The Sellout – Paul Beatty

“Unmitigated Blackness is essays passing for fiction…Unmitigated Blackness is coming to the realization that as fucked up and meaningless as it all is, sometimes it’s the nihilism that makes life worth living.”

Using humour, Sarcasm and Satire as Garbs, Paul Beatty has written a novel which questions the ethnic awareness innate in all of us, present in various degrees, some pronounced, others not so much, but ever present like a defilement or as an extrinsic. I feel it would be  a grave injustice to label this book  as pro-Black Fiction or under any such partisan theme – yet, it is based on a  minimalist pro-black foundation ( in contrast to Black foundation, which it undoubtedly is ).  It is more of an account of how this identity works in subtle ways, throughout our lives. In this narration, the narrator, “Me” by name, "Bonbon" by nickname, shows how most of his predominantly Black environment understands and reacts to America’s modern version of subtle, concealed racism. And we see examples of them, across the book.

“When a white bitch got problems, she’s a damsel in distress! When a black bitch got problems, she’s a welfare cheat and a burden on society. How come you never see any black damsels?”

“I seriously doubt that some slave ship ancestor, in those idle moments between being raped and beaten, was standing knee-deep in their own feces rationalizing that, in the end, generations of murder, unbearable pain and suffering, mental anguish, and rampant disease will all be worth it because somebody my great-great-great-great-grandson will have Wi-Fi, no matter how slow and intermittent the signal is.”

“Remember those photos of the black president and his family walking across the White House lawn arm-in-arm. Within those fucking frames at that instant, and only in that instant, there’s no fucking racism.”

Me’s dad, a genius social scientist (the “sole practitioner of the field of Liberation Psychology” ), used  his disappointing son was a convenient Lab Rat for most of his experiments. The changes happening in the neighbourhood - the change of the name of his city, “Dickens” which had a black identity (albeit a bad one), to a new one unannounced and  on the sly, and  the changes in his friend Hominy Jenkins, ( a former child star who never got his chance in his youth to fulfill his promise, now in his eighties and a little unstable )  who prefers to be a  slave to him, calling him the Master, make the narrator realise that not stressing ethnicity is counter-productive. . He then plots to bring back Racial segregation as a means of rebuilding his society.  It is subtly argued that  whatever ambition a relatively backward community can glean out to succeed, dilutes and disappears in the act of integration with a stronger, big other.  

On the subject of integration:

“you can’t force integration, boy. The people who want to integrate will integrate.” I’ve never figured out to what extent, if at all, I agree or disagree with him, but it’s an observation that’s stayed with me. Made me realize that for many people integration is a finite concept. Here, in Amercia, “Integration” can be a cover-up. “I’m not racist. My prom date, second cousin, my president is back (or whatever).” The problem is we don’t know whether integration is a natural or an unnatural state.”

It is this “cover up”, which bothers our narrator and makes him take up certain actions, which soon lands him in trouble ( The book starts with Me, at the doors of the Supreme Court of the United States of America ).

The humour is not confined to ethnic flavours. See the below for example:

“A Jaguar, one of those ugly American-made models was overturned in the fast lane. Its turtlenecked passenger unhurt, leaning against the median fence and reading a hardback novel you see only at airport bookstores. The rear-ended Honda sedan with both its back and its driver flattened and smoking, lay in the middle lane waiting to be carried to the junk and graveyards, respectively. Jaguar model names sound like rockets: XJ-5, XJ8, E-Type. Hondas sound like cars designed by pacifists and humanitarian diplomats. The Accord, Civic, insight.”

The Label, “The Sellout”, too is a misleading one, for the label comes from one who makes a living  out of the woes of others, and out of other people’s theories. Not withstanding the satire the book is oozing with, it is not always an easy read. For, as the narrator hints himself it is “an essay passing for fiction”. The book is filled with witticisms, at least some of which don’t have the same level of comprehension to us of a different cultural setting.  I honestly feel that I will never be able to enjoy the book as much as an American would. That is not to say that it shouldn’t be read, No. It can be read, and can most definitely be enjoyed too. Some knowledge of American popular culture would go a long way to make the most of this book – it is rich with references to famous characters – from Gary Coleman to Tupac to Prince ( of course, when is he ever absent ? )  to NWA,   Highly recommended for Readers who like Satire, and those with a keen eye for ethno-cultural subtleties.