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Renting used to be a source of shame to this apartment manager’s daughter. Now it’s a knowing comfort

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Renting used to be a source of shame to this apartment manager’s daughter. Now it’s a knowing comfort

I can barely remember a time when we didn’t live where we worked. Our first property manager job was for a 30-unit apartment building between Beverly Hills and Pico-Robertson. My parents didn’t speak English but got the job anyway because they knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. There was an elementary school at the end of our magnolia tree-lined street that I couldn’t go to because the Beverly Hills School District allowed only Beverly Hills addresses. I would walk down the block to visit my friend (another apartment manager’s daughter) or to buy a sleeve of blue raspberry sour straws at the Blockbuster around the corner and hear children playing in the well-manicured school yard, but I never once saw an actual child. This was how I learned to perceive wealth in Los Angeles: near, but just out of reach.

Even at the age of 6 or 7 or 8, I knew that this was all temporary. Renting is inherently provisional, especially when you’re not actually paying rent. I made the most of it. While my mother cobbled together a career as a bookkeeper and my father assumed the role of both the maintenance guy and the manager of the building, I stole CDs from the mailroom, Rollerbladed in the slick oil-stained subterranean parking garage and belted Spice Girls lyrics in the emergency stairwell with my cousin until a tenant would open the door and find us there alone in the dark. I still own contraband from that time: someone’s copy of the “City of Angels” soundtrack. Inside our apartment, I shared a room with my parents. Our beds were butted up against each other, as they had always been.

Before this job and this building we lived in a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood with brown shag carpet and a cardboard box as my toy chest. The apartment buildings on our block, once favored by up-and-coming movie stars and writer Eve Babitz, now were occupied by Eastern Europeans fleeing the collapse of the Soviet Union. “There comes a moment for the immigrant’s child when you realize that you and your parents are assimilating at the same time,” writes Hua Hsu in his memoir, “Stay True.” While I attended preschool at Plummer Park, my mother went to community college and my father painted houses for $5 an hour. Before the brown shag carpet, we slept on my aunt’s couch in Mid-City for six months. And before the couch, we lived in a brutalist Soviet government-issued apartment in Minsk, Belarus. From the beginning, my life was steeped in the impermanence of renting, which mirrored the impermanence of our immigrant experience.

All immigrants are opportunists. Or, at least all the ones I’ve encountered. They are keenly aware of how, at any moment, everything can change. “Immigration, exile, being uprooted and made a pariah may be the most effective way yet devised to impress on an individual the arbitrary nature of his or her own existence,” writes Serbian poet Charles Simic. With each move, I felt the arbitrary nature of our existence. And every time I translated a 30-day notice or drafted a memo and slipped it under a tenant’s door, I felt the pull of my parents’ ambition. “We came here for you.” They’d say it often. Lovingly piling on the pressure until I could no longer see a future where I didn’t have something to prove.

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My father found the second property manager job listing in a local newspaper. A 50-unit building in the affluent neighborhood of Westwood. He brought Mama and me along to the interview, although technically the managers were not supposed to have a child. I was told that if I was on my best behavior, I would go to the sought-after public elementary school down the street and finally get my own room. The front of the building was covered in a flash of fuchsia bougainvillea, and the surrounding brick towers glowed with inviting warm windows and hints of crystal chandeliers. The owners of the building were a wealthy elderly Germanic-Jewish couple who met us outside and assessed my potential with war-weary eyes. I looked up at them dutifully, every butterfly clip I owned fluttering on my head like a migration. “She’s a mini you,” the woman said, noticing the quiet stoicism I’d picked up from my father. She looked at us as if she were looking into her own immigrant past, her harrowing escape from Austria as a teenager during the Holocaust. She smiled. Bent down. And handed me the keys.

The temporary feeling of apartment living. Collages by Yasmine Nasser Diaz featuring photos by Diana Ruzova
2 of 2 in a seried. The temporary feeling of apartment living. Collages by Yasmine Nasser Diaz featuring photos Diana Ruzova

Los Angeles has been a haven for transplants and immigrants since the tail end of the Industrial Revolution and the introduction of the railroad. It was once advertised as a wellness paradise, the sanatorium capital of America, a temporary resort for turn-of-the-20th century tuberculosis patients eager to seek treatment in the form of sunshine and “fresh” air. Many of these patients got better and stayed. “Los Angeles, it should be understood, is not a mere city. On the contrary, it is, and has been since 1888, a commodity; something to be advertised and sold to the people of the United States like automobiles, cigarettes, and mouthwash,” writes Mike Davis in “City of Quartz.”

