Little Fires Everywhere – Identity, Authenticity, and the Consequences of Choice

A novel exploring the tension between societal expectations and personal truth, and the courage required to live authentically.

Little Fires Everywhere – Celeste Ng (12 minutes total)

Part 1: Introduction, Theme, Philosophy (3 mins)

Little Fires Everywhere – Spoken Script (~500 words)

Have you ever looked at a picture-perfect community and wondered what stories might be hidden behind the neat lawns and smiling faces? // Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng takes us right into such a place—Shaker Heights, Ohio. // At first glance, it’s an orderly, planned community where everything looks controlled, safe, and harmonious. // But beneath that polished surface, Ng shows us lives that are anything but simple.

The novel follows two very different families whose worlds collide: the Richardsons, an affluent, rule-following household that embodies the values of Shaker Heights, and Mia Warren, a single mother and artist, along with her daughter Pearl, who live a life defined by creativity, uncertainty, and freedom. // Their meeting sparks a story that examines privilege, race, motherhood, and the difficult choices that shape our identities.

At its heart, the novel is about authenticity and the struggle to live true to oneself in a society that often rewards conformity. // Each character is confronted with questions of identity and morality: Do you follow the rules because they promise stability, or do you risk stepping outside them to remain true to who you are? // Ng doesn’t give easy answers. // Instead, she offers layered perspectives—whether it’s about what makes someone a “real” mother, how race and privilege affect opportunities, or how far we’re willing to go to protect the life we’ve built.

One of the key philosophies of the novel is that authenticity requires courage. // Living honestly, Ng suggests, can sometimes mean setting off “little fires” in our lives—disruptions that may seem destructive but actually clear the way for growth and change. // It’s a powerful reminder that being true to ourselves often comes with sacrifice—whether it’s the loss of social approval, strained family ties, or stepping into the unknown. // But it’s also what gives life its depth, integrity, and meaning.

So—why should you read Little Fires Everywhere? // Because it’s not just a family drama, though it delivers all the emotional complexity of one. // It’s a novel that asks you to pause and reflect on your own choices, your own values, and the pressures that shape them. // It’s beautifully written and deeply human, offering no villains or heroes, but rather people who are flawed, striving, and real. // Whether you’re interested in the role of motherhood, in questions of race and privilege, or simply in the universal search for authenticity, this book will resonate. // And it lingers with you—it makes you look at the world around you, at your community, maybe even your own family, and wonder: What fires, hidden or visible, are shaping the lives here?

In the end, Celeste Ng leaves us with a story that is both unsettling and inspiring. // It’s about the courage to live authentically, even when it disrupts the order we think we need. // And perhaps that’s what makes it so powerful—because who among us hasn’t felt that same tension between fitting in and being true to ourselves?

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Part 2: Reading Segment 1 (3 mins)

Excerpt 

E

1

veryone in Shaker Heights was talking about it that summer: how

Isabelle, the last of the Richardson children, had finally gone

around the bend and burned the house down. All spring the gossip

had been about little Mirabelle McCullough—or, depending which side you

were on, May Ling Chow—and now, at last, there was something new and

sensational to discuss. A little after noon on that Saturday in May, the

shoppers pushing their grocery carts in Heinen’s heard the fire engines wail

to life and careen away, toward the duck pond. By a quarter after twelve

there were four of them parked in a haphazard red line along Parkland

Drive, where all six bedrooms of the Richardson house were ablaze, and

everyone within a half mile could see the smoke rising over the trees like a

dense black thundercloud. Later people would say that the signs had been

there all along: that Izzy was a little lunatic, that there had always been

something off about the Richardson family, that as soon as they heard the

sirens that morning they knew something terrible had happened. By then, of

course, Izzy would be long gone, leaving no one to defend her, and people

could—and did—say whatever they liked. At the moment the fire trucks

arrived, though, and for quite a while afterward, no one knew what was

happening. Neighbors clustered as close to the makeshift barrier—a police

cruiser, parked crosswise a few hundred yards away—as they could and

watched the firefighters unreel their hoses with the grim faces of men who

recognized a hopeless cause. Across the street, the geese at the pond ducked

their heads underwater for weeds, wholly unruffled by the commotion.

Mrs. Richardson stood on the tree lawn, clutching the neck of her pale

blue robe closed. Although it was already afternoon, she had still been

asleep when the smoke detectors had sounded. She had gone to bed late,

and had slept in on purpose, telling herself she deserved it after a rather

difficult day. The night before, she had watched from an upstairs window as

a car had finally pulled up in front of the house. The driveway was long and

circular, a deep horseshoe arc bending from the curb to the front door and

back—so the street was a good hundred feet away, too far for her to see

clearly, and even in May, at eight o’clock it was almost dark, besides. But

she had recognized the small tan Volkswagen of her tenant, Mia, its

headlights shining. The passenger door opened and a slender figure

emerged, leaving the door ajar: Mia’s teenage daughter, Pearl. The dome

light lit the inside of the car like a shadow box, but the car was packed with

bags nearly to the ceiling and Mrs. Richardson could only just make out the

faint silhouette of Mia’s head, the messy topknot perched at the crown of

her head. Pearl bent over the mailbox, and Mrs. Richardson imagined the

faint squeak as the mailbox door opened, then shut. Then Pearl hopped back

into the car and closed the door. The brake lights flared red, then winked

out, and the car puttered off into the growing night. With a sense of relief,

Mrs. Richardson had gone down to the mailbox and found a set of keys on a

plain ring, with no note. She had planned to go over in the morning and

check the rental house on Winslow Road, even though she already knew

that they would be gone.

