Witnessing

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What I Read April 2026

Graphic with a muted pink background and large serif title “Witnessing,” with subtitle “What I Read April 2026.” Below are four book covers in a row: The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes, Vigil by George Saunders, Beloved by Toni Morrison, and The Great Game by Andrés Martinez. At the bottom, it reads “by Jackie Pick.”

I tried very hard not to have a theme this month.

I know I say that a lot, but this time I meant it. I was just going to read books without some moment where I dramatically connect everything and pretend I planned it that way. It would have saved me from unnecessarily firing neurons I am trying to save for winter.

And then, somehow, there was a theme. Somewhere between books two and three, I realized we were doing a thing.

That thing, by the way, is witnessing. (That “we” by the way is…I don’t know.)

And yes, I mean the very lofty “bear witness” kind. Dress up in a robe, grab your favorite gavel, and put it in your non-book-holding hand. Congratulations! You’re in for some really amazing reads! Just watch where you point that gavel.

Across wildly different books (historical fiction, literary fiction, cultural analysis, whatever it is George Saunders is up to) the same problem keeps showing up. People living (and dying) inside events they may not fully understand. People documenting, interpreting, misinterpreting, or just standing there blinking, as history (or morality, or love, or grief, or politics) does its thing.

Which is all just to say, here are the books I finished this month:

  • Beloved by Toni Morrison
  • Vigil by George Saunders
  • The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes
  • The Great Game by Andrés Martinez

Note: For sanity and scale (mine, yours, and the internet’s), what follows are the openings of each review. Full versions are linked below.

Beloved by Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison observed that there were no adequate memorials for those who were enslaved in the United States. “No small bench by the road,” no modest roadside markers, no sanctioned sites of mourning. So she wrote one. Beloved is a monument of language and memory. There is, to my knowledge, no more fitting extension of a literary work into the world.

I find myself hesitating to even try to articulate my admiration for fear of diminishing the work. From the first page, it is clear you are entering a kind of sacred space, one that is welcoming and exacting and asks you to be your best self. To sit with the past, witness, reckon, and repair.

(continued here)

Vigil by George Saunders

Vigil is George Saunders doing the afterlife thing he does so well, this time with even more bite and a contemporary target. It’s set in an in-between space that’s not quite heaven, not quite anywhere you can Yelp, where a spirit’s job is to help the dying make peace before they go. Like cosmic hospice with moral stakes.

(continued here)

The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes

Historical fiction set during World War II is something I tend to approach with high expectations and a ready-to-go side-eye, but The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes won me over with its intelligence, its restraint, and its refreshing perspective on what it means to come of age while the world is unraveling. Hayes gifts us a story about what it means to live inside and bear witness to a moment that has not yet resolved into history.

(continued here)

The Great Game by Andrés Martinez

Ordinarily, I don’t read sports books. I barely watch sports. Sports are what I put on when my brain needs a screensaver or my children are in the room and I’d like to keep them there a little longer. But The Great Game by Andrés Martinez is a book about everything sports touch: politics, power, media, identity, community. It’s also very much a book about America’s favorite pastime: wanting to be part of the world while also insisting we should do our own thing.

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And there be the April reads. As always, I welcome any recommendations! Read any good books lately?

Origin Story

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Who, PhD

This is the piece that began my writing life. It started as a Facebook Note, written in the wee hours during the first week of my daughter’s life.

I submitted the piece to Scary Mommy (polished version here). Some readers shellacked me online because, when it first ran, I wrote “Dr. Who” instead of “Doctor Who” and, mortifyingly, “pass times” instead of “pastimes.”

Totally fair, I was wrong. Fortunately, the editors jumped in and fixed it. I love editors.

I also gave (and give) myself grace. I was caring for a newborn and twin toddlers, recovering from a C-section, writing random thoughts while running on approximately four minutes of sleep. Besides, making dumb mistakes is my brand. May I make smarter ones someday.

The piece below is the original Facebook Note (with the two errors above corrected). Some lines I’d rework or remove completely now, but it’s a good snapshot of that moment.