The commodification of Los Angeles and Hollywood, and the rising population, has made the city an expensive place to live. The majority of the population rents: According to a 2021 report, 63% of Los Angeles households are renter-occupied, while 37% are owner-occupied. And rent has more than doubled in the past decade, leading to an astonishing 57% of L.A. County residents being rent-burdened, meaning they spend a third or more of their income on rent. And yet people continue to move to Los Angeles, a place synonymous with liminal space — the space between who we are and who we want to become. Even if who you want to become is out of reach.

“If there is a predominant feeling in the city-state [Los Angeles], it is not loneliness or daze, but an uneasy temporariness, a sense of life’s impermanence: the tension of anticipation while so much quivers on the line,” writes Rosecrans Baldwin in “Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles.”

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Los Angeles is a city always on the edge of disaster: gentrification, housing shortages, unlawful evictions, homelessness (second largest homeless population outside of New York), greed, wildfire, earthquakes, floods, landslides, the imminent death of the legendary palm trees, the intangible but plausible possibility of breaking off from the continental United States and slipping into the Pacific Ocean. The city, like its residents, is impermanent, always shape-shifting, always on the verge of becoming something else.

“Our dwellings were designed for transience,” writes Kate Braverman about the midcentury West Los Angeles of her childhood in Frantic Transmissions to and From Los Angeles: An Accidental Memoir.” “Apartments without dining rooms, as if anticipating a future where families disintegrated, compulsively dieted, or ate alone, in front of televisions.”

In Westwood, our living room was our dining room and our office. Leases were signed on the dinner table. At any moment, the phone or doorbell would ring with someone dropping off a rent check or complaining about a broken air conditioner or standing barefoot in a bathrobe locked out of their apartment. I would pretend to not care. I would eat my cheese puffs on the couch and stare attentively at the glowing TV, with the business of the building in my periphery. I would remind myself that this was temporary. Our liminal space. Maybe my parents would invest in an adult day care center like their friend Sasha? Maybe we would one day own a house? As I got older, I grew more ashamed. More aware of my own body and its presence. I would cower in my room or the hallway, shoveling Froot Loops into my mouth until the apartment was no longer an office but our home again. This shape-shifting was its own type of impermanence. One minute the apartment was a place where we lived and the next it was a place where we worked. The line was blurred and so was my idea of home. Of what is yours and what is mine.

The temporary feeling of apartment living. Collages by Yasmine Nasser Diaz featuring photos by Diana Ruzova

Some of the tenants were there before us and some were a rotating cast of characters. But all of them were strangers we shared walls with. Of course, we weren’t the only immigrant family. There were also Persian immigrants who fled Iran during the Islamic Revolution, but they mostly kept to themselves. Due to the nature of the job, we were always on display. My parents’ accents. My growing body. My father’s health. The mezuzah on our door frame. Our apartment, a collection of discarded furniture from vacated units. Early on, I was warned to not make friends with any of the tenants. I was told it was unprofessional. A trap. That they only wanted to be my friend so they could get special treatment. Sometimes, we broke the rules. I babysat the child star while his single mother “networked” (partied in the Hollywood Hills). I played Marco Polo in the pool with the Persian kids. I leafed through headshots with a Russian mail-order bride while my parents drank tea with her mother. They would all eventually move out and so would we.

I used to tell my friends that we owned the building. That I would one day inherit it. This was easier than saying that we lived there because we worked there. I’m not sure if anyone believed me anyway. Many of my friends lived in what I considered to be mansions with nannies and parents with six-figure dual incomes that afforded them trips to faraway destinations I couldn’t place on a map. When my friends were over and the landline would ring, I would rush them to my bedroom before they could hear my father answer the phone with, “Manager.”

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The only property my parents own is a shared plot at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. When my father was diagnosed with a chronic disease, my mother was left to manage the Westwood building on her own. Eventually, my parents retired after 21 years and moved out of the building during the first few months of the pandemic. They still rent, and so do I.

