Losing Absalom

by Alexs D. Pate

Losing Absalom is the gripping story of one man, one family and one community. Their tale of contemporary tragedy and uncertain triumph is, however, as relevant as tomorrow's headlines.

Genres: African American, Fiction, The United States Of America

220 pages, Hardcover

First published April 1, 1994

About the author

Alexs pate is an Assistant Professor in African American and African Studies at the University of Minnesota, where he teaches courses in writing and black literature, including a course on “The Poetry of Rap.” He also teaches fiction writing at the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast M.F.A. program in Portland, Maine.

Reviews

[Lori · Rating 4 out of 5]

A tragic look at the noble futility of individual struggle and failure of respectability politics in the face of systematic and institutionalized racism. Also recommend the excellent audiobook edition of West of Rehoboth as a companion Pate read.

[Cherie · Rating 4 out of 5]

A former teacher of mine; fantastic story that takes control of you.

[Cody · Rating 1 out of 5]

(I have so many goddamn novels backing up that need ‘reviews’ it becomes obstacular to forward motion, aka reading more fucking books. Thusly—)

Look: it just ain’t great. Seriously. It isn’t objectively bad, and the parts that work, the interior monologue of a man in the act of dying in real time, earned my suspension of disbelief. And I recognize that what doesn’t work for me may be wholly fixed to my age and cohort, but all the early 90s ‘ghetto’ shit sinks whatever goodwill I shored up during those chapters. It doesn’t have a Planck’s dick of lived experience engendering authenticity. I, having grown up street-adjacent, knew every stripe o’Gangs of South LA (drugs are colorblind), and a lot of these doods were some seriously dumb motherfuckers. Not all, mind you, but the batting average was, say, closer to the Angels than Dodgers (red team v blue team located miles away right off the same freeway; on-brand marketing, MLB). No matter age or gang or creed or color or [write-in], none—fucking ZERO—were as flimsily one-dimensional as the offensive caricatures of this fucking guy’s febrile imagination. [Ed. The very long, aimless, reaching obloquy of Pate shoehorned into Mr. Gorman’s, ahem, youth, cosmological formation, and loads more bullshit have, upon reflection, been removed for your benefit.]

My poor beleaguered point (you gotta excuse the Augmentin fog) is that fucking Pate affords not even this, literally, elementary level dimensionality to the “bangers” in his fucking book. Losing Absalom reads like an educated guy (Pate) saw Boyz n the Hood; said to himself, ‘Tremendous. I know understand the complex sociocultural coral reef system of internecine gang life en toto;’ and then went about applying found dialogue edited out of the first draft of The Warriors script (known as “The Cyrus on the Mount” to us industry elites). He then assiduously assigned them wholesale to his escalatingly buffoonish cast of gang members, the same which rightfully have no place in the book other than as shortcuts/means to an end/force multiplier/etc. Here: picture a world of guys named Pookie mimicking Bushwick Bill circa 92. Throw in drugs and, like me, wonder what the FUCK this has to do with the losing of Absalom, aka the man actively dying whose gravity is great enough to do away with this nonsense. These cardboard cowboys of Philly, not a city one wants to fuck with, are the literary equivalent of Krush Groove in terms of the successful transposing of real life into art. This book does for urban literature what Rad did for BMX riding, The North Shore for surfing, and Gleaming the Cube for skating. If any of that that is a reference you get, then you get me.

Mah, fuck it. Fuck this guy. Really: don’t bury your lede in tragedy if your subtext is a goddamn ‘message’ book a la PSA mode. “Just Say No” had more dimensionality than this lame relic. Fuck—now I’m mad at myself for reading the fucking thing. What’s more, I resent my obligation to writing this waste of perfectly good fake time/space lalala.

I made no point, accomplished nothing, and yield the floor. If you need me, you know where to find me: out in the reality of the cold but authentic corridors of concrete; on the same mean street where a man must parse between the ratatat of Krylon aerosol cans and the timbral tattoo of an Uzi stuttering out death from the window of a goddamn red Jetta; humbly warming my hands and flapping my Thunderbird by the honest illumination cast from yonder trash can’s light with Polygon Window breakbeats; chemically and pathologically dedicated to proving that, Goddam yes, rhyme pays. Come find me if you need me, kicking it on Beat Street.

[Alex Liuzzi · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.8 - (did not finish) Nothing inherently wrong with the book, and maybe it was more consequential 45 years ago, looking at a Black family and the dynamics of a blur collar middle class life in Philadelphia. But it felt formulaic, flat characters meant to represent a single experience to offer a collective breadth of Black experience. None of the relationships felt deep and the interspersed narrative elements of the sick man were awkward.

[Cheryl · Rating 5 out of 5]

This novel speaks volumes about parents’ dreams for their children, generational dreams and why Black Lives Matter. Racism is an evil blight that will continue to destroy individuals, though they “live by the rules” and “buy the hype of individual success” because they are black.

[Eli · Rating 3 out of 5]

Probably shouldn't have finished this right before bed. The sharp left turn of the ending kept me up for several hours. Still trying to sort out how I feel about it.

[Neil · Rating 5 out of 5]

Really appreciated this read. Powerful, peopled with vital personalities, and a grand story to tell.
For me, simply a superb novel.