{"product_id":"the-last-one-isbn-9781635421842","title":"The Last One","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Fatima Daas carves out a portrait, like a patient, attentive sculptor...or like a mine searcher, aware that each word could make everything explode.” —Virginie Despentes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDrawn from the author’s experiences growing up in a Paris banlieue, a powerful, lyric debut that explores the diverse, often conflicting facets of her identity—French, Algerian, Muslim, lesbian.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe youngest daughter of Algerian immigrants, Fatima Daas is raised in a home where love and sexuality are considered taboo, and signs of affection avoided. Living in the majority-Muslim suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois, she often spends more than three hours a day on public transportation to and from the city, where she feels like a tourist observing Parisian manners. She goes from unstable student to maladjusted adult, doing four years of therapy—her longest relationship. But as she gains distance from her family and comes into her own, she grapples more directly with her attraction to women and how it fits with her religion, which she continues to practice. When Nina comes into her life, she doesn’t know exactly what she needs but feels that something crucial has been missing.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThis extraordinary first novel, anchored and buoyed by the refrain “My name is Fatima,” is a vital portrait of a young woman finding herself in a modern world full of contradictions. Daas’s journey to living her sexuality in spite of expectations about who she should be offers a powerful perspective on the queer experience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003ePEN Translation Prize Finalist\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e: Best Book of the Month\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e: Best Debut Novel of the Season\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLambda Literary\u003c\/i\u003e: Most Anticipated Book of the Month\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Prix Les Inrockuptibles 2020\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fatima Daas was used to not reading about people like her. Her debut novel was a chance to remedy this…Critics praised the novel’s powerful lyricism, and hailed the author for breaking taboos around gender, sexuality, and religion…[a] playful exploration of multiple identities.” —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Daas was hailed as the voice of a new generation for her first novel…[a] poetic, straight-talking, and often comic account…the story races along with the pace of a song or a poem…beautifully drawn.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A literary hit…follows a young, lesbian Algerian woman as she wrestles with the friction of her conflicting identities.” —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Daas’s impressive debut novel has the urgency of well-made cinéma verité…hypnotic.” —\u003ci\u003eTimes Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A riveting novel you won’t regret picking up.” —\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e, Must-Read Books \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In this award-winning autofiction…[Daas] sorts out her identity as French, Muslim, Algerian, and lesbian in absorbing, rapid-fire prose.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Top Winter Debuts\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Mesmerizing…a fresh addition to queer fiction—a deep and original debut novel.” —\u003ci\u003eForeword Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A frank and fervent work of autofiction about a woman’s attempts at integrating her clashing religion and sexuality…provocative.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Last One\u003c\/i\u003e is a thoughtful examination of a character who deeply wants to be known despite lacking the tools to do any of that self-excavation. The work is tender and sweet, lyrically built, and reprises itself in fascinating ways. Who are we apart from our family? Can we face ourselves? Can we love? Fatima Daas asks these questions the way many of us do: plaintively, longingly, and with a tremendous amount of heart.” —Kristen Arnett, author of \u003ci\u003eMostly Dead Things\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWith Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fatima Daas’ debut novel signals the presence of an exciting voice that commands attention and insists on complexity. Whether she is unpacking family ties or tracing the ways queerness dovetails with other identities, Daas stops you in your tracks with what seems like a quiet symphony until you realize it is in fact a crescendo of what it means to be human.” —Mona Eltahawy, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Seven Necessary Sins for Women and Girls\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Daas explores multifaceted identity through achronological slices of life, arrayed like glittering shards of a fractured mirror. An extraordinary debut novel you’ll never forget.” —Forsyth Harmon, author of \u003ci\u003eJustine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eThe Last One\u003c\/i\u003e, Fatima Daas uses words like bold and vivid brush strokes, exploring identity