The temporary feeling of apartment living. Collages by Yasmine Nasser Diaz featuring photos by Diana Ruzova

What is truly ours?

I’ve spent my life grappling with the concept of ownership. How our identity often gets wrapped up in what we own and what we don’t own. How in the U.S., ownership is the pinnacle of success. How there was no such thing as ownership in the failed Soviet experiment. How you could pick apples off any tree because they were there for everybody to enjoy. How owning a home in Los Angeles may forever be out of reach. How impermanent we are in the arbitrary nature of existence.

After I graduated from college and landed an office job in Los Angeles, I began renting apartments on my own. The eggshell walls painted over and over and over again. The rotating neighbors I still feared to befriend. The flying cockroaches. The broken laundry machines. The unabiding footsteps. The eternal sounds of other people’s lives. The possibility of moving out and starting all over again. It all felt so familiar. The impermanence I witnessed so often as a child was no longer a source of shame but a knowing comfort that at any moment everything could change.

Diana Ruzova is a writer from Los Angeles. She holds an MFA in literature and creative nonfiction from the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her writing has appeared in the Cut, Oprah Daily, Flaunt, Hyperallergic, Los Angeles Review of Books and elsewhere.

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Best Christmas gift I ever received : Pop Culture Happy Hour

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Best Christmas gift I ever received : Pop Culture Happy Hour
What’s the best Christmas gift you ever received? You probably didn’t have to think about it; you knew it in your bones. Today, in this encore episode, we’re talking about the actual, tangible gift you found waiting for you under the tree and still think about it from time to time.
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L.A.’s latest viral party spot is … Seafood City. Yes, you read that right

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L.A.’s latest viral party spot is … Seafood City. Yes, you read that right

Under the glow of fluorescent lights at Seafood City market in North Hills, packages of pre-made adobo, salted shrimp fry and and dried anchovies glisten in meat coolers.

A DJ, dressed in a traditional barong, blasts a dance remix of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” as a crowd gathers to take a shot of fish sauce together.

“That was disgusting!” a man shouts into the mic, flashing a grimacing expression.

Two men smiling gather behind a man in front of a laptop.

At Seafood City, DJs 1OAK, left, EVER ED-E and AYMO spin in barongs, the Philippines’ national formal shirt.

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The smells of lechon and lumpia float through the air. Smiling children munch on halo-halo (a Philippine dessert made with ube ice cream, leche flan and shaved ice). Flags of the Philippines wave in the air as a man in UCLA Health scrubs hops into the center of an energetic dance circle. Employees shoot store coupons out of a money gun and toss bags of Leslie’s Clover Chips into the crowd. Fathers hold their children on their shoulders as a group of college students perform a Tinikling routine, a traditional Philippine dance in which performers step and hop over and between bamboo poles.

“This is so Filipino,” a woman says, in awe of the scene.

Two women dance in the middle of a circle.

Sabria Joaquin, 26, of Los Angeles, left, and Kayla Covington, 19, of Rancho Cucamonga hit the dance floor at “Late Night Madness” in North Hills.

“I came here for groceries,” explains an elderly man, adding that he decided to stay for the party.

Seafood City, the largest Philippine grocery store chain in North America, typically closes at 9 p.m. But on certain Friday and Saturday nights, its produce or seafood aisle turns into a lively dance floor for “Late Night Madness.” On social media, where the gathering has exploded, it looks like a multigenerational nightclub that could use dimmer lighting. But for attendees who frequent the store, it’s more than that. It’s a space for them to celebrate their Filipino heritage through food, music and dance in a familiar setting.

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“This is something that you would never expect to happen — it’s a grocery store,” says Renson Blanco, one of five DJs spinning that night. He grew up going to the store with his family. “My mom would [put] us all in the minivan and come here, and she’d let us run free,” he adds. “It’s comfortable here. It’s safe here.”