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Part 3: Reading Segment 2 (3 mins)

Excerpt (Mia embracing her identity and choices):

Pauline Hawthorne, she learned, had died of brain cancer in 1982. Izzy

settled herself at one of the two computers in the library, waited for the

modem to connect, and typed Pauline’s name into AltaVista. She found

more photographs—the Getty had one, MoMA had three; a few articles

analyzing her work; an obituary from the New York Times. Nothing else.

She tried the public library, both branches, found a few more photography

books and several articles on microfiche, but they added nothing new. What

was the connection between Pauline Hawthorne and Mia? Perhaps Mia had

simply been a model, like she said; maybe she’d just happened to sit for

Pauline Hawthorne. This did not satisfy Izzy, who felt this was an

improbable coincidence.

At last she turned to the only source she could think of: her mother. Her

mother was a journalist, at least in name. True, her mother mostly covered

small stories, but journalists found things out. They had connections, they

had ways of researching that weren’t accessible to just anyone. From early

childhood, Izzy had been fiercely, stubbornly independent; she refused to

ask for help with anything. Only the deep hunger to unravel this mysterious

photograph could have convinced her to approach her mother.

“Mom,” she said one evening, after several days of fruitless research.

“Can you help me with something?”

Mrs. Richardson listened, as usual with Izzy, with only half her attention.

A pressing deadline was looming, for a story on the Nature Center’s annual

plant sale.

“Izzy, this photo probably isn’t even of Pearl’s mother. It could be

anyone. Someone who looks like her. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“It’s not,” Izzy insisted. “Pearl knew it was her mother and I saw it, too.

Would you just look into it? Call the museum or something. See what you

can find out. Please.” She had never been good at wheedling—she’d always

felt flattery was a form of lying—but she wanted this so badly. “I’m sure

you can figure it out. You’re a reporter.”

Mrs. Richardson gave in. “All right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can find

out. But it’ll have to wait until after this deadline. I have to file this story by

tomorrow.

“It’ll probably be nothing, you know,” she added, as Izzy danced toward

the door with barely suppressed glee.

Izzy’s words—You’re a reporter—had touched her mother’s pride like a

finger pressed into an old bruise. Mrs. Richardson had wanted to be a

journalist her entire life, long before the aptitude tests their guidance

counselor had administered in high school. “Journalists,” she explained in a

civics speech about dream careers, “chronicle our everyday lives. They

reveal truths and information that the public deserves to know, and they

provide a record for posterity, so that future generations can learn from our

mistakes and improve upon our achievements.” For as long as she could

remember, her own mother had always been busy with some committee or

other, advocating for more school funding, more equity, more fairness, and

bringing her young daughter along. “Change doesn’t just happen,” her

mother had always said, echoing the Shaker motto. “It has to be planned.”

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Part 4: Reading Segment 3 (3 mins)

Excerpt She was so focused on her work that, on the afternoon in March when

the man with the briefcase began staring at her, she did not notice right

away. It was midafternoon when she got on at Houston Street, heading up to

her job near Columbia, and the 1 was quiet, with only a handful of

passengers. Mia was thinking about her project for Pauline—Document a

transformation over time—when she felt the sudden prickle on her skin that

meant she was being watched. Mia was used to stares—this was New York,

after all—and like all women she had learned to ignore them, as well as the

catcalls that sometimes accompanied them. But this man she couldn’t quite

read. He seemed respectable enough: neat striped suit, dark hair, briefcase

between his feet. Wall Street, she guessed. The look in his eyes wasn’t lust,

or even playfulness. It was something else—a strange mix of recognition

and hunger—and it unsettled her. After three stops, when the man had not

stopped staring, she bundled up her things and stepped off at Columbus

Circle.

At first she thought she had lost him. The train pulled away and she

settled herself onto a grimy bench to await the next one and then, as the

handful of passengers cleared the station, she saw him again: briefcase in

hand now, scanning the platform. Looking for her, she was sure. Before he

spotted her she turned and made for the staircase at the far end of the

platform and followed the tunnel, walking as briskly as she could without

attracting attention, to the platform for the C. She would be late for work

now, but it didn’t matter. She would get off in a stop or two and walk over

to Broadway and catch the right train, once she had gotten away, even if it

meant paying another fare.

When the C came, Mia stepped onto a middle car and scanned the seats.

The car was half full, enough people that she could call for help if she

needed, but not so full that the crowd would hide anything untoward. She

settled herself into an empty seat in the center. At 72nd Street there was no

sign of him. But at 81st, just as Mia rose to leave, the door at the end of the

car opened and in came the man with the briefcase. He was slightly

disheveled now, a few locks of his hair falling into his face, as if he had

been hurrying through the cars looking for her. Her eyes met his and there

was no way to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Mia’s roommate had been

mugged twice walking home late at night, and her classmate Becca had told

her a man had pulled her into an alley off Christopher Street by her ponytail

—she’d managed to fight him off, but he had pulled out a hank of her hair.

Mia had seen the bald spot. Whatever was going to happen would happen

now, whether she stayed on the train or off.

She stepped off the train and he followed her, and when the doors closed

they stood frozen on the platform for a moment. There was no conductor or

policeman in sight, only an old lady with a walker slowly trudging toward

the stairs and, at the far end of the platform, a sleeping bum in tattered

sneakers. If she ran, she thought, perhaps she could make it to the stairs

before he caught her.