American Ace

This riveting novel in verse, perfect for fans of Jacqueline Woodson and Toni Morrison, explores American history and race through the eyes of a teenage boy embracing his newfound identity
 
Connor’s grandmother leaves his dad a letter when she dies, and the letter’s confession shakes their tight-knit Italian-American family: The man who raised Dad is not his birth father.
 
But the only clues to this birth father’s identity are a class ring and a pair of pilot’s wings. And so Connor takes it upon himself to investigate—a pursuit that becomes even more pressing when Dad is hospitalized after a stroke. What Connor discovers will lead him and his father to a new, richer understanding of race, identity, and each other.Praise for American Ace

“[Nelson’s] meticulous verse is the perfect vehicle to convey the devastating fragility of racial and familial identity in an America where interracial love is still divided through the problem of the color line.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“Inspired by her father’s remarkable experiences as a Tuskegee Airman, esteemed historian-poet Nelson has aced it again. . . . This slice of history has been told before, but not like this.”—Booklist

“Nelson’s powerful command of language is inarguable.”—Publishers Weekly

“A quietly powerful story about race, ignorance, and identity from a poetry master.”—Bustle.com

“A skillful exploration into identity, culture, and race.”—Examiner.com

“A gorgeous story that stays with you long after you finish.”—Buzzfeed

“A bright spot in historical fiction.”—BookPage

“Stunning.”—Shelf AwarenessMarilyn Nelson is a three-time National Book Award finalist, has won a Newbery Honor, a Printz Honor, and several Coretta Scott King Honors, and has received several prestigious poetry awards, including the Poets' Prize and the Robert Frost Medal "for distinguished lifetime service to American poetry." Her most recent book, How I Discovered Poetry, was named a Coretta Scott King Author Honor Book and an ALA Notable Children’s Book.

The Language of Suffering

 

My dad went weird when Nonna Lucia died.

It was like his sense of humor died with her.

He still patted my back and called me buddy;

we still played catch while the mosquitoes rose.

He still rubbled my head with his knuckles.

But a muscle had tightened in his jaw

I’d never seen before, and the silence

between us in the front seat of the van

sometimes made me turn on the radio.

I knew he loved his mom. We all loved her.

But when he smiled now, his eyes still looked sad,

all these months after Nonna’s funeral.

Maybe there was some treasure he’d wanted,

that she gave to one of his brothers in her will?

Maybe he’d wanted some of the furniture?

But he got the embroidered tablecloth

Nonna and Nonno brought to America,

which she spread out at family festivals

under platter after platter after platter.

He wasn’t a movie dad with another woman:

He was an oldish husband who’d just moved away,

a dad who didn’t hear you when you spoke.

Me and Mom and Theresa could see his pain,

but we don’t know the language of suffering.