The Heart of a Child in a Fractured America: A Review of Vera, or Faith
When I first picked up Gary Shteyngart’s Vera, or Faith, I was instantly intrigued by the premise of exploring contemporary America through the innocent lens of a ten-year-old. As someone who often finds solace in the untouched perspectives of children, I was eager to see how Shteyngart would intertwine childhood wonder with the complex themes of identity, family turmoil, and political upheaval.
At the heart of the novel is Vera Bradford-Shmulkin, a remarkable child straddling two worlds—half Jewish, half Korean—representing the rich tapestry of America’s multicultural promise. Her “Things I Still Need to Know Diary” speaks volumes about her thirst for understanding in a tumultuous environment. Not only does Vera grapple with her own identity, she does so against a backdrop of a near-future America where democracy is slipping through our fingers, a chilling reminder of our current societal fractures.
Shteyngart invites readers into the tangled dynamics of the Bradford-Shmulkin family, particularly through the captivating relationship between Vera’s parents, Igor and Anne. Igor’s gradual capitulation to financial desperation, stemming from a desire for stability, is painfully relatable. The couple’s highbrow arguments—a linguistic cage match of sorts—are both humorous and heartbreaking, showcasing Shteyngart’s ability to blend sharp wit with deep emotional currents. I found myself wincing and laughing in equal measure as they volleyed sharp barbs that cut to the very heart of their relationship.
Yet, what truly sets this story apart is Vera herself. Her observations—"The world is just for the grown-ups to ruin"—resonate with a clarity that highlights not only her innocent wisdom but also a deep-sown sense of empathy. Her bond with Kaspie, her AI chess companion, adds a poignant layer to the narrative. It’s in these moments of interaction that technology reveals both connection and isolation. Shteyngart skillfully navigates the complexities of this relationship, illustrating how a child might process realities that are both overwhelming and heartbreaking.
The political landscape functions almost as a character of its own in the novel, a deliberate choice that amplifies the underlying tension. Shteyngart’s portrayal of the “March of the Hated” and the specter of authoritarianism feels unnervingly plausible. It’s crafted to evoke not just fear, but a recognition of how these large movements tangibly affect everyday family life—a theme that’s profoundly resonant right now.
While I found the pacing slightly uneven in the middle sections, particularly around Vera’s school experiences, this minor quibble didn’t detract significantly from my enjoyment of the novel. Shteyngart’s unique narrative structure allowed for natural dramatic tension, encapsulating both the trials of a school year and a family’s unraveling.
Vera, or Faith is not just a story about a child confronting adult betrayal—it’s a mirror reflecting our current societal angst and the fragility of human connection. I wholeheartedly recommend this book to readers who appreciate a blend of humor and gravity, particularly those who enjoy deeply human stories that challenge and uplift in equal measure.
Reading Vera, or Faith was an experience that lingered with me long after I turned the last page. It is a poignant reminder that in an era of division and despair, the threads of compassion and understanding still bind us, even if delicately. Through Vera, Shteyngart has crafted a narrative that speaks to the enduring importance of identity, belonging, and the hope that emerges from even the darkest moments.