I had to savor this book. As funny as The Sellout, but honestly, just feels more like it was written for me. It sends up not just Los Angeles (including necks of the LA woods I'm surprisingly familiar with) and my own college town, Boston. It elevates a premise I was weakly, stupidly kicking around for a couple of NaNoWriMo cycles: the notion that suicide was the most productive thing I can do to sustain not just humankind but even the biosphere and, oh I don't know, full employment. I could never articulate or capture the iota of satirical truth behind it; I always crippled my own knack for the comedy there with a pasty-faced white saturation of self-pity. Thank the Lord Paul Beatty had already played with this concept and took it up to the stratosphere: by adding some breathtaking angles on race. I had no authority to toy with that matter. Paul Beatty did, and I'm so glad he did.
I think this book has elements of a satirical magical realism, for lack of a tighter phrase. Take Nicholas Scoby, someone who is caught in a web of white hegemony manufacturing black achievements for its own nefarious ends, but also has quite an improbable talent: he never EVER misses a basket. It reinvents the parameters of magical realism by making it not overtly fantastical, but it is a very improbable occurrence that is taken as premise in a frighteningly real way for the characters and their world. I was not ever really a fan of magical realism, but when it's employed in such stark relief against the environs, as well as allied with satire, it becomes a brilliant, inspiring tool.
Beatty's prose is wonderful, his jokes are excellent, his puns more refreshing than you'd think (Gunnar's corny-ass pro-colorblindness elementary school teacher is called Ms. Cegeny), it has some astounding set-pieces that don't just bring the comedy but bring something also subversive and postmodern. Take, for example, gang members who have developed a self-awareness of their masculinity posturing and decide to ambush rivals by going to the rival neighborhood in drag. Gunnar writes that no one was in a rush to remove the wigs and makeup after making the clean getaway. Look at all the brilliant, loaded gestures here: it makes a space to belie the notion that black people are, writ large, toxically invested in masculinity, it makes a space where drag is not just subversive across gender parameters but across racial/socioeconomic barriers, while being extremely supportive of the act and being a damn funny set-piece.
This book tackles a lot of the things I'm passionate about: skewering America, the reason why America is the way it is (Baldwin was right), comedy, LA, Boston, the problems of white allies, and talkin' smack on academia. Ditto with Asian invisibility: it always has on its mind the legacy of Japanese internment in California, and brings it up numerous times. I'll never forget the line: "She doesn't trust you, Gunnar. She lookin' at you like you General MacArthur."
There's so much in this coming-of-age tale worth exploring, and I have, of course, quoted this book mercilessly to my poor, unsuspecting boyfriend. It's a gem, alright.