Death Coming Up the Hill
By Chris Crowe
4/5
()
About this ebook
When his high school history teacher dares to teach the political realities of the war, Ashe grows to better understand the situation in Vietnam, his family, and the wider world around him. But when a new crisis hits his parents’ marriage, Ashe finds himself trapped, with no options before him but to enter the fray.
Chris Crowe
CHRIS CROWE, a professor of English at Brigham Young University, has published award-winning fiction and nonfiction for teenagers, poetry, essays, books, and many articles for academic and popular magazines. He is a popular speaker and writer in librarian and teacher circles. He lives with his wife in Provo, Utah. Learn more about Chris at chriscrowe.com and follow him on Twitter @crowechris.
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Reviews for Death Coming Up the Hill
23 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Genius. Be sure to read the author's note at the end of the book--so good. While this book takes place in 1968, there are so so so many parallels to how I'm feeling in 2017 (book was published in 2014). What that tells me is that while many things around me change, some stay the same--both for good and ill. And the constants that are "ill" show me how much work there is to do, and probably always will need to be done.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Powerful, powerful.
The war in Vietnam and a war at home.
Tears, tears. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Seventeen-year-old Ashe Douglas watches his family fall apart as the Vietnam War, assassinations, and racial strife tears the country apart. Emotionally powerful, gripping historical fiction, and a remarkable achievement in narrative structure. Read the Author's Note and be thoroughly impressed.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5In this book, written entirely in haiku, each word stands for a soldier killed in Vietnam. Ashe's parents married only because his mom got pregnant, and stand on opposite sides of every issue. When his family life turns really nasty, it is mirrored and exacerbated by the political tumult of 1968.
Book preview
Death Coming Up the Hill - Chris Crowe
April 1969
Week Fifteen: 204
There’s something tidy
in seventeen syllables,
a haiku neatness
that leaves craters of
meaning between the lines but
still communicates
what matters most. I
don’t have the time or the space
to write more, so I’ll
write what needs to be
remembered and leave it to
you to fill in the
gaps if you feel like
it. In 1968,
sixteen thousand five
hundred ninety-two
American soldiers died
in Vietnam, and
I’m dedicating
one syllable to each soul
as I record my
own losses suffered
in 1968, a
year like no other.
January 1968
Week One: 184
The trouble started
on New Year’s Eve when Mom came
home late. Way too late.
Worry about Mom—
and about Dad—knotted my
gut while Dad paced the
living room like a
panther ready to pounce. "Where
the hell is she, Ashe?
Those damn activists . . .
I shouldn’t have let her go.
Well, that’s the last time,
the absolute last
time she mixes with trouble-
makers. It ends now!"
He looked at me like
it was somehow my fault, but
I knew better. He
had to blame someone,
and I became an easy
target. But it made
me angry at him—
and at Mom, too. Why couldn’t
they just get along?
What I wished for the
new year was peace at home, in
Vietnam, and the
world. A normal life.
Was that too much to ask for?
The door creaked open,
Mom stepped in, and Dad
pounced. I crept up the stairs, closed
my door, and tuned out.
★ ★ ★
Later, Mom tapped on
my door and came in, timid
as a new kid late
to school. And she smiled
even though she’d just had a
knock-down, drag-out with
Dad. There was a light
in her that I hadn’t seen
in a long, long time.
She wanted to check
on me, to make sure I was
okay, to tell me
that May 17,
1951, was the
best day of her life
because it was the
day I was born, and even
though things had been rough,
she had no regrets.
Not one. Then she hugged me and
whispered that maybe,
just maybe, there was
light at the end of this dark
tunnel. "You never
know what’s coming up
the hill," she said, then left me
alone, worrying.
January 1968
Week Two: 278
Even though he won’t
admit it, I blew up my
dad’s football career.
They say he had a
future in the NFL,
but his senior year
at the U of A
he quit football because he
got my mom pregnant.
Mom’s parents disowned
her, and to them, she and I
no longer exist.
She has a scrapbook
filled with photos and clippings
of Dad when he played
defensive back for
the Arizona Wildcats,
and my favorite
action photo shows
him leaping and reaching for
an interception.
The camera had caught
him right when he snagged the ball.
His head’s back, and you
can’t see his face, but
you can see his taut forearms
knotted with muscle
and the big number
seventeen on his jersey.
Even as a kid,
I recognized the
strength and grace in that picture,
and I knew he’d been
special, talented,
and I made up my mind to
be like him one day.
Maybe I’d never
be as good as he was, but
I thought that if I
worked hard and became
a great athlete, somehow that
would make up for his
loss. It turned out I
was wrong. I never had to
prove anything to
Dad. His love for me
was as sure and solid as
the U.S. Marines.
Too bad he didn’t
feel that way about Mom. He
resented her for
the mistake that killed
his football career, the same
mistake that forced him
to marry her. Back
in 1950, things worked
that way: if a guy
knocked up a girl, he
married her to make it right.
It doesn’t happen
like that nowadays.
It’s 1968, and
young people believe
in free love, and there
are plenty of ways to take
care of a mistake.
By getting married,
Mom and Dad did the right thing,
and they have been good
parents to me, and
I’m grateful to them both for
putting up with each
other for my sake.
I wish there was some way I
could make it right, make
them right, but ending