through lyricism. I tore through this incredible work of art in one sitting, but I often took a moment to catch my breath and admire the defiant beauty at the heart of this book.” —Abdi Nazemian, author of Stonewall Honor Book \u003ci\u003eLike a Love Story\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whether dealing with chronic illness, sexuality, therapy, education, faith, friendship, family, romance, or riding the bus, Fatima Daas’ \u003ci\u003eThe Last One \u003c\/i\u003etakes on the world with honesty, humor, and lyricism. The specificity of life in the Parisian suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois underscores universal themes and utterly recognizable emotions. Daas bares her narrator’s soul, and we can’t look away.” —Eman Quotah, author of \u003ci\u003eBride of the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fatima Daas’s monologue is constructed by fragments, as though she were updating Barthes and Mauriac for Clichy-sous-Bois. She carves out a portrait, like a patient, attentive sculptor...or like a mine searcher, aware that each word could make everything explode, and you have to choose them with infinite care.” —Virginie Despentes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A rhythm that pulses, sentences that crack, chapters like a chant...[a] self-portrait of a girl truly of our time...The furiously contemporary voice that we were hoping for.” —\u003ci\u003eLes Inrockuptibles\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“The Last One\u003c\/i\u003e is a bombshell that examines the question of identity with subtlety and passion.” —\u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e (France)\u003cb\u003eFatima Daas\u003c\/b\u003e was born in 1995 and grew up in Clichy-sous-Bois, France, where her parents settled after arriving from Algeria. In high school Daas participated in writing workshops led by Tanguy Viel. Influenced by Marguerite Duras and Virginie Despentes, she defines herself as an intersectional feminist. Her debut novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Last One\u003c\/i\u003e, has sold more than thirty-five thousand copies in France and will be translated into ten languages.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLara Vergnaud\u003c\/b\u003e is a translator of prose, creative nonfiction, and scholarly works from the French. She is the recipient of two PEN\/Heim Translation Fund Grants and a French Voices Grand Prize, and has been nominated for the National Translation Award. She lives in Washington, DC.My name is Fatima.\u003cbr\u003e The name of a symbolic figure in Islam. A name that must be honored.\u003cbr\u003e A name that mustn’t be “soiled,” as we say in my house.\u003cbr\u003e In my house, to soil means to dishonor. \u003ci\u003eWassekh\u003c\/i\u003e, in Algerian Arabic.\u003cbr\u003e Or \u003ci\u003edarja, darija\u003c\/i\u003e, our word for dialect.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWassekh\u003c\/i\u003e: soil, stir shit up, blacken.\u003cbr\u003e It has multiple meanings, like “close.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother would use the same word to tell me I had gotten my clothes dirty, the same word when she came home and found her Kingdom in bad shape.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her Kingdom: the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e Where we had best stay out of her way.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother hated when things weren’t put back in their place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were rules in the kitchen, like everywhere else. We were expected to know and respect them.\u003cbr\u003e If we couldn’t, we had to stay out of the Kingdom.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Among the phrases my mother said all the time, there was this one: \u003ci\u003eMakènch li ghawèn, fi hadi dar, izzèdolèk.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It sounded like a punch line to me.\u003cbr\u003e “Not a soul to help you in this house, yet it keeps piling on.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Curling my toes in my knee-high socks, I usually retorted the same way:\u003cbr\u003e “You need to tell me if you need help. I’m not psychic. I can’t just guess.”\u003cbr\u003e To which my mother would snap back that she didn’t need “our” help. She deliberately used the collective pronoun in her reproach, so I wouldn’t take it personally, so I wouldn’t feel attacked.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother started cooking at fourteen. First, the things she called \u003ci\u003esahline\u003c\/i\u003e: easy.\u003cbr\u003e Couscous, \u003ci\u003etchouktchouka\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003edjouwèz\u003c\/i\u003e, lamb tagine with prunes, chicken tagine with olives.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e At fourteen, I didn’t know how to make my bed. At twenty, I didn’t know how to iron a shirt.\u003cbr\u003e At twenty-eight, I didn’t know how to prepare plain spaghetti.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t like hanging out in the kitchen, unless it was to eat.\u003cbr\u003e I liked to eat, but not just anything.\u003cbr\u003e My mother cooked for the whole family.\u003cbr\u003e She designed the menu based on our whims.\u003cbr\u003e I refused meat; I got fish. My father couldn’t go without it; there’d be plenty on his plate.