As a novel, Speak to Me of Home didn’t make much of an impression on me. It belongs to a genre of commercial women’s fiction that generally leaves me cold. But as a riposte, skillfully mounted while at the same time well shielded from the counterattacks typical of its targets, this book earned my respect ... There’s a tepid mystery set up at the beginning of the book, but nothing to compare to the breathless, thrillerlike, what-would-you-do? plotting of American Dirt. Whether Speak to Me of Home will replicate the success of its predecessor seems uncertain, but it does wrestle, if obliquely, with American Dirt’s critics ... For all its bland conventionality as a piece of storytelling, Speak to Me of Home sneakily amounts to a well-argued case that Cummins herself is not merely a clueless white woman ... As dignified and graceful a follow-up as anyone could have executed, one that acquiesces to the identity obsessions of her critics by staying in her own ethnic lane, while at the same time reflecting back to them what Cummins experienced as their lack of charity and imagination.
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