The football part of this book was tolerable, even good, and it made me appreciate the offensive line and football strategy from a different perspective. However, that’s wrapped up in an ambiguous story that seems to imply that rich white people adopting a kid from the inner city and guiding him into their alma mater is funny and charming.
Only someone who went to an exclusive boarding school in the South, as Lewis did, could tell Oher’s story this way, or at all. Worse, Lewis dwells on mundane tedium, like the mom, Leigh Anne, driving 90 mph for no good reason to get Michael a driver’s license, or Michael’s lack of understanding about what a foyer is.
This became boring after a while; no one’s teenage years are that interesting (trust me on this, teenagers). Many of these details are pointless, really, to the overall narrative, which confusingly does not follow a straightforward timeline and made it hard to follow. There are also long chapters on how the role of defensive linemen was changing pro football, but these could have been shorter and the guts more directly related to Oher himself.
Lewis goes to great lengths to detail Michael’s challenges in school, while playing up Oher’s physical attributes, in ways that took me back to the 1860s. Lewis tries to relate these things objectively, but as a result his real stance isn’t always clear. It’s difficult to tell if Lewis is seeing Oher through the eyes of his white subjects, or if Lewis himself is seeing Oher this way; quite possibly, it’s both. Indeed, Lewis relishes describing these details, and he dances with racist tropes to such a degree that I felt uncomfortable reading it, like I was watching a KKK cotillion.
Lewis concludes by saying that Oher would never have reached his full potential had not the Tuohys taken him in; Lewis is so unconscious of the tropes that he doesn’t realize how he reduces Oher to powerlessness in framing a person’s entire life this way. And, there’s the further assumption behind this, too, that Oher’s full potential depended on not only the Tuohys but football and access to private school, because his life in west Memphis was a certain dead end without sports, even (or maybe especially) at a public school.
Apparently, as is so often the case when it’s framed this way, it’s either pro sports or nothing for black inner-city kids; these were Michael’s options, according to Lewis. As Lewis observes of where Oher grew up: “Pity the kid inside Hurt Village who was born to play the piano, or manage people, or trade bonds.” In our social blind side, only the poor black kids with athletic talent get noticed. As examples of this, Lewis describes some of Oher’s peers, who just missed promising NFL careers or wound up dead because they didn’t have the guidance that the Tuohys provided Oher.
What does this leave us to conclude about black kids who were not so lucky as Oher? Lewis, while diving deep into football, doesn’t dive equally as deep into the social implications of this story. You know, maybe he could have gone into, I don’t know, how Southern states cherish the fact that they don’t require a state income tax, and so public schools like those in Memphis are chronically neglected and underfunded. The same is probably true for the state welfare and child service agencies that Lewis disparages. Maybe I am wrong on those facts, but Lewis doesn’t dig in here, and we are just to accept his uncritical view of reality as the common wisdom it is no doubt received as in the South, where Lewis himself grew up.
At the same time that rich Southerners like the Tuohys aren’t paying such taxes, their private schools can afford to have six assistant football coaches on the payroll and splurge on brand new helmets — in two colors, 120 green and 120 gold. The racial and economic inequities in Tennessee are palpable from reading this critically, but Lewis just accepts them as a natural part of life.
Instead, his prose consistently has the tone of, “Thank goodness these white people came along and gave Michael Oher a leg up!” We find later in an afterward that Lewis is old friends with Steve Tuohy, which breaks a journalistic rule and colors Lewis’s objectivity throughout. In other words, I got the sense that Lewis pulled his punches in order to spare his friend.
The class implications throughout the book are also evident, as the higher class Southerners go out of their way to distinguish themselves from the rednecks. Even Lewis himself can’t refrain from using eye dialect for the “coon-ass” coach from Louisiana. Unfortunately, Lewis is no Mark Twain, and he also lives in a different century and should therefore know better. Moreover, Lewis (unlike Twain) did go to private school, so you’d think he’d be more self-aware.
Lewis’s unconscious biases on class and race are made clear when he describes an investigator from the NCAA as “black, intelligent,” and (as if that wasn’t bad enough) twice — twice — mentions that she is private-school educated. How is this latter detail worth mentioning even once, let alone twice? Or the fact that she was childless?
An interesting parallel life, one that actually intersects with this story, involves Collins Tuohy, the daughter who is about Michael’s age and who married Cannon Smith. At the time of the story, they were dating at Ole Miss. Now, interestingly, Cannon apparently went to public school, Olive Branch High School, near Memphis on the Mississippi side. He also (according to his online bio), was one of 10 kids. Cannon also played college ball and tried to go pro.
The key difference, though, is that Cannon was born to the billionaire founder of FedEx. As a consequence, he had options that Michael Oher did not. He didn’t even need — gasp!— private schooling to get ahead in life. However, he did benefit from being white and born to a rich family, two things Michael Oher was not. The next best thing to being adopted by a rich white family like Oher is to actually be born into one like Smith.
In the end, Lewis identifies a little too much with his rich, white, subjects, and he delights in retelling Oher’s story a little too much from their perspective, not Oher’s own. Proof of this comes late in the book, where Lewis acknowledges that Oher called Lewis, not the other way around, regarding an interview. That’s an odd journalistic twist, but one that speaks volumes about Lewis’s mindset in writing and researching this, and it’s evident on every page. Oher is an object, subject to the narratives of others. He doesn’t even have power over his own story.
White people shaped, and in this book are again shaping, the story of Michael Oher’s body. Worse, in Lewis’s case he even made money off of that “freakish” body.