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A review by brice_mo
Kissing Girls on Shabbat: A Memoir by Sara Glass
2.75
Thanks to NetGalley and Atria Books for the ARC!
Dr. Sara Glass’s Kissing Girls on Shabbat is a cocktail of a memoir, mixing discussions of religion, sexuality, and mental health to the point that the nuances of each occasionally disappear—it feels more like self-exposure than self-disclosure, and the result is a difficult read.
The book’s premise is ripe with potential and fraught with trauma—Glass’s long-unfolding understanding of her queerness within her conservative Hasidic community—and I admire the author’s willingness to excavate almost unbearable pain for the sake of sharing her life with readers. The prose lumbers bluntly through emotional abuse, fear of divine retribution, and Glass’s work as a therapist.
With each passing chapter, though, it begins to feel like many of these situations are still too raw of a nerve for Glass to address within the confines of this particular medium, reading more like a list of painful events than an emergent narrative. It might be a therapist’s responsibility to help people reclaim the past, but I wonder if it’s a memoirist’s responsibility to recognize when parts of the past can’t be reclaimed. There are so many topics here that it’s difficult to see the book’s themes, and the obfuscation happens at the author’s expense.
This tension between Glass’s therapeutic expertise and her personal experience escalates until it warps the distance of hindsight into forced perspective. Much of what could be subtext is immediately examined or explained, often caricaturing a past self’s beliefs as irrational, rather than accepting and grieving them as a rationale. For example, Glass writes that while in labor, she sidestepped her decision-making rights because “I would not allow protocol to get in the way of the real rules. Decisions needed to be made by the man.” It seems that the absurdity of the sentiment is easier to stomach than the tragedy of it not being experienced as absurd, and recurrent moments like this suggest that Glass’s desire to make a point takes precedence over compassion to herself.
The approach might be a necessary precondition for the book to exist as a testament to Glass’s triumph rather than a revival of her trauma, but it begins to read like a case study more than a memoir—self-analysis instead of self-reflection. I’m sure the book will still resonate with many readers, but I always feel sad when it seems like an author doesn’t fit well in their own memoir. If writing is not a kindness to the self, how kind can it be to its readers? Lest that sound too critical, I think this is a story worth telling, but I wish it had the breathing room afforded by, say, an ongoing podcast series, where the weight of the written word wouldn’t hang over every moment.
Regardless, all memoir is something to celebrate, and I look forward to seeing the kinds of conversations Kissing Girls on Shabbat inspires upon its release.
Dr. Sara Glass’s Kissing Girls on Shabbat is a cocktail of a memoir, mixing discussions of religion, sexuality, and mental health to the point that the nuances of each occasionally disappear—it feels more like self-exposure than self-disclosure, and the result is a difficult read.
The book’s premise is ripe with potential and fraught with trauma—Glass’s long-unfolding understanding of her queerness within her conservative Hasidic community—and I admire the author’s willingness to excavate almost unbearable pain for the sake of sharing her life with readers. The prose lumbers bluntly through emotional abuse, fear of divine retribution, and Glass’s work as a therapist.
With each passing chapter, though, it begins to feel like many of these situations are still too raw of a nerve for Glass to address within the confines of this particular medium, reading more like a list of painful events than an emergent narrative. It might be a therapist’s responsibility to help people reclaim the past, but I wonder if it’s a memoirist’s responsibility to recognize when parts of the past can’t be reclaimed. There are so many topics here that it’s difficult to see the book’s themes, and the obfuscation happens at the author’s expense.
This tension between Glass’s therapeutic expertise and her personal experience escalates until it warps the distance of hindsight into forced perspective. Much of what could be subtext is immediately examined or explained, often caricaturing a past self’s beliefs as irrational, rather than accepting and grieving them as a rationale. For example, Glass writes that while in labor, she sidestepped her decision-making rights because “I would not allow protocol to get in the way of the real rules. Decisions needed to be made by the man.” It seems that the absurdity of the sentiment is easier to stomach than the tragedy of it not being experienced as absurd, and recurrent moments like this suggest that Glass’s desire to make a point takes precedence over compassion to herself.
The approach might be a necessary precondition for the book to exist as a testament to Glass’s triumph rather than a revival of her trauma, but it begins to read like a case study more than a memoir—self-analysis instead of self-reflection. I’m sure the book will still resonate with many readers, but I always feel sad when it seems like an author doesn’t fit well in their own memoir. If writing is not a kindness to the self, how kind can it be to its readers? Lest that sound too critical, I think this is a story worth telling, but I wish it had the breathing room afforded by, say, an ongoing podcast series, where the weight of the written word wouldn’t hang over every moment.
Regardless, all memoir is something to celebrate, and I look forward to seeing the kinds of conversations Kissing Girls on Shabbat inspires upon its release.