Reviewed by Andrea Perez

Written in memory of the lives lost on American Airlines Flight 587, Elizabeth Acevedo's Clap When You Land is a literary masterpiece brimming with emotion. Through a dual-narrative approach, Acevedo tells the story from the perspective of two sixteen-year-old sisters, Camino and Yahaira, who, after losing their father in a tragic plane accident, are left to cope not only with this immeasurable loss, but also with the newfound discovery of each other's existence. With the one visible thread tying them together suddenly ripped away, it is now up to them to uncover the buried truths about their father, their families, and their past. Tackling issues of class, race, privilege, and identity, this novel-in-verse leaves nothing unsaid.

Acevedo touches on the effects of segregation, gentrification, and poverty while exploring the role of power and status in both New York City and the Dominican Republic. She delves into what it's like to be Black in modern-day America, and what it's like to navigate life as a woman in a patriarchal world. She also highlights the challenges of familial relationships and calls attention to the struggles that immigrants face when leaving everything behind for a chance at a better life.

While Latinx themes prevail, a variety of other themes simmer just beneath the surface. Acevedo is known to incorporate queer characters into her work, and as evidenced in Yahaira's relationship with her girlfriend Dre, this time is no exception. LGBTQ+ representation, as well as that of the intersectionality of Latinidad and queerness, is woven seamlessly into the storyline.

Despite taking on such serious topics, however, Acevedo manages to sprinkle in lighthearted humor from beginning to end. She does so with such skill that I found myself smiling, in awe of her artistry, at many points.

Her talent is equally apparent in the novel's pacing, which speeds up to build suspense and slows down to paint vivid stills of people and places: rising and falling, rising and falling, like a dance between the highs and lows of grief.

Mami cries.
The sun is shining.

The breeze a soft touch along my face.
Mami is still crying.

It's almost as if the day has forgotten
it's stolen my father       or maybe it's rejoicing at its gain.

Her words are a rhythmic movement across each page, her intentional repetitions making her writing feel like spoken word.

You would think
coffee & condensed milk

would give you some kind
of light brown.

But I came out Papi's mirror,
his bella negra.

Thick hair like his,
thick lips like his,

thick skin like his.

Throughout the novel, Acevedo's cadence acts as a backing track, her words flowing effortlessly over the beat. From the rhythm to the rhyme to the repetition, the musicality of her language is unrivaled. Her word order is frequently unconventional, and her line breaks are original and refreshingly bold. She demonstrates a masterful use of white space, her formatting perfectly in sync with the rise and fall of each verse.

I'm telling you about my skin,
& my home, & mostly about Dre,

because it's easier than telling you
Papi   is             dead.

If I say those words,
if I snap apart the air with them,
whatever is binding me together 
will split too.

Acevedo pays attention to the smallest of details, often arranging her words into visual representations that convey the overall meaning of a verse or page.

How could I have guessed the truth of it?
Even as teachers in the halls gasped as the news spread, 

even as the main office was surrounded by parents 
& guidance counselors. How could I have known then 

there are no rules, no expectations, no rising to the occasion. 
When you learn news like this, there is only

        falling.

Through her multi-narrative approach, Acevedo breathes life into contemporary fiction, gracefully incorporating Dominican slang in a way that sheds light on different facets of Latinx culture. Even those who don't speak Spanish will undoubtedly appreciate her thoughtfully crafted Spanglish sentences.

For bicultural and immigrant readers, taking in Acevedo's words can often feel like looking into a double mirror, seeing your duality reflected on the pages in front of you. No matter what cultural lens you are looking through, Acevedo's conversational tone and candid approach make it easy to connect with both narrators. Despite there being two perspectives, the passing of the baton is carried out so masterfully that it is almost imperceptible. Yet at the same time, Acevedo manages to grant both characters the space to establish themselves in their own unique ways.

Camino and Yahaira's alternating chapters fit together like a call and response: a sort of coro-pregón, where two distinct voices complement each other, the second a commentary on the first. In the final section, the two narrators come together, as if to represent the blending of two dissimilar yet connected cultures. The back-and-forth between the narrators, and all that it represents, is truly a paragon of brilliance.

To Latinx everywhere—all those who feel pulled to places they've never stepped foot in, all those with complex relationships to their homelands, and all those trying to stay grounded to their roots—this one was written for you.