I'm so excited to be able to share an excerpt from this book. Who Put This Song On? by Morgan Parker is a powerful exploration of depression, faith, and blackness -- how do they all intertwine when it comes to our main character, Morgan. Based loosely on the author's own diaries and experiences, this is a book not to be missed!
Title: Who Put This Song On?
Authors(s): Morgan Parker
Edition: Hardcover, ebook, audiobook; 336 pages
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Publication Date: September 24, 2019
Source: Rockstar Book Tours
Buy: Amazon - Kindle - Audible - Barnes &
Noble - iBooks - Kobo - The Book Depository
Disclaimer: I received a finished copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. My thoughts and opinions are my own.
Tour Schedule
Week One:
9/2/2019- Becky on Books- Excerpt
9/3/2019- A Dream Within A Dream- Excerpt
9/4/2019- Lifestyle Of Me- Review
9/5/2019- Life of a Simple Reader- Excerpt
9/6/2019- jade writes books- Review
Week Two:
9/9/2019- Kait Plus Books- Excerpt
9/10/2019- Here's to Happy Endings- Review
9/11/2019- Jena Brown Writes- Review
9/12/2019- Country Road Reviews- Excerpt
9/13/2019- Paper Reader- Review
Week Three:
9/16/2019- Eli to the nth- Review
9/17/2019- Book-Keeping- Review
9/18/2019- The Layaway Dragon- Review
9/19/2019- Wishful Endings- Excerpt
9/20/2019- Kati's Bookaholic Rambling Reviews- Excerpt
Week Four:
9/23/2019- BookHounds YA- Review
9/24/2019- Confessions of a YA Reader- Excerpt
9/25/2019- dwantstoread- Excerpt
9/26/2019- Two Chicks on Books- Excerpt
9/27/2019- two points of interest- Review
Week Five:
9/30/2019- Bookish Rantings- Excerpt
The Summary
In the vein of powerful reads like
The Hate U Give and Girl in Pieces, comes poet Morgan Parker's pitch-perfect
novel about a black teenage girl searching for her identity when the world
around her views her depression as a lack of faith and blackness as something
to be politely ignored.
Trapped in sunny, stifling, small-town suburbia,
seventeen-year-old Morgan knows why she's in therapy. She can't count the
number of times she's been the only non-white person at the sleepover, been
teased for her "weird" outfits, and been told she's not
"really" black. Also, she's spent most of her summer crying in bed.
So there's that, too.
Lately, it feels like the whole world is listening to
the same terrible track on repeat--and it's telling them how to feel, who to
vote for, what to believe. Morgan wonders, when can she turn this song off and
begin living for herself?
Life may be a never-ending hamster wheel of agony, but
Morgan finds her crew of fellow outcasts, blasts music like there's no
tomorrow, discovers what being black means to her, and finally puts her mental
health first. She decides that, no matter what, she will always be intense,
ridiculous, passionate, and sometimes hilarious. After all, darkness doesn't
have to be a bad thing. Darkness is just real.
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Loosely based on her own teenage life and diaries,
this incredible debut by award-winning poet Morgan Parker will make readers
stand up and cheer for a girl brave enough to live life on her own terms--and
for themselves.
Susan
This is a story about Susan. Draped permanently on the back
of Susan’s chair is a sweater embroidered with birds—that type of lady. She
has this thing I hate, where she’s just always medium, room temperature. Susan
looks like a preschool teacher with no emotions. She smiles, she nods, but she
almost never laughs or speaks. That might be the number one thing I hate about
coming here. She won’t even laugh at my jokes! I know that life with me is a
ridiculous hamster wheel of agony, but I’m kind of hilarious, and I’m just
trying to make this whole situation less awkward.
I’m the one who begged for my first session, but I was
desperate, and it was almost my only choice. Now that I’m actually doing this,
I hate it. I just want Susan to buy my usual pitch: I am okay. I am smart and
good. I am regular, and I believe in God, and that means I am happy.
By the way, of course my therapist’s name is Susan. It seems
like everyone I meet, everyone telling me how to be, is a Susan.
I don’t trust a Susan, and I don’t think they trust me
either.
I don’t like Susan, but I want to impress her—I’m usually
so good at it.
But this is what I mean about the bird sweater. I know the
bird sweater is awful, and just uncool and unappealing in every way—it doesn’t
even look comfortable. But other Susans like it, and generally all Susans do.
It is a sensible piece of clothing; it is normal, and it makes sense. Wouldn’t
it be so much easier if I liked the sweater, if I just wore the fucking sweater
and didn’t make such a big deal out of everything?
This Is a Story About Me
This is a story about me, and I am the hero of it. It opens
with a super-emo shot of a five-foot-nothing seventeen-year-old black
girl—me—in the waiting room at my therapist’s office, a place that I hate.
It’s so bright outside it’s neon, and of course the soundtrack is Yankee
Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco, because I have more feelings than anyone knows
what to do with.
The smell in here is unlike any other smell in the world,
some rare concoction of pumpkin pie–scented candles and every single perfume
sample from the first floor of Macy’s. I bet Susan Brady LCSW decorates her
house with Thomas Kinkade paintings and those little figurines, cherubs dressed
up for various occupations, I don’t know. The other thing I hate about coming
here is the random framed photo of, I believe, Bon Jovi on the coffee table,
which also features a wide assortment of the corniest magazines of all time.