1 A woman in a night dress walks behind a lady pushing a cart.

2 Two women in front of bananas eat late night snacks.

3 Two people dance in a grocery aisle.

1. Rhianne Alimboyoguen, 23, of Los Angeles follows an employee through the produce section. 2. Allison Dove, 29, left, and Andrea Edoria, 33, both of Pasadena, enjoy Philippine street food. 3. Katie Nacino, 20, left, Daniel Adrayan, 21, and Sean Espiritu, 21, of the Filipino American Student Assn. at Cal State Northridge, practice tinikling, a traditional Philippine folk dance, in an aisle.

The first Seafood City location opened in 1989 in National City, a suburb of San Diego, which has a nearly 20% Asian population including a rich Filipino community. For its founders, the Go family, the mission was simple: to provide a market where Filipinos and people within the diaspora could comfortably speak their native language and buy familiar products. It’s since become a community anchor. Of the nearly 40 locations in Northern America, at least half of them are based in California, which has the highest population of Asian Americans in the United States.

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The first “Late Night Madness” event happened in September in Daly City, Seafood City’s newest location. The company wanted to launch a street food program at the store’s food hall in a fun and creative way.

The DJ played a selection of hip-hop, pop, soul and classic Pinoy records like VST & Company’s “Awitin Mo, Isasayaw Ko.” Hundreds of people showed up, and videos of people of all ages turning up in the popular supermarket spread like wildfire. So the company decided to continue hosting the event in October during Filipino American History Month and for the rest of the year. It’s since expanded to more locations around the country and in L.A., including Eagle Rock.

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By 10 p.m. at the Seafood City in North Hills, at least 500 people are dancing in the produce section, next to rows of saba bananas, fresh taro leaves and bok choy. The lively crowd forms dance circles throughout the night, taking turns jumping in the center to show off their moves to songs like Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Let’s Groove,” “Nokia” by Drake and Justin Bieber’s “I Just Need Somebody to Love.” At one point, TikToker and artist Adamn Killa hops on the mic and says “If you a Filipino baddie, this is for you,” before doing his viral dance.

Trays of street food for sale.

Among the Philippine street food offerings were pandesal sliders, lumpia-style nachos, lobster balls and various skewers.

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A group of employees dance behind the counter as they serve hungry patrons who fill their trays with various Filipino street food including pandesal sliders (soft Philippine bread filled with adobo, lechon or longganisa) and Lumpia Overload (think nachos, but a bed of lumpia instead of tortilla chips), lobster balls and barbecue chicken skewers. (No alcohol is served.) Meanwhile, a few lone shoppers sprinkle into the store to get their weekly groceries as music blasts through the speakers.

First-generation Filipino American Andrea Edoria of Pasadena says “Late Night Madness” reminded her of the family parties she attended as a child in L.A. and in Manila, where her parents are from.

“Growing up as a child of immigrants, I was kind of self conscious about displaying too much of my culture,” she says between bites of spiral fried potato. She went to the Eagle Rock event with her mother last month as well. “So it kind of fed my inner child to see so many people celebrating this shared culture and experience that we each grew up [with].”

Children and adults dance in a circle.

A multi-generational crowd is drawn to the dance floor. At center is Jade Cavan, 44, of Chatsworth.

Dancers perform between bamboo staffs.

Members of the Filipino American Student Assn. at Cal State Northridge perform a tinikling performance.

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She adds, “I think it’s so important especially now at a time where our country is so divisive and culture is kind of being weaponized, I think it’s a beautiful reminder that we can come together and find something that unites us.”

About 10 minutes before midnight, the grocery store is still bustling with activity. A dance battle breaks out and people begin hyping up the young women. The DJ transitions into slower tracks like Beyoncé’s “Love on Top” and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.” The remaining folks sing along loudly as they walk toward the exit, smiles imprinted on their faces. Staff rush to clean up, then huddle together for group photos to memorialize the evening.

Employees clean up a grocery store.

After the final song is played, employees rush to clean up the supermarket.

Patrick Bernardo, 34, of Van Nuys looks at the counter, where a man had been chopping lechon, before stepping outside.

“There’s barely anything left on that pig,” he says, pointing to it as proof that the night was a success.

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10 books to help you understand America as its 250th birthday approaches

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10 books to help you understand America as its 250th birthday approaches

With the nation’s big 2-5-0 coming up next year, NPR staff and critics recommended a lot of U.S.-focused titles for Books We Love, our annual year-end reading guide. Below you’ll find 10 favorites — perfect for the history buff on your gift list, or anyone looking to learn more about how the U.S got to where it is today. Read on, or check out our full 2025 list here.

