100 Books Like Not One Less

I, like Garbes, was a pandemic mom who lived through the brief moment in 2020 and 2001 when it seemed our culture was finally about to recognize that the world runs on unacknowledged work by women. Garbes writes from her experience as a mother of young kids and a descendant of mass migration of nurses out of the Philippines, to open a window into what a world that valued care work would look like.

I love how Garbes sees that giving care its due would require a radical, almost spiritual change, but also how the solutions she sees go beyond the symbolic. She seamlessly blends the agenda of “mothering for social change” with the agenda of supporting the National Domestic Workers’ Alliance’s fight for fair working conditions for paid domestic workers. This book is a really special blend of mom lit and feminist politics.

I love how this dazzling book reveals a deep truth that is known to so many women of color but obscured by the white feminist myth of individualism. There is no way we can be not related to each other, so the real question that matters for politics is not whether we will be related to each other; it is how we want to be.

Part excavation of settler colonialism—including its effects on Indigenous women—and part meditation on how to build solidarity without denying our complicity in oppressive structures, the book is visionary and even manages to be hopeful. It also draws attention to an issue that no 21st-century feminism can afford to ignore: our relationships with the land. I learned so much about what it means to show up for each other and about why we have to.

Speaking of women’s labor, Verges, a French feminist theorist from the island of Reunion, opens this manifesto with a question that I think really gets to the heart of global feminist politics: “Who cleans the world?” This simple question, she argues, explains the fundamental connection between feminism and the other key struggles of our time—the fact that capitalism creates “invisible work and disposable lives.”

Starting from the lives of women in the global South, who are literally found cleaning up the waste of the global North, she reveals that feminism cannot be a fight for the women of the global majority unless it fights racial and economic inequality on a planetary scale. Verges also offers a compelling analysis of #metoo: opposition to gender-based violence cannot begin and end with a focus on individual perpetrators, nor can we allow it to become part of an agenda that criminalizes Black and brown… show more.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what life after #girlboss looks like, and Benjamin’s book plants the seed of an answer. Benjamin opens the book with a meditation on the system that celebrates “exceptional” youth of color and how this system functions more to prop up the myth of colorblindness than to create a world in which all of us can thrive. The key to getting from that world to this one is to radically redistribute the power to imagine—so that we live in a world where it is not only the visions of tech billionaires that are shaping our future.

This might sound abstract, and it is, but the book is full of lovely exercises in liberating our power to envision the world otherwise. For example, Parker Brothers paid feminist Elisabeth Magie $500 in 1903 for a game intended to portray unrestricted capitalism as a dystopian nightmare… show more.

I love this book because it’s an inspiring collection of oral histories about community building, protesting, standing up for the oppressed, and sometimes, beating the shit out of racist skinheads. The stories are told by those who had been anti-racist skinheads and punks in Portland back in the 1980s-‘90s.

Portland has long been a very white city—initially because Black people weren’t even allowed in Oregon and later because the Klan had firm control over state and local politics. Over time, more people of color moved in, but the state's white supremacist roots ran deep. In the 1980s, these sprouted racist violence, leading to the brutal beating death of Ethiopian immigrant Mulugeta Seraw.

This book collects the oral histories of the resistance movement galvanized by his death, most of whom were young members of Portland’s punk music scene who, without the support of officials or police, fought back—usually in nonviolent ways. 

This book gave me a new framework for thinking about how political change happens and how technology shapes our society. It analyzes how social media platforms like Facebook have helped antiauthoritarian movements achieve dazzling success almost overnight—and how those platforms have weakened and endangered those same movements. I loved that this book was clear and readable without oversimplifying the topic. It showed—as Tufecki writes, quoting another scholar—that “technology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral.”

This isn’t exactly a book about computer systems, but I decided to include it because it gave me a deeper understanding of how technological and social systems influence each other—which I hope will change how I write software myself.

In my writing, I have gravitated toward social history, which can be loosely defined as history “from the bottom up.” This book appealed to me because the author doesn’t frame radical ideas and revolutions as top-down upheavals but rather as the result of simmering tensions that coalesce in cataclysms.

Beckerman describes big changes that have been, and continue to be, incubated beneath the radar until they explode into really big deals. Topics include the French Revolution, the 1989 crackdown in Tiananmen Square, and the fascist attack in my hometown, Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017.

These essays are the ultimate guide to human intimacy. If you believe, as I do, that the best way to find meaning in life is to establish connections with others, you must read this book.

Rich teaches us that we are all clumsy, needy, fearful communicators, and shows us how what we perceive as failings are actually the secret keys to opening up whole invisible worlds of understanding between each other. She understands the art of gentleness as well as anyone who has ever written.

I loved this book because it simultaneously gives us a taste of the fierce spirit of the women’s liberation movement but also demonstrates what was wrong with Friedan’s particular flavor of feminism at the time: namely, that it was centered around white and mostly privileged women.

Reading this book is like being transported back to the 1960s and being a fly on the wall in the homes of women who were done with the patriarchy, who wanted to have careers and earn money, but were also grappling with their own roles in society.

It’s a historical document but also, in some ways, the 1960s equivalent of reality TV. It’s a ferocious cri de coeur that is delightful in its assertiveness.

You’d think the subtitle says it all, but nope. Chocano loved reading bedtime stories to her daughter, but when even Alice and Wonderland proved problematic, she peered through the looking glass to see why. She explores the challenges of raising a female in a world of Disney Princesses, Playboy bunnies, and popular TV shows and movies. She even takes aim at the female manifesto, Eat Pray Love, bless her heart. I met Chocano at a reading of this book when I was nervously submitting A Boob’s Life to publishers. I was thrilled to find overlap with such a kindred spirit. You’ll find Chocana’s byline in major magazines featuring celebrity interviews, but without the snark. Personally, I love the snark - it makes the facts more fun.