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Have you ever heard
the Billy
Paul tune, "Me
and Mrs. Jones"? What, in your opinion, are the lyrics about?
File that question away for a few minutes as we consider a couple of
the stories in Asali
Solomon's first collection, Get
Down.
By the way, if I tell you that this collection is about groups of African-American
and Hispanic teens and young adults in Philadelphia,
your head just might fill with strains of a certain ditty by KC
and the Sunshine Band—"Do
a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight!"—and.
if so, you'd be, at least, partly on the right track. One of the central
concerns of this book is language, itself, and its frequent malleability,
its capability to take on forms and meanings that catch us off guard.
Herein, words aren't only vehicles of expression; they're marvels, objects
of fascination; sentences become wondrous carriers of emotions and thoughts
that aren't so easy for the stories' characters to articulate—a
possible explanation for why seemingly everyone is consumed with music.
There are seven stories, here; but, for reasons of economy, I'll concentrate
on the two which bookend the volume (though you may rest assured the
remaining five are equally interesting†),
And, with respect to one of those, I'll focus on something that's, admittedly,
not the crux of the story but a thing which I find personally compelling.
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"Twelve
Takes Thea" and "First Summer" both develop unexpected
endings (the second moves, on its last page, to a kind of reflexive
metafiction not previously seen anywhere in the volume; there,
Solomon inserts herself into the tale as storyteller, directly
addressing the reader) although not the type of surprise, shocking
twist endings found in thrillers; rather, these endings
are revelations. The happenings contribute to the emotional
educations of the characters and lead the reader to, maybe,
reflect on similar events in his/her own life; an ongoing process
of the acquisition of maturity is the phrase that comes to mind.
A seventh grade girl has her first experience with deliberate,
calculated lying, designed to be malicious, and is mystified
to discover that the same capacity exists within herself; a
young man is amazed to learn, many years after high school,
that a girl in his class was infatuated with him all those years
ago.
Thea's a sixth grader. When her best friend, Nadja, transfers
to another school, at the end of the year, it seems like the
end of the world, though the new school isn't far away and the
two girls can still see each other and talk often by phone.
Seventh grade begins with a group of new girls—among
them, Frances Dyson and Beth Johannssen, whose name is a curiosity
since she's clearly of Indian descent. Frances replaces the
departed Nadja as the second black girl in the pack, although,
as Thea thinks, she looks so 'ghetto' (Thea's word) and Thea's
not sure what to make of her. The rub: Thea's parents attempt
to force a friendship between their daughter and Frances:
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Eventually,
the Black Barrett parents (the BBPs) were going to get
together and if my parents went to the first meeting—or
'tea', as it was sometimes called—and met Frances'
parents, and if there was any indication that I wasn't
carrying her on my back, saving her seats, or showing
her how to flush the antique middle school toilets, I
would be very sorry.
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It's a given that racial identity is a great concern in Thea's
life—despite the fact that, at her age, it seems to be
an open question as to what degree she can, in such a manner,
effectively deal with perceptions of the self—and this
is established immediately and definitively within the first
fifteen or so pages:
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Thea's
brother, Stephen, derisively calls her "Jane"—a
sort of derogatory appellation for white girls.
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A
teacher in the school can't tell Thea and Nadja apart.
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Everyday,
Thea takes the bus from urban Philly (where she lives)
into Bryn
Mawr (where the school is), prompting a schoolmate
to remark "I hear there's pools of blood on every
corner in Philadelphia."—the implication being
that the entire city is a violent black slum.
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Nadja's
new school is one in which nuns still dish out corporal
punishment. She observes, to Thea, "Your parents
would never let you go anywhere white people get to beat
you." When Nadja is about to leave, Stephen says
"Now you're really gonna be a wanna Jane."
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Upon
first seeing Frances Thea thinks, "Frances was black.
I knew that my parents would be very excited about this."
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When
Nadja and Thea gossip about Beth Johanssen, Nadja notes,
"She probably thinks she's white."
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Thea
and Beth play a little game wherein they pretend that
everyone at the school looks like an animal. When Beth
identifies Frances as a monkey, Thea wants to protest
this cruel racism but doesn't, for fear of injuring her
relationship with the 'cool' Beth.
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This leads to the narrative's second major theme, which has
to do with issues of peer pressure, acceptance, being a part
of the in- crowd, and so forth—matters so desperately important
to kids of this age. The magnitude of Thea's adolescence is
perhaps best symbolized by the incredulous wonderment she exhibits
on learning that Frances has a boyfriend. Then, when Frances
calls her an 'Oreo', she's stung appearing to conveniently forget
her earlier characterization of Frances as being too 'ghetto'.
But the real point has to do with the web of relationships Thea
has with Nadja, Frances, Beth, and Liza, a girl who's only peripherally
introduced as one of the most popular at Barrett.
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Thea
veritably worships Beth Johanssen, to the extent that she begins
to copy her habits—wrinkling her nose, the way Beth dances
("I tried to do what she did").
She whines to Nadja every time they speak, her inability to
deal with the latter's move to another school absorbing her
emotions ("You never want to go anywhere
with me.") In the end, Beth, Nadja, Liza and Frances
all connect to Thea in an unforseen way. It happens, however,
that Solomon, under the radar, has thoroughly prepped us for
the finish ("Incidentally, Nadja
was the sole Barrett girl my brother didn't call Jane"
and "A lot of people hated me there,
she [Beth] once told me at lunch.") Captivating,
too, is the depiction of the manners, etiquette, and ritual
behaviors of the school dance.
