American Dirt

 Some books feel too precious to even hold in your hands, like they belong in a glass case somewhere, away from the smudges of ordinary fingers. That’s how I felt reading Jeanine Cummins’ *American Dirt.* Page after page, I kept thinking: I’m not even deserving of these words. How could someone put together something so harrowing, so beautiful, and so gut-wrenchingly human? **** The story follows Lydia Quixano Perez, a bookstore owner in Acapulco, and her young son Luca. Their lives are obliterated in an instant when her journalist husband publishes an expose on a cartel leader, La Lechuza. In retaliation, Lydia’s entire family, sixteen people, is slaughtered during a quinceañera. From that moment, she and Luca are fugitives, embarking on a desperate journey across Mexico toward the U.S. border, joining countless migrants fleeing unimaginable violence. **** Reading this book wasn’t just “reading.” It was living another life in real time. The prose grips you by the throat and doesn’t let go, dragging you across sun-scorched landscapes, onto the tops of La Bestia trains, through safe houses, and into the shadows of uncertainty. I felt every heartbeat of fear, every sting of hunger, every sliver of hope the characters clung to. It wasn’t like observing them from the outside; it was as though I, too, was running, hiding, hoping to make it one more mile.  And then there’s this child Beto. Sweet, tender-hearted Beto, the boy who became part of the makeshift family of travelers. His death shattered me. I don’t think I’ve sobbed so uncontrollably over a fictional character in a long time. It wasn’t just the loss of him as a person, but the loss of innocence, the reminder that in stories like this, safety is never guaranteed and good people don’t always make it to the end. The rawness of his passing still lingers in me, like an unhealed bruise. What elevates *American Dirt* is its ability to stitch together both the brutality and the humanity of migration. The characters are not just statistics; they breathe, they dream, they bleed. The book immerses you in the terror of being hunted, but also in the strength of bonds forged along the way. It forces you to reckon with the privilege of safety and the unthinkable choices that desperate people must make. For me, this wasn’t simply a novel, it was a journey. A heavy, unforgettable journey that reminded me of the power of storytelling to build empathy where statistics cannot. It is not a perfect book (and it has certainly stirred its share of controversy), but for me, the experience of reading it was profound, humbling, and unforgettable. Rating? 5/5. Precious. @riverflows I owe it all to you for recommending this gem. Pardon me for the tag but I just wanted to say that I’m really grateful. And @samostically, thank you for acknowledging the recommendation was worth it. ^{[ing2](https://pixabay.com/photos/rocky-mountains-jeep-american-flag-4096831/)}