Casey Gerald might become the next literary big deal if he can learn to write a sentence with less than three dependent clauses. He has an original voice and important things to say, but he's also coy, evasive, and turgid. Consequently, this book is like trying to drink from a fire hydrant—a blast to the face of equal parts brilliance and self-indulgence.
So how do I rate it?
On the one hand: Gerald is witty and clever, but not for the mere sake of being witty and clever. There’s a moral rage simmering underneath his barbed poetry. And his story—maybe he’d roll his eyes at this, but fuck it—his story is incredible, sad and moving and inspirational all in one go. Grew up poor, son of a star athlete who became a drug addict, abandoned by his mom, realized he was gay, went on to Yale, led the Yale football team to its first winning season in a generation, worked at Lehman Brothers in the months leading up to the housing crisis in 2008, worked in Washington D.C. the first year of the Obama administration, rubbed elbows with the rich and powerful, pondered at length the plight of America’s poor black communities in relation to the white status quo, as well as the intra-black class divisions, which at points seemed more contentious than the white/black race divisions.
On the other: the editor in me wanted to take a hatchet to the manuscript. He spent a lot of time describing things that weren’t interesting, but would breeze over matters of supreme importance. We get an entire chapter describing D’Angelo’s abs in the music video for “Untitled (How Does It Feel?)” But when his mom has a stroke and crashes the car as she’s driving him to school, it gets a paragraph or two, written in this oddly detached, associative manner, like it was a fantasy sequence, so you’re not really sure what happened and are left with a million questions he never answers. Same with the scene where some men break into his apartment and hold him hostage.
One thing that irritates me is when a writer, rather than writing, performs a live-stream of the writing process: “I should tell you—or possibly I shouldn’t tell you—because after all how can I know for certain that you need this knowledge, and what does it mean to know something anyway, and is anything really a should, when I consider everything you need to know, maybe you need it and maybe you don’t, but maybe I’m going to tell you anyway for my own personal reasons, which you don’t need to know about, but you need to know the thing that I’m going to tell you.” This excessive handwringing over what to write should, in my opinion, be conducted in the privacy of the author’s head before committing anything to the page. In my opinion.
I appreciate the fidelity to accuracy, and his acknowledgement of the fallibility of memory. He continually points out when he can’t remember something clearly, when his memory conflicts with someone else’s, and when things aren’t clear. Which sometimes worked to his advantage and sometimes not. When he described the disappearance of his mother, it works to his advantage. You get a sense of how foggy that period of his life was. But sometimes he performs the same taxonomy on trivial details. Like he talks about the bow tie he wore on prom night his senior year of high school, which he either rented or purchased, he can’t remember which, and I’m reading this thinking, why do I care whether your prom bow tie was rented or purchased? What does that have to do with anything?
The memoir really gets interesting once he arrives at Yale and he describes his clash with the world of privilege. He quickly morphs in a leader, organizing the freshman football players into the first competitive team that Yale had in years, and founds the Yale Black Men’s Union. While you were playing MarioKart in college, this kid was organizing, helping people, on a mission to improve himself and those around him. "We measure success by the lives that we change." And: "The best revenge is excellence."
When his sister is interviewed by his hometown newspaper, she says “I’m just grateful he hasn’t let the circumstances define who he is. He’s risen to the challenge. He’s his own man.”
He responds:
Now what shall we call a boy whose college application is a thousand-word pastiche of trauma pornography? Whose letters of recommendation echo all his stations of the cross? Who looks down into the camera with the pitiful eyes for a portrait that will be the banner of an article about his father and his mother and his poverty and the troubles of his world? A boy so far from growing into a man that even the things he believes most deeply he believes only in response to someone else? I say we ought to call him a boy defined by his circumstances.
The trouble isn’t that we are defined by our circumstances. It’s that we are so defined by running from them that we don’t understand what they mean, what they did and are still doing to shape the way we see and move through the world. And we call the running rising to the challenge. Not so. Not so.
I suppose this would be the thesis statement of the memoir, which I love:
The American Dream is real. Not that foolishness you hear from politicians—If you work hard and play by the rules you can do anything, be anybody, in this country. I’m talking about the real American Dream, the way the country actually works: If you know the right people, they can help you do anything, be anybody, rules and hard work be damned—as long as they like you. They do have to like you, and that takes a good deal of work.
This dream, of course, cannot be extended to three hundred million citizens and, therefore, cannot be confessed to any. So despite the fact that America is designed from rooter to tooter for most of its citizens—especially those in places like Oak Cliff—to have nothing and achieve nothing, the political version of the American Dream is essential, kids like me are essential: something and/or someone has to keep the steam down.
Here's a good example of the wit.
On the election of Obama:
The challenge of black politics, Brandon Terry once told me, is to get mediocre black people to be treated like mediocre black people. That’s one reason Obama is important—we can now see the difference between a first rate and second-rate dude. Seeing as though I have met many bushels of mediocre nonblack people who are treated like Albert Einstein, I have to say that this is universal challenge.