swings. She lifted me by the armpits with a grunt and deposited me, standing, on a swing strap. I clutched the chain while she moved the swing lightly back and forth, but I couldn't keep my balance. I wobbled, then tumbled into her arms.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then shifted me onto her hip and lurched over to the seesaw. With her foot, she tilted one end of the peeling yellow plank to the ground; I grabbed on to her sleeves.

"No, Omma!" I yelled, as she set me, standing, on the edge.

"You stay here." She twisted herself away from my grip.

"Omma!" I jumped off the seesaw. The plank rose into the air. She pushed it down again and set me back on. "You stay now." Her voice was firm.

I couldn't breathe as I watched my mother walk to the other side of the playground. I wanted to step off the seesaw but my feet felt bolted to the plank. When she finally stopped and turned around, my throat filled with air.

"Omma!" I spread out my arms. She began to run toward me.

I had never seen my mother run before. She was fast. I watched her cheeks jiggle and her mouth sway loose and her small breasts swing around as she came closer. Then she jumped. She jumped as if there were a trampoline in the grass. She shot up so high, I worried she might get tangled in the jacaranda branches above. There was a determination in her eyes that scared me. It scared her, too. I could see her hesitate as she began to fall. She pedaled her feet backward like a cartoon character who realized he had just walked off a cliff, but she landed on the seesaw anyway, a crumpling blur of limbs.

That's when I flew.

I flew straight over my mother's head, flew like a bullet across the playground. I felt as if I wouldn't ever stop, as if I would keep on flying, past the park, past the zoo and the stores and the ocean. I felt as if I would be a flying girl forever. Then a eucalyptus tree zoomed toward my face. My mother tackled me to the ground just as I was about to hit the molting trunk.

Neither of us spoke on the car ride home. We barely even breathed — it felt as if one loud exhale would make some invisible seesaw between us lose its precarious balance. As soon as we got into the apartment, I stumbled off to bed. I felt my end of the ghost board clatter to the ground, felt my mother float untethered behind me as I drifted into a deep, dark nap.

When I woke, my whole head throbbed. My forehead had banged into the dirt pretty hard when we fell. In the gray light of dusk, I could see my mother sitting by the window, rocking a bit, as if she had to go to the bathroom.

"Omma." My voice was a puff of air.

My mother turned toward me, then crept up to the bed. Something about her looked different, scary. Her eyebrows, I realized, were completely white. She had put some kind of powder on them; flecks of it dusted her eyelashes, her cheeks, her collar. After I walked to the bathroom, I was startled to find my own eyebrows white, as well. They looked strange on my much darker face, like a powdered sugar decoration, frosting on a gingerbread cookie. A scrape ran across my forehead, an oblong abrasion, speckled pink and red. I touched a finger to it; pain shot behind my eyes. I began to feel dizzy. My mother grabbed me by the arms and led me back to bed.

"If you take nap at New Year," she told me as she tucked me under the covers, "the story says your eyebrow turn white. Is joking to put on flour if you fall asleep."

My mother didn't look happy to me, not like someone telling a joke. "Did you fall asleep, Omma?" I asked.

She shook her head. A tear carved a streak through the light dusting of flour on her face ...

Book of Dead Birds, The. Copyright © by Gayle Brandeis. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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First Chapter

The Book of Dead Birds
A Novel

Chapter One

I remember the first time I flew.

I was four years old. My mother decided to take me to Balboa Park for the afternoon. I watched the back of her short-sleeved blouse as we crossed the parking lot to the playground; the sky-blue fabric tightened, then loosened, tightened, then loosened, across her shoulder blades, pointy as chicken wings. I tried to catch up, but my mother was too fast. Even then, I knew she didn't like to be seen with me in public. I knew it was because of my skin -- so much darker than my mother's, dark like the treats she made out of dates that morning, the ones that stuck between my teeth, filling my mouth with a prickly sweetness.

We didn't go to the park very often, but this day was special -- New Year's Eve, 1975. Not December 31, when midnight bullets flew through our San Diego neighborhood and we crouched together in the closet; this was a few weeks later -- the lunar New Year, the Korean New Year, the day when girls stand up on seesaws and swings.

At four, I was already as tall as my mother's ribs. I broke into a run and tugged at my mother's shirt, pulling it out of the elastic waistband of her lime-green pants. She shook herself loose and kept walking. I could see the scar on her lower back as her shirt flapped up -- a crescent moon, beaded with pale tooth marks. I reached to swipe a finger over it, but she walked even faster.

She let me catch up to her when we reached the grass. Without looking at me, she looped two fingers around my wrist and guided me over to the swings. She lifted me by the armpits with a grunt and deposited me, standing, on a swing strap. I clutched the chain while she moved the swing lightly back and forth, but I couldn't keep my balance. I wobbled, then tumbled into her arms.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then shifted me onto her hip and lurched over to the seesaw. With her foot, she tilted one end of the peeling yellow plank to the ground; I grabbed on to her sleeves.

"No, Omma!" I yelled, as she set me, standing, on the edge.

"You stay here." She twisted herself away from my grip.

"Omma!" I jumped off the seesaw. The plank rose into the air. She pushed it down again and set me back on. "You stay now." Her voice was firm.

I couldn't breathe as I watched my mother walk to the other side of the playground. I wanted to step off the seesaw but my feet felt bolted to the plank. When she finally stopped and turned around, my throat filled with air.

"Omma!" I spread out my arms. She began to run toward me.

I had never seen my mother run before. She was fast. I watched her cheeks jiggle and her mouth sway loose and her small breasts swing around as she came closer. Then she jumped. She jumped as if there were a trampoline in the grass. She shot up so high, I worried she might get tangled in the jacaranda branches above. There was a determination in her eyes that scared me. It scared her, too. I could see her hesitate as she began to fall. She pedaled her feet backward like a cartoon character who realized he had just walked off a cliff, but she landed on the seesaw anyway, a crumpling blur of limbs.