One of the truly remarkable things Solomon does, here, is transfer
us back to grade school with such accuracy that it hurts; it
stings to be reminded of what we regarded as important, then.
Thea says of Beth Johanssen, "Even
wearing some off-brand of tennis shoe, she was clearly the prettiest
girl in the class." And although Nadja has gone
off to another school and hasn't met Beth, by the story's end,
Beth has somehow penetrated Nadja's circle of communication
and the results are unsettling for Thea. Sensitivity to language
and, thus, to the objects and concepts in the world to which
it refers, provides insight into Thea's very soul; italicized
appearances of 'sadistic', 'psoriasis', and 'East Hell' flow
with ease through her consciousness—once she grasps their
meanings as spoken by others. (This comes up, again, in "Party
On Vorhees!", in which Sarah has her hypersensitivity awakened
by uttered nonsense such as "around the way".) Sentences
which express familiar adolescent thoughts and behavior (i.e.,
"I decided to wait out the slow songs
in the bathroom"—Thea has this idea because
none of the boys approach her at the dance, and she's embarrassed)
get the whole mood so right that they're equal parts aching
and gladdening. We come to see that the author, from an adult
perspective, is able to put an objective twist on the narrative
that the child characters are incapable of understanding.
In "First Summer", race is more of a blunt consideration
than in "Twelve Takes Thea". Delayna works the register
at a clothing store called Urbanicide, causing Rufus to remark
"I didn't know they let black folks
get near the money, there. They sure don't like me getting near
the clothes." Part of Delayna's rejoinder is, "It's
basically my job to make sure black people don't steal."
The racism and racist policies under discussion don't need to
be finessed, nuanced, or danced around, as in the earlier story.
Part of the reason for this is that the characters in "First
Summer" are more grown up, notwithstanding that, once more,
school days, indeed, play a role.
In summary: Rufus lives with his girlfriend, Shanna, and their
newborn son, in the house of Shanna's mother, Alba. One morning,
while waiting for the bus that takes him to work, he meets up
with Delayna, who recognizes him from high school. At first,
she says nothing about this, wondering if he'll recognize her,
but he doesn't. Only later, after they meet for a movie and
go to her place, the exact level of her interest in him is revealed:
She says, "You can't go, yet. I'm
not done telling you my stupid problems. You know, I didn't
get to do all this in high school, when you were dating cheerleaders
and going to basement parties every night."
When Delayna confesses a substantial secret to Rufus, and he
suggests that they take sick days from work in order to be together
to work on it, he has mixed feelings about betraying his family.
Now, this story has texture sufficient to support a study just
as long as the story, itself; but I should like to stress something
that jumped out at me as I was reading, something which must
be quite hard to accomplish in short fiction because we don't
see it much. I'm referring to the creation of secondary characters
who are so strong that they exert immense influence over the
tale, despite being featured only briefly. Secondary characters
who stick in the reader's mind with exceptional vividness. If
you'd like clear examples from another medium—film—think
Mickey
Rourke in Body
Heat or Brad
Pitt in Thelma
& Louise. Brief but monster impact. In Solomon's
short fiction, the character of Tony, Rufus' friend, functions
in that fashion.
Tony was a classmate of Rufus' and Shanna's in high school,
where, we're told, he cut classes so often that the other students
gave cutting a name: "hangin' with Tone". To have
this universal student rite named after oneself is probably
the ultimate way to confer status; yet, be that as it may, Tony's
a mystery. Even with being the champ of cutters and a pothead,
"He's been employee of the month
in their department so many times that Rufus has lost track."
Not only is he a star at work, but, when Shanna agitates Rufus,
the first thing Rufus thinks of is how Tony handled (or didn't
handle) a similar situation with his own girlfriend; Tony's
behavior is a standard with which to be compared. When Rufus
meets up with Delayna and has to concoct a lie to cover himself,
he says he's going to have a drink with "Tone and them";
Shanna later uses this exact expression. Who is 'them'?
They're never identified and, obviously, don't need to be. It's
not "Bill and them" or "James and them".
And Tony is the only person Rufus speaks to about Delayna. Although
he can't quite bring himself to reveal the truth, Tony knows
it anyway: "Rufus, man, all it takes
is one false move." In Principles
of Literature, Christina Myers-Shaffer lists seven methods
of characterization: stereotyping; exposition; the character's
actions; the character's words; the character's thoughts; the
words of others; and the use of setting. Tony, in this story,
is portrayed to us by all seven of these methods—a remarkable
feat! In The
Art of Fiction, David Lodge writes that "Character
is arguably the most important single component of the novel."
In the face of that assertion, these are, of course, stories,
but the idea applies the same. And this story, in particular,
is a fantastic illustration of the claim.
Sometimes the greatest way to appreciate an accomplishment in
art is to feel the truth being extracted from your specific
memories and experiences and brought to light as a more preponderant,
ecumenical affair. That happens in Get Down. I can tell
you that, for decades, I hadn't thought about episodes of my
own high school years, but Solomon's vignettes made me do just
that—made me reflect, made me smile, nod, wince, and almost
cry a couple of times.
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| †"The
Star of the Story" operates at, perhaps, a different level
of sophistication and observation than some of the others. I heard
Solomon read from this fantastic piece at the KGB
Bar in New
York. All seven stories share some elements, naturally. One,
"Save Me", is experimental. |
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NEXT
MONTH: Kelly Braffett's Last
Seen Leaving (2006) |
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