Sani and Moth understand each other on a deep cultural and artistic level, even as they struggle to communicate and trust once another. But on every page, Amber McBride builds layer upon layer of meaning, entwining imagery of moths with Navajo creation stories with American history with Hoodoo magic, and it always feels organic and natural - the world as filtered through Moth herself. Two damaged teens fall for each other as they journey across America. On the surface, Me (Moth) seems like a simple story. But on every page, Amber McBride builds layer upon layer of meaning. On the surface, 'Me (Moth)' seems like a simple story.
And she's drawn irresistibly to his flame. He sings when he thinks no one is listening and he sees Moth like no one else does. He lives with his mom and stepdad, having left his father behind on the Navajo Nation reservation in New Mexico. Until the new boy at school, Sani, notices her. Her survivor's guilt is so strong that she makes herself almost invisible. Now she doesn't dance anymore and lives with her grieving aunt, wearing borrowed clothes and living on what feels like borrowed time, because not even the wisdom and Hoodoo passed down to her by her Rootworker grandfather can bring back her family or ease her pain.
She was a Julliard-bound dancer with a loving, supportive family - until a terrible car accident took them all away and left her scarred, inside and out. Moth is a shadow of the girl she once was. Me (Moth) may feature a list of sightseeing stops and a series of motels, but it defies the road trip genre, carving out a pensive path through ancestry, trauma, and art. But maybe there's another journey to be had. You can Priscilla Queen of the Desert or you can Thelma and Louise.
Road trip stories tend to fall into two categories - wild adventures of self-discovery where things turn out okay in the end, or grim, outlaws-on-the run tragedies.
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