That's when I flew.

I flew straight over my mother's head, flew like a bullet across the playground. I felt as if I wouldn't ever stop, as if I would keep on flying, past the park, past the zoo and the stores and the ocean. I felt as if I would be a flying girl forever. Then a eucalyptus tree zoomed toward my face. My mother tackled me to the ground just as I was about to hit the molting trunk.

Neither of us spoke on the car ride home. We barely even breathed -- it felt as if one loud exhale would make some invisible seesaw between us lose its precarious balance. As soon as we got into the apartment, I stumbled off to bed. I felt my end of the ghost board clatter to the ground, felt my mother float untethered behind me as I drifted into a deep, dark nap.

When I woke, my whole head throbbed. My forehead had banged into the dirt pretty hard when we fell. In the gray light of dusk, I could see my mother sitting by the window, rocking a bit, as if she had to go to the bathroom.

"Omma." My voice was a puff of air.

My mother turned toward me, then crept up to the bed. Something about her looked different, scary. Her eyebrows, I realized, were completely white. She had put some kind of powder on them; flecks of it dusted her eyelashes, her cheeks, her collar. After I walked to the bathroom, I was startled to find my own eyebrows white, as well. They looked strange on my much darker face, like a powdered sugar decoration, frosting on a gingerbread cookie. A scrape ran across my forehead, an oblong abrasion, speckled pink and red. I touched a finger to it; pain shot behind my eyes. I began to feel dizzy. My mother grabbed me by the arms and led me back to bed.

"If you take nap at New Year," she told me as she tucked me under the covers, "the story says your eyebrow turn white. Is joking to put on flour if you fall asleep."

My mother didn't look happy to me, not like someone telling a joke. "Did you fall asleep, Omma?" I asked.

She shook her head. A tear carved a streak through the light dusting of flour on her face ...

The Book of Dead Birds
A Novel
. Copyright © by Gayle Brandeis. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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Reading Group Guide

Ava Sing Lo has been accidentally killing her mother's birds since she was a little girl. Now, having just graduated from college, Ava leaves for California's Salton Sea where she volunteers to help environmental activists save thousands of birds poisoned by agricultural run-off. Helen, Ava's mother, has been haunted by her past for decades. As a young girl in Korea, Helen was drawn into prostitution on a segregated American Army base. After several brutal years, a young white American soldier married her and brought her to California. When she gave birth to a black baby, her new husband quickly abandoned her and she was left to fend for herself and her daughter in a foreign country.

The Book of Dead Birds eloquently captures a young woman's struggle to come to terms with her mother's terrible past while she searches for her own place in the world. This moving mother-daughter story of migration, survival, and reconciliation resonate across cultures and through generations.

Discussion Questions

  1. At the opening of the novel, Ava is at a crucial point of her life, on the cusp of adulthood. Must she must leave her house and her mother to redefine herself. And if so, why?
  2. "I unwrap a Crunch bar, let my teeth pass through the deep brown chocolate, the pale crisped rice inside. Such an easy balance between those two flavors; such an uneasy balance in my own life -- chocolate and rice, battling it out, creating something different, something neither flavor can really claim." (page 37). These are Ava's words. Is her skin color her main struggle, or is there more?
  3. Ava's mother's past is a heavy weight that she carries, and in many ways Ava must shoulder her mother's burden too. How do music, poetry, and nature help reconcile Ava and her mother?
  4. The natural world plays a big part in The Book of Dead Birds. Were you surprised by the harsh landscapes of Korea and Southern California, and is there beauty, after all, in these places?

About the Author:

Gayle Brandeis is also the author of Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write (Harper San Francisco) and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Salon, HipMama, among other places online and off. The Book of Dead Birds is her first novel.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
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Sort by: Showing all of 9 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 22, 2013

    The moon thicket

    Unista

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 9, 2013

    Something different

    I read this book in one shot. It is very different from anything I have read before. Ava the main character adores her mother but her mother has always been distant showing affection for only her birds. The book goes back and forth between Ava attrmpting to gain her mother's favor by helping sick birds and flashbacks into Ava's mothers troubled past. Both Mother and Daughter grow as tge story goes on. Sad but thoughtful with a glimmer of hope and a few moments of witty humor make for a good read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 11, 2006

    Compelling

    That reviewer below must have read a different book than the one I did. I found every page of this novel intriguing and my heart went out to all the characters, not just the birds. I thought it was beautiful all the way through.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2006

    Fantastically Boring

    When I read the first chapter of this book, I thought it would be great but it was just awful. By the middle of the book, I didn't even care about what happened to any of the characters (well, I did feel some remorse for the pelicans, at least) I'm glad I got it on sale for only $1.00 but it was a big disappointment.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 26, 2004

    This book flies

    A poignant mother daughter story with an environmental conscience to boot. I was entranced by this beautiful first novel and look forward to future work by this author.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 21, 2004

    Not Interesting

    I was eager to read this book, but, unfortunately, it turned out to be a disappointment. It was boring and several parts were completely pointless. Not a lot of detail except constant mention of smells. The only thing that forced me to read it through was that I felt guilty for having spent money on it. A very weak novel.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2003

    Evocative, haunting, brilliant

    I had loved and read Brandeis' wonderful "Fruitflesh" and I eagerly read this novel in manuscript. Rather, I should say, I inhaled it, for the exquisite beauty of the prose, the heartbreaking past of the Korean mother (I don't have the novel in my hands or I would have the character name--but her person, her speech are indelible in my mind)and how that past shapes her troubled daughter's present and future. Breathtaking--a novel that achieves grandeur.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 15, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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