I was crying like a baby

How ridiculous would it look for me to be seen weeping over a book intended for precocious ten-year-olds [READER]( Sitting in the living room of my oldest daughter’s house on a rainy afternoon, reading Veera Hiranandani’s latest novel, and hoping my kids don’t notice the tears streaming down my face. Okay, lots to unpack here. Let’s start with Veera Hiranandani’s book . . . It’s called How to Find What You’re Not Looking For, and it’s what’s known as YA—or young adult lit. That means the book’s targeted for teens and precocious ten-year-olds—which I’ve not been since the Johnson administration. Ten, that is. Not sure I was ever precocious. Also, not precisely sure why I still read books intended for youngsters. Probably because I lapped them up when I was a youngster, and now that I’m moving into the golden years of life, I’m still looking for that one special book that . . . speaks to me! Like—Catcher in the Rye spoke to me when I first read it back in 1968, exclaiming: “Oh, my God, this is the world’s greatest book!” And, yes, Veera Hiranandani’s book had me crying. You might not realize this about me, given that I spend my days as a hardened and jaded chronicler of Chicago politics. But inside, I’m a softie. I’m always crying about this or that. In fact, I spent the better part of New Year’s Day with the waterworks flowing, as I watched old Betty White clips on YouTube. It got so that just listening to the Mayor Tyler Moore theme song got me choked up. C’mon, everybody—“You’re gonna make it after all!” Back to Veera Hiranandani’s latest book. It tells the story of a young Jewish woman who marries a young Hindu man. And her parents get so upset that they basically kick her out of the house. The man’s parents aren’t too happy about it, either—let me tell you. I don’t want to ruin the book by giving away too much of what happens—though, let’s face it, I don’t think there are many of you out there who are about to read a book intended for precocious ten-year-olds. But just in case, I’ll limit my recount to this . . . The climactic scene takes place in the birthing center of a hospital, where everyone has gathered to watch the young Jewish woman give birth. Her Jewish parents are there. As are his Hindu parents. And everyone’s really tense, while trying to be really nice. And I’m begging Veera Hiranandani—please, Veera, please—let the mother and baby daughter be okay. ‘Cause the writer has the power to take these things in any direction. Like I said—as I’m reading this, I’m sitting in my daughter’s living room. And I’m feeling sorta vulnerable. I mean, how ridiculous would it look for me—a hardened and jaded chronicler of Chicago politics—to be seen weeping over a book intended for precocious ten-year-olds. I thought of covering it up by coughing. But I worried they’d think I had COVID. I started thinking of manly things—like Brian Urlacher making a tackle—to counteract the tears. But that didn’t work. So, I snuck into the bathroom and finished the book while sitting on top of the toilet. My kids never knew I was crying like a baby. So mums the word. Anyway, great book. I urge everyone to read it. Especially if you want a positive we’re-all-in-this-together message as well as a good cry. And, really, what’s wrong with that? 🏆 [Best of Chicago bonus nominations end TOMORROW (Wednesday, January 5th)!]( Celebrate the things you love in the city you love with the Reader. 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