'Now be practical, [Virginia]; after all, I am both white and Negro and look white. Why shouldn't I declare for the one that brings me the greatest happiness, prosperity, and respect?'
The primary concern of Jessie Redmon Fauset's 'Plum Bun' rests on this very question.
This novel has an irresistible charm—its character's are affable and its story lovable. In this 'novel without a moral' we follow Angela Murray as she comes of age in a systematically racist America as she lives on both sides of the color line. Angela is what is known as 'passing for white'—when she realizes this, Angela believes that the only way to escape the tired old conversations on race and the limitations which majority white society places on the advancement of blacks, is to up-sticks and head to New York City, to reinvent herself (as so many New Yorkers do) as a white girl named 'Angele Mory'. Angela believes that this is only right, for she is owed an opportunity for a life of affluence and the finer things, what in her eyes amount to happiness. She soon finds, however, that happiness is much a more complicated thing... Angela is not a 'bad' person, just immature, and I think Fauset is very good at making sure the reader doesn't come to this conclusion.
There's something a whiff ironic about Angela's search for what she deems happiness in that Angela comes from a very happy family. Her parents (a black father and 'passing' mother) are truly in love and have done everything imaginable for their children's comfort and safety in order to spare them from the immense hardship they themselves had to overcome in their lifetime. Yet, Angela knows that her racial background denies her pleasantries and is rightly frustrated by this. This very fact is made apparent in heartbreaking scenes where Angela's father must pose as her mother's chauffeur in order to receive her from the hospital, or when in a moment of weakness, Angela and her mother pretend not to recognize their very own husband and father in the street while on a shopping spree in the city while together passing for white—it is on these very shopping sprees where Angela cultivates a very reductive, materialist vision of what happiness is. For Angela it can only be a life of luxury, without the worries and cares of place, race, and roots. She wishes to live a life of unfettered agency.
Virginia, Angela's sister, is bound by her darker skin to identify as black, and so comes to different conclusions as to what makes a happy life since she would never be let into the establishments where Angela and her mother shop in the first place. She quickly becomes acquainted with, and builds off of her limitations and lives a far richer life in New York as a result. While Angela's life is defined by money, empty social niceties, and denial of one's past (all elements to Angela's day-to-day existence embodied by her fraught relationship with Robert), Virginia is able to live a vibrant life of the mind in Harlem which runs in concert with her past. This contrast between the lives of Angela and Virginia reaches a twin climax first at the dinner party with Margaret, and second, at the Van Meier lecture in Harlem.
Angela's 'people' are of a white artistic persuasion. Their whiteness is paramount to understanding their point of view, for it is the point of view of one's point of view being taken as granted... that is, as heard by the majority. It is the difference between one who speaks with the authority of one who is used to being heard, and one who must articulate their self, or perish. They are a 'political' group, professedly concerned with the rights of humankind. And yet, even Angela senses their limitations of these seemingly limitless agents...
'And again it seemed to her that they represented an almost alarmingly unnecessary class. If any great social cataclysm were to happen they would surely be first to be swept out of the running. Only real people could survive.'
This thought reaches maturity at the Van Meier lecture, where the arresting black orator calls upon the race to draw pride and strength on their own terms, a call which would surely transcend the status symbols and social privileges of a white world which Angela holds so dear.
'It is neither courage, no, nor hate
That lets us do the things we do;
It's pride that bids the heart be great.'
This calling is beyond mere 'discursivity'—it is a fierce calling to those whose very lives are at stake, a calling by which Margaret and Ladislas' dinner party politics pales pathetically in comparison.
After two years of denial, lies, and failed friendships and relationships in New York, Angela's life lacks true social cohesion. She finds herself no better than when she arrived, just another lonely soul wandering crowded 14th street. It's in the depths of this loneliness that Angela learns to strive for the merits of a friendship based in love, belonging, and a pureness of heart.
And oh, geez, what a love story!!! OK, so the story has what you might call a typical happy ending... so what? Sometimes life is a happy, happy thing... it'll melt your heart, guaranteed...
—AF