\u003cbr\u003e If Dounia, my older sister, wanted fries rather than a traditional meal, that’s what she would get.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e For as far back as I can remember, I see my mother in the kitchen, hands chapped by the cold, cheeks hollow, drawing a ketchup stick figure over my pasta, decorating the dessert, preparing the tea, storing the pans in the oven.\u003cbr\u003e I only have a single image left: our feet under the table, heads bent over our food.\u003cbr\u003e My mother at the stove, the last to sit down.\u003cbr\u003e Kamar Daas had a Kingdom, but I didn’t belong in it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My name is Fatima Daas.\u003cbr\u003e The name of a girl from Clichy who crosses the tracks to get to school.\u003cbr\u003e I buy a copy of the \u003ci\u003eDirect Matin \u003c\/i\u003eat the Raincy-Villemomble station before I catch the 8:33 a.m. train. I lick my finger to efficiently turn the pages. The headline on page 31: How to Relax.\u003cbr\u003e I find my horoscope beneath the weather forecast.\u003cbr\u003e On the platform, I read my daily horoscope and then the one for the week.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e If you want to be able to endure life, prepare for death. —Sigmund Freud\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Your astral landscape: Don’t beat yourself up if you can’t help everyone who asks. Focus on yourself! Think before jumping into major projects. Don’t confuse your optimism for Herculean abilities.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e WORK: It’s time to make some robust decisions. Your realistic approach will be your best asset today by far.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLOVE: If you’re in a relationship, be careful not to push away your partner with excessive demands. If you’re single, dream about Prince Charming all you want, but don’t expect to bump into him on the street corner.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then I skim through the tragedies of the world as I try to ignore the urge to stare at people on the train.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Every single day there are commuters who refuse to move down the aisles. In the morning, I repeat the same not-magic words: “Would you mind moving forward, please? Other people need to get to work too.” At the end of the day, my tone changes.\u003cbr\u003e I deliberately strip away the politeness.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The commuters who don’t move down the aisles are always the ones preparing to get off at the next two stations: Bondy and Noisy-le-Sec.\u003cbr\u003e Their trick is to park themselves next to the doors so they don’t miss their stop.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In the bus, I watch to make sure the woman with a child, the pregnant woman, the elderly woman has a place to sit.\u003cbr\u003e I focus my attention exclusively on the women.\u003cbr\u003e I feel like I have to play the vigilante, to defend others, to speak on their behalf, to make them heard, to reassure them, to save them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t save anyone. Not Nina, not my mother. Not even myself.\u003cbr\u003e Nina was right.\u003cbr\u003e It’s not healthy to want to save the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy name is Fatima Daas, but I was born in France, in the department of Yvelines, aka “the 78,” in Saint- Germain-en-Laye.\u003cbr\u003e I came into the world by cesarean at the Clinique Saint-Germain on Rue de la Baronne-Gérard.\u003cbr\u003e Cesarean, from the Latin \u003ci\u003ecaedere\u003c\/i\u003e: “hew”; “cut.” Incision in the uterus.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e After my birth, my mother has a heart attack, at thirty.\u003cbr\u003e I blame myself for being born.\u003cbr\u003e They take me out of her belly at dawn. I’m not born asthmatic. I become it.\u003cbr\u003e I officially enter the category of allergic asthmatics at age two.\u003cbr\u003e In adolescence, I hear the word “severe” used to describe my condition for the first time.\u003cbr\u003e At seventeen, I understand that I have an invisible disease.\u003cbr\u003e My longest hospital stay lasts six weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sister Dounia says that I’m a sponge, except the air’s not getting out.\u003cbr\u003e It took me a while to realize that my asthmatic episodes can be triggered by emotions.\u003cbr\u003e I have to follow a course of medical treatment, consistently, for life.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Seretide: twice a day, one puff in the morning, one puff at night.\u003cbr\u003e Inorial: one pill in the morning. Singulair: one pill at night.\u003cbr\u003e Ventoline: in case of respiratory distress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy name is Fatima.\u003cbr\u003e Fatima is the youngest daughter of the last prophet Mohammed—\u003ci\u003eSalla Allah alayhi wa salam\u003c\/i\u003e, peace and salvation be upon him—and his first wife, Khadidja.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My name is Fatima.\u003cbr\u003e God alone knows if I carry it well. Whether I’ve soiled it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Fatima means “little weaned she-camel.” To wean, in Arabic: \u003ci\u003efatm.