American Grammar: Race, Education, and the Building of a Nation, by Jarvis R. Givens

American Grammar: Race, Education, and the Building of a Nation, by Jarvis R. Givens

In this deeply researched book, Harvard University professor of education and African American studies Jarvis R. Givens locates 1819 as a “crossroads” in the history of education in the United States. That year, Congress passed the Civilization Fund Act, providing funding for assimilative boarding schools for Native American children, and the governor of Virginia signed an anti-literacy law that made it a crime to teach enslaved people to read and write in schools. Amid the Trump administration’s effort to dismantle the Department of Education, Givens’ clear-eyed assessment of American education offers an opportunity to reflect on the long-standing relationships among race, power and schooling in the U.S. — Kristen Martin, book critic and author of The Sun Won’t Come Out Tomorrow: The Dark History of American Orphanhood

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The Fate of the Day: The War for America, Fort Ticonderoga to Charleston, 1777-1780, by Rick Atkinson

The Fate of the Day: The War for America, Fort Ticonderoga to Charleston, 1777-1780, by Rick Atkinson

I’ve been eagerly waiting years for this book! This is the second volume of Rick Atkinson’s trilogy on the American Revolution. Atkinson makes good use of letters and diaries. You feel like you’re in the middle of a battle, with all the sights, sounds and tragedy. Harrowing tales of hand-to-hand fighting, scalping and desperate evacuations. Fine detail: the waxed mustaches of the Hessian forces, the number of rum barrels distributed to weary and ill-clad troops, the dull thud of cannonballs smacking into ships. The stench of makeshift hospitals, with piles of limbs stacked outside. He carefully lays out how the battles began, and the successes, mistakes and missed opportunities – on both sides. — Tom Bowman, Pentagon reporter

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History Matters, by David McCullough, Dorie McCullough Lawson (contributor), and Michael Hill (contributor)

History Matters, by David McCullough, Dorie McCullough Lawson (contributor), and Michael Hill (contributor)

If history can be a comfort read, this is it. David McCullough’s daughter Dorie McCullough Lawson and his longtime researcher, Michael Hill, assembled this posthumous collection over two years. Some of the historian’s old manuscripts and files were kept in a New England barn, so the occasional acorn and nest turned up along with the historian’s glorious observations about Americans and their history. The essay subjects are diverse – painter Thomas Eakins, Harriet Beecher Stowe in Paris, “A Book on Every Bed” (it will melt your heart). One theme emerges that you might find reassuring in its own way: There was no “simpler time.” — Shannon Rhoades, supervising senior editor, Weekend Edition

Last Seen: The Enduring Search by Formerly Enslaved People to Find Their Lost Families, by Judith Giesberg

Last Seen: The Enduring Search by Formerly Enslaved People to Find Their Lost Families, by Judith Giesberg

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In 2017, historian Judith Giesberg and her team of graduate student researchers launched a website called the “Last Seen” project. It now contains over 5,000 ads placed in newspapers by formerly enslaved people hoping to find family members separated by slavery. The ads span the 1830s to the 1920s and serve as portals “into the lived experience of slavery.” In Last Seen, her book drawn from that monumental website, Giesberg closely reads 10 of those ads placed in search of lost children, mothers, wives, siblings and comrades who served in the United States Colored Troops during the Civil War. — Maureen Corrigan, book critic, Fresh Air

Medicine River: A Story of Survival and the Legacy of Indian Boarding Schools, by Mary Annette Pember

Medicine River: A Story of Survival and the Legacy of Indian Boarding Schools, by Mary Annette Pember

Mary Annette Pember, a citizen of the Red Cliff Band of Wisconsin Ojibwe and a national correspondent at ICT News, grew up in the 1950s and 1960s as her mother’s “secret confessor,” listening to fairy-tale-like stories of the horrors she endured at an assimilative boarding school. In Medicine River, Pember traces the repercussions of her mother’s maltreatment, situating her family’s story within the United States’ systemic use of education to eradicate Native cultures. Through an approach that is “part journalistic research, part spiritual pilgrimage,” Pember provides a cuttingly personal account of the history of federally funded Indian boarding schools and a moving look at how Indigenous traditions and rituals can light the path for healing. — Kristen Martin, book critic and author of The Sun Won’t Come Out Tomorrow: The Dark History of American Orphanhood

