I don't know whether I was the ideal reader of this book, but it was what I needed to read right now (in the aftermath of the 2024 election).
The book approaches Black history, not in a dry, academic way, but in colorful, bite-sized, and compelling ways. This is no textbook, nor is it a flowing narrative. It feels a bit like a cheat sheet, or a first-step before then going to Wikipedia and then reading the original source material. Perhaps because I've been studying more Black history, or perhaps because I've been paying attention all along, there were relatively few names that were completely unfamiliar to me. I knew the heroes, the performers, and the victims. But there were names (and characterizations) I did not know.
I was fascinated to learn about Henry "Box" Brown, who shipped himself to freedom with the assistance of a Black man and a white man (the latter going to prison), who went on to repeat the process and save others from slavery. I knew almost every woman mentioned in the book, but not Gladys Bentley, a lesbian performer in the Harlem Renaissance. I was delighted that Esther Jones got credit for Betty Boop, and I was saddened that the book was published a year too early to truly Flava Flav the credit for how he became beloved in light of his role in the 2024 Olympics. And I felt the secondhand urge to wail for Margaret Garner, who killed her own children in the 1850s to keep the slave hunters from taking her children back into slavery.
But I was also flummoxed by some of the inclusions, such as Louise Little, Malcolm X's mother, who spent much of her life in a mental hospital. Her inclusion is largely, one assumes from what little (no pun intended) is written, because of how her life impacted and formed Malcolm X, but to reduce her to scant details and then see her value only in light of her male child's life feels problematic.
Similarly, though without diminishing by misogyny, there's an entire entry about the father of Medgar Evers. Of course, I knew about Medgar Evers, but his father, Jim (while having fictional namesakes unrelated to him making him hard to Google) has no entries in Wikipedia, and it was hard to find anything beyond the book's reference of him Evers' father. His entire page tells of one "badass" moment in the 1930s, which while obviously memorable to the younger Evers, lasted mere minutes doesn't paint a very full picture of a life.
The authors divide historical Black (and some white) figures into categories. There are true heroes: the Runaway, the Badass, the Wanderer, the Black intellectual and activist, the Spiritualist; there are anti-heroes and villains, and even categories that combined the two, like The Great Pretender, which includes OJ Simpson, Bill Cosby, and Clarence Thomas...but then Louis Armstrong. (The idea of playing at "espionage" doesn't fit these men equally; three were bad men who faked being good; Armstrong was misunderstood, as acknowledged by the authors, but his power was not evil, nor was it cruel.)
There were a scant number of inclusions and approaches I find confusing. For example, most stories are treated with respect and accuracy, but a listing for Denmark Vesey could (like most of the entries) have been a book unto itself, but a tongue-in-cheese joke about Vesey playing and winning the Powerball seems to have been included solely so that the author(s) could make a reference to running numbers. It feels insulting to the memory and work of Vesey. Then again, the whole notion of the book is that being "crazy as hell" is a means to survival, so I can't fault-find but merely note that it took me out of the book.
Next, the introduction to the book is by Reginald Dwayne Betts, a poet and attorney who founded Freedom Reads, a program to show incarcerated persons other possibilities through the power of literature. From his Wikipedia page, I realize that Betts is fascinating, but his biography is double the length of the ones for people like John Coltrane, Robert Johnson, Madame C.J. Walker, and every other person among the 99 other biographies listed. Indeed, his is the only biography that spans more than one page (as most are merely half a page) and it feels as though the entire section is written in oblique code, tongue-in-cheek, regarding his adventures and adversities. Betts is obviously a remarkable man, but the authors seem to be playing with the readers in presenting this biography.
Betts' biography raises my sole other comment on an otherwise intriguing book. The authors, V. Efua Prince and Hoke S. Glover III are professional writers and academicians. They obviously have keen grasps on the felicity of expression in formal English. And, of course, given the content, I understood the periodic shift from formal English to African-American Vernacular English (AAVE) to fit the conceit of the book as things being "crazy as hell." Most of the time, it feels like it makes sense, and I rolled with it without a second thought.
But there are moments where the code-switching within a paragraph, even within a sentence feels off, as if it's being done in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink way that would be insulting if done by others. Across two pages in the chapter on "White People," two different sentences appear:
"Instead, much like the incidents of police brutality, the perception is heightened by the ubiquity of cameras." (Karens)
"But Becky don't have to buy hers. Plus Becky don't feel disrespected regardless of what a man says or does to her." (Becky)
Both formal and AAVE are appropriate in a book like this, but somehow the use of AAVE sometimes feels disingenuous in a way that seems less like code switching and more like making a point...but I'm not sure what that point is. Which brings us back to the overlong biography of Betts.
Part of the page+ biography says,
"He don't belong in none of them, though; he's adored by every Aunty that he's ever met, and he confesses to some Black existential need to become crazy as hell to survive the way of the memory of a slave ship in the Atlantic lingers...A prolific scholar whose felonious childhood would provide a narrative that would Segway into a lifetime of philanthropy, undaunted leadership, and literary excellence."
One would normally assume the author meant "segue" and not "Segway" (the mode of transportation) but the entire biography of Betts feels out of place in a book about Black history, as though the authors were allowing the introduction writer (and publisher?) to be self-aggrandizing for comic (and non-comic) effect, I'm left (with both the content and the style) not feeling like I understood 100% of what I was reading. So, I'm just shrugging and figuring that such bits weren't written for me, and that's OK. I fully acknowledge that such a history need not be spoon fed to me, and that my role is not to be centered but that these histories should be centered. I just wish I knew what to do with what I don't understand about Betts.
Whether you know a lot or a little or almost nothing about Black history in America, this book is worth your attention. You may not agree with the category choices (or inclusions therein), but you will be better informed and occasionally entertained, and if you don't engage disingenuously, you'll find there's a lot more you want to learn.
And if you figure out whether the Segway bit was a typo or an intentional pun, please let me know!
Finally, this book does not take two weeks to read. I had a small medical crisis and couldn't read for about a week. This is a short, swift read, notwithstanding the time you'll likely take to Google various personages