“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.
