{"product_id":"who-put-this-song-on-isbn-9780525707530","title":"Who Put This Song On?","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"Unflinchingly irreverent, laugh-out-loud funny, and heartbreakingly honest.\" —Elizabeth Acevedo, National Book Award winner and\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Poet X\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eIn the vein of powerful reads like \u003ci\u003eThe Hate U Give \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Poet X\u003c\/i\u003e, 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.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrapped 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLately, 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLoosely 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Morgan Parker put THIS song on--and I hope it never turns off.\" —Nic Stone, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDear Martin \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eOdd One Out\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003etriumphant \u003c\/b\u003efirst impression in the YA space.” —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An \u003cb\u003eincredibly heartfelt, deep\u003c\/b\u003e story about a girl's coming of age.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eRefinery29\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWho Put This Song On?\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eLovely, honest, wrenching and funny\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e—a tribute to music, survival and the power of finding beautiful moments of 'temporary escape.'\" —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003ePoignant \u003c\/b\u003eyet humorous.” —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eEssence\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Funny and frank, Morgan Parker's \u003ci\u003eWho Put This Song On?\u003c\/i\u003e is a\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e must-read in contemporary YA\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\" —\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e\"A \u003cb\u003efunny, clever, wild ride\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e of a story about growing up and breaking free.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews, \u003c\/i\u003eStarred Review\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e★\"This\u003cb\u003e fresh\u003c\/b\u003e read provides a \u003cb\u003epositive\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003einclusive\u003c\/b\u003e take on mental health and wellness and offers readers some tools to survive on their own.”\u003cb\u003e —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist, \u003c\/i\u003eStarred Review\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e“Drawing on her own teen experiences, Parker (\u003ci\u003eThere Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé \u003c\/i\u003efor adults) adroitly touches upon matters of \u003cb\u003erespectability and ‘presentableness,’\u003c\/b\u003e stigmas against discussing \u003cb\u003emental health issues in the black community\u003c\/b\u003e and among young adults, and \u003cb\u003einternalized and societal racism\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly, \u003c\/i\u003eStarred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Parker has rendered \u003cb\u003ea brilliant debut of black girlhood and mental health\u003c\/b\u003e, at turns unflinchingly \u003cb\u003eirreverent\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003elaugh-out-loud funny\u003c\/b\u003e, and heartbreakingly \u003cb\u003ehonest\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Elizabeth Acevedo, National Book Award winner and \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Poet X\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It’s rare to find a book that \u003cb\u003eaptly balances the comedy and tragedy of being human.\u003c\/b\u003e Morgan Parker put THIS song on—and I hope it never turns off.” —Nic Stone, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDear Martin\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eOdd One Out\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As a weird, depressed, Radiohead-obsessed black post-teen myself, it’s clear Morgan ripped my heart out and splattered it across the pages of this book. \u003cb\u003eIt’s perfect\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Samantha Irby, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are Never Meeting in Real Life.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMagical Negro\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “2019 justly belongs to Morgan Parker . . . [she] is one of this generation’s best minds.” —Danez Smith, \u003ci\u003eT\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nothing short of triumphant.” —\u003ci\u003eNYLON\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A desperately urgent work of poetry.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eMorgan Parker is the author of \u003ci\u003eMagical Negro \u003c\/i\u003e(Tin House Books 2019),\u003ci\u003e There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé\u003c\/i\u003e (Tin House Books 2017), and \u003ci\u003eOther People's Comfort Keeps Me Up at Night \u003c\/i\u003e(Switchback Books 2015). Her debut book of nonfiction will be released in 2020 by One World. Parker received her bachelor's degree in anthropology and creative writing from Columbia University and her master's in poetry from NYU. Her poetry and essays have been published and anthologized in numerous publications, including the\u003ci\u003e Paris Review; The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop; Best American Poetry 2016; \u003c\/i\u003ethe\u003ci\u003e New York Times;\u003c\/i\u003e and the\u003ci\u003e Nation\u003c\/i\u003e. Parker 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. Find her online at morgan-parker.com and on Twitter at  @morganapple.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eSusan\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI don’t trust a Susan, and I don’t think they trust me either.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI don’t like Susan, but I want to impress her—­I’m usually so good at it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut 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?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eThis Is a Story About Me\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis 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 \u003ci\u003eYankee Hotel Foxtrot\u003c\/i\u003e by Wilco, because I have more feelings than anyone knows what to do with.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(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.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(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.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe thing I like about it here is that there’s Werther’s.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSusan 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 \u003ci\u003eobvious\u003c\/i\u003e all the time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s like that song “Too Alive” by the Breeders. I feel every little thing, way more than regular people do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(I feel so deeply it \u003ci\u003eagonizes\u003c\/i\u003e me.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m okay. I guess on the scale I’m probably ‘pretty dang bad,’ but better than yesterday and still not ‘scary bad.’ ”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(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.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Are you still taking the art class?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah. Every Tuesday.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s wonderful. And how are you liking it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s fine. Sort of boring, but . . . I guess it takes my mind off things.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind the other times?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI think about grabbing a Werther’s from the crystal bowl but don’t, even though I want one. (Will Susan write \u003ci\u003eLoudly sucks on Werther’s\u003c\/i\u003e in my file as soon as I leave, right next to \u003ci\u003eIs probably fine; just being dramatic\u003c\/i\u003e?)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I guess just people at school. Why I’m so different.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Can you say a little more about that? What are the things that make you feel so different?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt happened only three weeks ago, but since my “episode,” no one in my family has uttered the word \u003ci\u003esuicidal.\u003c\/i\u003e It’s easier not to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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 \u003ci\u003eHealing, Recovery, and Growth,\u003c\/i\u003e and immediately feel ridiculous. Sweat pools in my bra. This isn’t gonna work.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Morgan, why are you so angry with yourself?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI clench my jaw. “I’m not!” This is a lie, but it hasn’t always been. “I’m annoyed,” I admit, sighing, “and embarrassed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why are you embarrassed?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mmm . . . ,” she finally grunts. “I see.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFighting 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.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Delacorte Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302989222117,"sku":"NP9780525707530","price":21.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525707530_bc7c1d18-0ac4-4d45-9ba1-db7c8a11e734.jpg?v=1730752660","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/who-put-this-song-on-isbn-9780525707530","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}