(White people love Bon Jovi. When Marissa and I went to Lake
Havasu with Kelly Kline, because that’s what white people do here in the
summer, Bon Jovi was the only thing her family listened to—that freaking
scratched-up CD was actually stuck inside the thing on their boat. I had a
moderate time at “the Lake,” except for when I had to explain my summer braids
to Kelly and Marissa, for probably the eight hundredth time, to justify why I
didn’t have a hairbrush to sing into. They made me sing into a chicken leg
because of course. I was also shamed for not knowing any Bon Jovi lyrics. That
was around this time last summer, but it feels like a past life.)
(Another thing I hate about coming here is how I have to
think about everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve done wrong, and everything I
hate about being alive.)
The thing I like about it here is that there’s Werther’s.
Susan opens the door and spreads her arms to me in a weird
Jesus way, the sleeves of her flowy paisley peasant top billowing at her sides.
She has kind of a White Auntie thing going on, or a lady-who-sells-birdhouses-at-the-church-craft-fair
thing: a sad squinty smile, a dull brown bob, a gentle cadence to her voice. I
can tell she’s used to talking to children—probably rich white children—and
as I stiffly arrange myself on the couch in her office, I’m suddenly self-conscious
about my largeness, my badness. I just feel so obvious all the
time.
It’s like that song “Too Alive” by the Breeders. I feel
every little thing, way more than regular people do.
“So, how are you doing today?” Susan asks too cheerily, like
a hostess at Olive Garden or something. “Where are you on the scale we’ve been
using?”
(I feel so deeply it agonizes me.)
“I’m okay. I guess on the scale I’m probably ‘pretty dang
bad,’ but better than yesterday and still not ‘scary bad.’ ”
(Now, probably to the soundtrack of Belle and Sebastian’s
“Get Me Away from Here, I’m Dying,” there’s a longish montage of me zoning out,
imagining the lives of everyone I know. Even in my dreams, it’s so easy and fun
for them to exist.)
“Are you still taking the art class?”
“Yeah. Every Tuesday.”
“That’s wonderful. And how are you liking it?”
“It’s fine. Sort of boring, but . . . I guess
it takes my mind off things.”
“Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind the other
times?”
“Um, not really,” I chuckle, in my best joking-with-adults
voice. The AC churns menacingly, like it always does, taunting me. Susan, with
her wrinkled white cleavage, unmoving and unrelenting. Susan doesn’t play.
I think about grabbing a Werther’s from the crystal bowl but
don’t, even though I want one. (Will Susan write Loudly sucks on
Werther’s in my file as soon as I leave, right next to Is
probably fine; just being dramatic?)
“I guess just people at school. Why I’m so different.”
“Can you say a little more about that? What are the things
that make you feel so different?”
“I don’t know.” My chest is welling up with everything I’ve
been trying to stuff into my mind’s closet. “I can’t get happy.”
It happened only three weeks ago, but since my “episode,” no
one in my family has uttered the word suicidal. It’s easier
not to.
I glance down at my Chucks, trying to divert my eyes from
Susan. Stare at a lamp, the books stacked on her shelves. I spot a spine that
reads Healing, Recovery, and Growth, and immediately feel
ridiculous. Sweat pools in my bra. This isn’t gonna work.
“Morgan, why are you so angry with yourself?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m not!” This is a lie, but it hasn’t
always been. “I’m annoyed,” I admit, sighing, “and embarrassed.”
“Why are you embarrassed?”
“Just—I don’t know . . . ,” I whine.
Words begin to spill and spew from my lungs like a power ballad. “Like, why am
I the only one I know who has to go to a shrink? How did I become the crazy
one? I have to be the first one in the history of our family and our school to
go to therapy?” I bristle. “I’m pissed I can’t just get over stuff the way
everyone else seems to.”
I purse my lips resolutely and fold my arms tight against my
boobs. Your ball, Susan. She just nods and squints like she has no clue what to
do with me.
I’ve asked God and Jesus and all their other relatives to
“wash away my sins,” but it doesn’t feel like Jesus is living inside me—I
can’t even imagine what that would feel like. I’m so full up with me, me, stupid
me.
“Mmm . . . ,” she finally grunts. “I
see.”
Fighting the near-constant urge to roll my eyes all the way
to the back of my skull, I snatch up and devour a Werther’s.
Copyright © 2019 by Morgan Parker
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Morgan
Parker is the author of the poetry collections Magical Negro (Tin House 2019),
There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé (Tin House 2017), and Other
People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up At Night (Switchback Books 2015). Her debut young
adult novel Who Put This Song On? will be released by Delacorte Press on
September 24, 2019. A debut book of nonfiction is forthcoming from One World/
Random House. Parker received her Bachelors in Anthropology and Creative
Writing from Columbia University and her MFA in Poetry from NYU. She is the
recipient of a 2017 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship,
winner of a 2016 Pushcart Prize, and a Cave Canem graduate fellow. Parker is
the creator and host of Reparations, Live! at the Ace Hotel. With Tommy Pico, she
co-curates the Poets With Attitude (PWA) reading series, and with Angel Nafis,
she is The Other Black Girl Collective. Morgan is a Sagittarius, and she lives
in Los Angeles.
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3 winners will receive finished copies of WHO PUT THIS SONG ON?, US
Only.
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