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stop the nursing of a child or a young animal to transition it to a new mode of feeding; feel frustration; separate someone from something or something from someone or someone from someone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Like Fatima, I should have had three sisters.\u003cbr\u003e One of mine passed away a few hours after her birth.\u003cbr\u003e Her name was Soumya.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fatima’s father deems her the noblest woman in heaven.\u003cbr\u003e The prophet Mohammed—may God’s peace and blessings be upon him—said one day: “Fatima is a part of me. Any who harm her harm me.”\u003cbr\u003e My father would never say such a thing. My father doesn’t say much to me anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy name is Fatima.\u003cbr\u003e I’m a little weaned she-camel.\u003cbr\u003e I’m the \u003ci\u003emazoziya, \u003c\/i\u003ethe youngest daughter. The last one.\u003cbr\u003e Before me, there were three girls.\u003cbr\u003e My father had hoped I would be a boy.\u003cbr\u003e During my childhood, he calls me \u003ci\u003ewlidi\u003c\/i\u003e, my little son.\u003cbr\u003e Though he should call me \u003ci\u003ebenti\u003c\/i\u003e, my daughter. He often says: “You’re not my daughter.”\u003cbr\u003e I reassure myself by understanding that I’m his son.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother dresses me until I’m twelve years old.\u003cbr\u003e She puts me in flower dresses, skater skirts, ballet flats. I have headbands in different colors, shaped like crowns.\u003cbr\u003e Not every little girl wants to be a princess, Mama.\u003cbr\u003e I hate everything that has to do with the female universe as my mother presents it to me, but I haven’t realized it yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, my father takes me to school. He doesn’t check my homework.\u003cbr\u003e He doesn’t ask me what I learned. He counts on my mother to do that.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother often says: “I did my \u003ci\u003ewajeb\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003ci\u003eWajeb\u003c\/i\u003e: role.\u003cbr\u003e Her role as a mother.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A role: a function served by someone; an attribution assigned to an institution; a collection of norms and expectations that govern the behavior of an individual as a result of their social status or function within a group.\u003cbr\u003e My father doesn’t mention his \u003ci\u003ewajeb.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My mother would rather I wear sports bras than regular ones. She finds it less “rushed.”\u003cbr\u003e She doesn’t want me to shave either.\u003cbr\u003e Dounia tells her to let me shave my armpits at least, until I get older.\u003cbr\u003e My mother repeats that I’ll have time for all that.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Before I became a teenager, my father would sing me songs.\u003cbr\u003e He would tell me stories too.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eLoundja! \u003c\/i\u003eLoundja, the princess with golden hair.\u003cbr\u003e My father always began his story with once upon a time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time there was Loundja.\u003cbr\u003e A princess who was kept prisoner since she was a small child by \u003ci\u003eel ghoula\u003c\/i\u003e, the ogress, in the highest tower of her fortress, with no door or window. The ogress used Loundja’s long hair to climb up the tower.\u003cbr\u003e One night, to no great surprise, a prince discovers Loundja.\u003cbr\u003e He falls in love. He returns to save her. He marries her.\u003cbr\u003e As in many other stories, Loundja and the prince have lots of children and live happily ever after.\u003cbr\u003e What I liked the most was the time my father took to describe in detail Loundja’s long golden hair.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When he wasn’t telling me the story of Loundja, he would recount the life of the prophet Youssef—\u003ci\u003eAlayi Salem\u003c\/i\u003e, may salvation be upon him.\u003cbr\u003e He always told the part about the prophet’s brothers. Eaten up by jealousy, they decided to throw Youssef down a deep well.\u003cbr\u003e My father would whisper in my ear: \u003ci\u003eBalak yiderolek kima Youssef\u003c\/i\u003e. Careful your sisters don’t do the same to you!\u003cbr\u003e I had trouble telling the difference between my father’s jokes and his warnings.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Early afternoons brought the nap ordeal.\u003cbr\u003e I’d throw tantrums so nobody would force me to sleep.\u003cbr\u003e Then, I figured out that I needed to be clever to get what I wanted.\u003cbr\u003e I found the trick. No need for teary eyes, or even to expend any energy.\u003cbr\u003e And it worked every time.\u003cbr\u003e My father would bring me into the living room. We would lie down side by side in front of the television, my head on his shoulder. My hand on his head.\u003cbr\u003e My father would fall asleep first. He took the nap I was meant to.\u003cbr\u003e I’d join Dounia and Hanane playing in the garden. My mother was still in the kitchen.","brand":"Other Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301733454053,"sku":"NP9781635421842","price":15.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781635421842.jpg?v=1767740148","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-last-one-isbn-9781635421842","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}