If one believes in coincidences, which I find it more satisfying not to, it is worth noticing that all three books I've finally gotten around to writing about on this ostensibly patriotic day are, each in its own way, rebukes of America. Fo's comedic assault on Reaganism specifically is no less-- and perhaps is more--relevant as an assault on the even more theatrical politics of today. It is layered, however, with such masterful humor and deep philosophical underpinnings that it reads as good-natured ribbing, which is the key to the success of any insult. Something is no doubt lost in reading the plays, though they stand up to scrutiny admirably, and are rather easy to envision, thanks to the extensive explanation provided by the editor, Ron Jenkins. This explanation is especially credible because it comes from a personal relationship with the writer and his collaborator Franca Rame. She is so inextricable from these texts that she really should be credited as a co-author, much as Jeanne-Claude is given equal billing with Christoff. Try as one might, however, it is simply impossible to capture on the page elements of physical comedy, visual acuity, and theatrical instinct that are so clearly fundamental to the works. It is the opposite of a work which is given life by its staging, but has nothing to offer on its own. Such works belong to the director rather than the author (I'm looking at you, Lloyd-Webber). Rame and Fo's work is rather so vivid and profound on its own that any staging other than their own would have very big shoes to fill indeed.
Saturday, July 04, 2026
Jeanne Wakatsuki and James D. Houston: Farewell to Manzanar
My personal biases are such that when my purpose in reading a book colors my approach to it. When I am reading something for work, which is to say in order to teach it in the classroom, I see it primarily through that lens and analyze it accordingly. When I am reading something I perceive to be canonical, I tend to approach it more broadly and philosophically. There are surprises and course-corrections in each case. Sometimes a presumably fluffy book turns out to be deeply literate and resilient to that sort of scrutiny, as in the case of The Hunger Games. Sometimes the opposite is true, as documented here more times that I care to go back and count. A dilemma arises when a book is both potential classroom material and, if not canonical, at least "important" in the canonical discourse. This was the case, for example, with Rosa Parks' My Story, and it is the case with the work under consideration now. As in the former case, it turns out to disappoint on literary levels, though to retain its significance. Perhaps it is a function of non-writers having something that needs to be said. Perhaps it is more a byproduct of what constitutes "should" in the literary and cultural mind. At any rate, Manzanar left this read feeling unsatisfied, and this teacher feeling well-equipped.
Langston Hughes: The Ways of White Folks
It is often said of certain books that you do not read them; they read you--or at least they read you back. I have myself had and documented here that experience, most notable when reading the books of Dick or Vonnegut. When I say this, I mean "read" in the sense of observe in detail and provide results of that observation, as if by a medical device. The experience of being thus read by a book or an author is generally unnerving, and in the best cases is revelatory. The realization that someone with whom you have never had contact, and is likely long dead, sees you and displays your own characteristics publicly is the proverbial lightning in a bottle that is one of the most magical things about literature.
Hughes does that in this volume. He reads me in the sense of seeing right through me and recording what he sees. But he also reads me--and presumably any other eponymous white folk--in another sense, that of NYC ball culture. To read someone in this sense is not to objectively notice details about them, but to take those details to their most exaggerated and unflattering ends. Hughes here reads me "for filth," as the saying goes. He highlights and exposes the reality of my interactions with any melanated person, and more to the point, their interactions with me. I am comfortable saying that I am anti-racist, both in belief and in action, though no more free from bias and generalization than any other human. The startling and eminently supportable thesis of this book, however, is that the overriding variable in my interactions with others is out of my control: my whiteness. Even more terrifying, the thoroughly plausible examples given support the idea that this same whiteness is universally negative in its effect. My humanity, ethics, morals, etc. may counterbalance that effect to some extent, but they cannot erase it.
What does one do with this information? It makes the task of being a "good white person" somewhat irrelevant, doesn't it? At the very least it humbles one, and gives the lie to anything resembling self-congratulation. Furthermore, doesn't the same thing apply to other ways in which I am rewarded by the kyriarchy--maleness, cisness, etc.? It is manifestly untenable to draw the conclusion that I should distance myself from marginalized groups for their own welfare. Nonetheless, it gives rise to caution, and an honest look at my own motives, actions, and ultimately the effect of my existence.