The baby in question is now in middle school. She’s remarkable, as are her brothers. I won’t say the worry was for nothing. Honestly, a lot of my worry is well-placed — or at least well-aimed. (See: the world.)

Notes To My Daughter

I worry. I worry about the low expectations, the frilly expectations, the just-so-far-and-that’s-fine expectations for you.

“Smile!” will be begged of you by strangers on the street and friends alike. I give you permission to scowl, growl, reflect, cry, muse, sing, smile, wince all you want. It’s your face showing your heart. You do not owe the world a phony grin because we only want our girls to be happy.

Learning you were a girl brought on sighs of shopping for pink frills by well-wishers. I was assured of being thrilled. You were, according to some, a balance for your brothers. According to others, “girls rule, boys drool.” I cringe, as you might if you have sons someday…or daughters.

I hope you mix your Hermione Granger with some Judy Blume and a whole lot of Kurt Vonnegut. I hope you watch Doctor Who and Star Wars and Murphy Brown. Please cast a wary eye at the Kardashians and Twilight books and Real Housewives of Where Ever.

Women are funny. You can be more than the nurse, the wife, the exotic dancer in your scenes, if you want. You can even be more than that mythical “Brilliant Hooker.” Be the surgeon, be the husband, be the strip club owner, be the President.

You can be the ingénue, you can be the side kick, you can be Tree Number Seven.

There’s a lot to be said for being an alto. There’s a lot to be said for a cappella. Don’t be afraid of a solo.

I hope you learn to spike, field, kick, bat, dribble, run, if you want.

Pink isn’t bad, but pink isn’t all. Pink softens and dazzles. Pink is fine. Sequins are usually not.

Shout Holy Yeses as much as you can. The scary things teach and (if you’re lucky) inspire awe.

Don’t be afraid not to be liked. Be afraid of those who excuse rudeness.

Jump. Jump high.

From the moment you were born, the usual comments have been about your looks. Yes, you are beautiful, especially to your mama and daddy. Aspire to receive feedback about talents you honed, earned, and sweated for. Be dazzling. Be brilliant. Work hard. It’s not enough for you to be pretty. May being pretty matter less and less as life presents you with more interesting pastimes. Strive for brilliance, curiosity, devotion, passion, truth, humor, skill. There will still be room for pretty. The beautiful package (and it is beautiful) will be that much more precious if it’s filled with many unique gifts.

Have energy. Know when to stop.

Math isn’t hard. Math takes time for some people. Invest that time. It’s ok that there are right and wrong answers in math. There are right and wrong answers in the world sometimes.

Learn languages. Learn public transit. Learn to say no, thank you.

Be careful about using the word “bitch,” and please avoid the c-word. Other women are not your default enemy.

Learning to be concise is a gift to you and others. Listening is a greater gift.

The word “cute” really stops being a compliment after a certain age.

Worry about your health and feeling good. Indulge sometimes.

Savor.

Laugh.

Apologize.

Forgive.

Raise an eyebrow or two.

Stay my baby for a little longer and know that I would keep you wrapped up in my arms forever if I thought that would make you a better person…it wouldn’t, but it would sure feel good.

Whoever you turn out to be, whatever advice you do or don’t take…

I love you.

— Mama, on the occasion of your first week.

Suburbialis Clangum: A Melodic Guide to Your Neighborhood Wilderness (Encore Post)

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Nature May Abhor a Vacuum but Suburbia Sure Loves a Leaf Blower.

In the verdant suburban sprawl, the uninitiated masses vainly search for the quaint silence once celebrated in pastoral myths  —  charming, perhaps, to those with less refined tastes. The modern sophisticate, however, appreciates the richness offered by the incessant, blaring symphonies of human achievement. Why pine for the whisper of wind when one can revel in the roar of an arsenal of machinery running day or night (or both!)? Here, in these cultivated fields of progress, the glorious din of civilization justly overrules the silence sought by the hoi polloi. This sonic landscape is not for those unfortunates who crave a rough-hewn quietude, but rather for the discerning citizen who understands that true progress resonates through the hum of industry. The air simply must crackle with the sounds of civilization’s upkeep, the resounding overture of spring.

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