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Mother Emanuel: Two Centuries of Race, Resistance, and Forgiveness in One Charleston Church, by Kevin Sack

Mother Emanuel: Two Centuries of Race, Resistance, and Forgiveness in One Charleston Church, by Kevin Sack

There was great symbolism when a white supremacist targeted Charleston’s Mother Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, killing nine Black worshippers as a means to ignite a race war. As we learn in this deeply researched history, the congregation has been involved in the struggle for racial justice ever since it was founded in an “act of bold subversion” by enslaved and free African Americans in the 1800s. I am struck by the stories of clergy and members who fought against seemingly insurmountable odds at nearly every turn of history, truly living out their faith and believing in a better America. — Debbie Elliott, correspondent, National Desk

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There Is No Place for Us: Working and Homeless in America, by Brian Goldstone

There Is No Place for Us: Working and Homeless in America, by Brian Goldstone

In this paradigm-shifting, immersive book, journalist and anthropologist Brian Goldstone follows five families in Atlanta who, despite working full time, struggle to stay housed amid gentrification, a lack of tenants’ rights and low wages. These families, all Black, fall into a “shadow realm” – they are not considered officially homeless by the federal government, but lack a fixed living place as they double up with friends and family, sleep in their cars, or pay exorbitant rates at extended-stay hotels. Woven throughout their stories is a trenchant exploration of how America’s disinvestment in public housing and relentless pursuit of free-market growth have fueled housing insecurity for poor working families. — Kristen Martin, book critic and author of The Sun Won’t Come Out Tomorrow: The Dark History of American Orphanhood

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The War of Art: A History of Artists' Protest In America, by Lauren O'Neill-Butler

The War of Art: A History of Artists’ Protest In America, by Lauren O’Neill-Butler

This book is about the creative – if often short-lived and not always successful – ways in which artists have fought for social change in the U.S. since the 1960s. Personal favorite: a chapter on how the scrappy video collective, Top Value Television (TVTV), changed the public’s view of political conventions. With artist-led protests once again becoming a thing – from the thousands of actors and filmmakers who recently pledged to boycott the Israeli movie industry in response to the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, to the presence of a 12-foot statue depicting President Trump and the late sex offender Jeffrey Epstein frolicking on the National Mall, this book about the past provides a powerful frame for thinking about artist-led actions today. — Chloe Veltman, correspondent, Culture Desk

We the People: A History of the U.S. Constitution, by Jill Lepore

We the People: A History of the U.S. Constitution, by Jill Lepore

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As the U.S. approaches the 250th anniversary of its founding, it feels like an appropriate time to reflect on where we’re at as a country and how we got here. We the People, by Jill Lepore, a history and law professor at Harvard University, helps satisfy that impulse. It tells the story of the U.S. Constitution, which is among the world’s oldest constitutions. Lepore focuses on battles over amendments, which were fought not just by politicians but by ordinary Americans. The founders designed the Constitution to be amended, but it has become much more difficult to do so over the years. As the Constitution becomes harder to amend, Lepore writes, the risk of political violence becomes greater. — Milton Guevara, producer, Morning Edition and Up First

Who Is Government?: The Untold Story of Public Service, by Michael Lewis (editor)

Who Is Government?: The Untold Story of Public Service, by Michael Lewis (editor)

Thousands of unsung heroes in the government are making life better for Americans. But because of bureaucracies being made up of bureaucrats, we rarely hear those stories. This book showcases them. Like a coal-mining safety official who helped the U.S. reach zero mine-collapse deaths. Or the man who has led the National Cemetery Administration to the top of the American Customer Satisfaction Index. As the federal government is in its biggest shake-up in a generation, it’s worth learning about where the bright spots are. — Darian Woods, host, The Indicator from Planet Money

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This is just a fraction of the 380+ titles we included in Books We Love this year. Click here to check out this year’s titles, or browse nearly 4,000 books from the last 13 years.

An assortment of book covers from the 2025 edition of Books We Love.
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