The act of "passing", of colorist issues in the Black community, of being asked "what are you?", of the paper bag test, blue veins, of "light, bright and damn near white", of "good hair", of that "one drop rule"...all these divisive, archaic socialized barricades aren't lost on me, so going into this book wasn't a 'shock' or a revelation.
Disclaimer time: I'm a "light bright" Black woman. I was raised in a Black family of variant brown, bronze, and cream shades, with some immediate family members who could 'pass' due to their light complexions. I've heard stories of certain, 'fairer' family members (my two grandmothers for starts) who've sat in the white sections of then-segregated movie theaters in East Texas without detection, and know of two distant relatives on both sides who've 'passed over' into becoming "white". One was, I believe, murdered once his true identity was found out.
With all that being said, I proceeded to read The Vanishing Half with a bit of cautious optimism, or really optimistic apprehension. Character studies are my jam, as are mother and daughter debacles, add a little controversial race issues, and you have my full attention. Plus, the act of 'passing' quite fascinates? disturbs? me. How elusive, complex, almost performative it is to 'become' another race, or as the the wiki definition goes: "a person of color or of multiracial ancestry who assimilated into the white majority to escape the legal and social conventions of racial segregation and discrimination".
'Passing' carries a different weight than it did back when Jim Crow laws ran rampant. It isn't seen as much of a risk or a survival technique to navigate segregated territories, but it does cause a pause, the usual Internet facepalm, and its own fresh set of controversies. Look no further when we see former brown-skinned people taking dips in the bleach (see: baseball all-star Sammy Sosa) or the cringing, appropriating opposite (see: "Blackfishing" and the "transracial" bigoted theatrics of Rachel Dolezal and Jessica Krueg). Self-hatred, racist ignorance, or "living their truth"? Never is there any clarity when it comes to self-identifying, never any clarity when it comes to defining the reasons why.
[Though I high-key find the insidious "blackfishing" and whatever lie Dolezal and Krueg kept telling themselves truly racist and infuriating. This esp. when these individuals are "rewarded" for their acts whether its a large (often lucrative) following on social media or positions in academics --- positions that could've gone to real Black people with similar or even better qualifications, and aren't liars...]
With America having to reckon with its original sin through the rise of a white supremacist wannabe dictatorial president, The Vanishing Half comes out at time where the definition of identity, of race resonates and confounds more than ever in a society that continues to relish in racism like its 1890, Fascism like it's 1938. For as much as it feels we've made steps forward, we're often still rooted into the ugliest soils of our past. So Bennett exploring identity through that past, while pertinent to now, isn't new as her book joins in similar company with the likes of Charles W. Chestnutt's The House Behind The Cedars, Fannie Hurst's Imitation of Life, Phillip Roth's The Human Stain, Jesse Redmon Fauset's Plum Bun, Danzy Senna's Caucasia, and --- the definitive tome of being a racial chameleon --- Nella Larsen's Passing.
For that, I was curious on how Bennett would take such weighty topic on. If she could elevate a socialized phenomenon that still retains a lot of mystery and controversy past its stigmas and generalizations, and do so for a 21st Century audience. Certain people made the choice to change their entire race, made the choice to deny every bit of themselves to become not "the other" and form an identity with hopes to shield themselves from rampant racism and conform to a so-called "status quo" --- that's pretty major. So, consider my expectations great, and made greater with this book being at the top of the bestsellers list and the touts of it "echoing" Morrison's best works.
...and um, yeah, maybe I should've lowered expectations as this book was a big 'nah', with a side order of 'meh'.
Some (rambling) observations:
[1]
Excuse me as I munch on some bitch crackers: For all the criticisms chicklit got in the '90s and the 2000s, never did those pastel confections irk me as much as this trend of "Beach Read Social Justice". This trend of rabid publicity or celebrity imprint pushed ~super important fiction reads~ that have Instagram filters and cover BIG serious topics, but do so at surface level with a lightweight ease (see: American Dirt, Where The Crawdad's Sing, and Such a Fun Age). Not all are wastes of trees (I've read/enjoyed a few), and some are harmless in their intent to spark discussion and publish/promote authors of color, but some of the titles that get feverishly pushed leave me a bit cold.
Fiction that treks this vein tend to baby-step into making a reader feel as if they did their "good deed of the day" reading purple-prosed CliffNotes about racism, immigration, gender, and class issues --- this all without getting their hands too dirty in the nuances of why and how. The Vanishing Act (unfortunately) has that feel in spite of its constant touts of being compelling and explorative of race issues. It's why I'm unnerved by the glowing reviews and comparisons to Morrison's canon for this book. Bennett isn't saying anything profound, unique or impressive in terms of really taking white supremacy to task within this story. It's too casual, void of depth or true sensitivity, this all so your hands won't get too battered on systematic racism's thorniest stems.
[2]
Trope, trope, everywhere a trope trope... Forgivable if there is a clever twist or are somewhat entertaining, but as this novel is peppered with people, most of the characters here don't feel like people, more so act as outlined stock figures waiting to be filled in with human personality. All tend to tout their trope (sage drag queen, rich, rebellious bratty white girl, etc.) and struggle as their only form of personality or function as plot devices to help another character 'discover' or reevaluate themselves. None of this felt natural, just rehearsed.
Desiree and Stella --- the supposed stars of the show --- specifically, don't haven't a personality beyond their skin color or strife. We're told of their opposite personalities (Desiree is extroverted and a dreamer; Stella introverted and sensible) and how colorstruck they are where Desiree marries the darkest man she can find and Stella decides to pass for White, but that's all there is to them.
[3]
Is Stella, the twin who passes, the villain? That's the tonal cue I'm getting. Everyone else is painted quite saintly (more on that...) except Stella and her daughter Kennedy. Kennedy is just her assigned trope (rich, rebellious bratty white girl), but Stella is kind of painted as a silly cowardly fraudster...a shallow depiction that teeters on "tragic Mulatto" territory at best, villianizing at worst. Add in how absurdly colorstruck the twins' hometown is (ex: won't even speak to anyone with browner skin for fear of taint...) and I'm cringing.
[Not saying colorism within in the Black community doesn't exist (it does), not saying light-skinned Black people don't find themselves superior to those darker than them (some do), just the bitterly broad generalizations made to where the light-skinned Blacks are portrayed more villainous and extremist than racists whites is a problem in itself. Sorry, my bright ass takes umbrage with how Bennett decided play into the "light skinned Black girl = beautiful self-absorbed bitch" stereotype. It's tired.]
[4]
As involving and nicely lyrical as the writing is, it lacked grounding and good pacing. I felt once I got involved in one section, I would be jarred out of it for another a decade later. I love sprawling epics, with flashbacks and generational stories woven in, but the zig-zags through time, while not resolving or entertaining key plot points tested my patience at times and came off erratic.
[5]
The best, most compelling part in the book to me was Stella's tranquility being shattered when she has to confront her Blackness after a Black actor and his family move into her exclusive all-white Brentwood neighborhood. Stella is so involved in her role of whiteness at this point, so fearful of being detected and reminded of her origins, that during a meeting with fellow neighbors about these 'flies coming into the lilly-white milk' of their environment, she is first to demand their removal at a neighborhood meeting. By befriending the wife, Loretta (who knows right off the bat about Stella's true identity), Stella finds some friendship and belonging, but soon her racial biases come to the surface, screwing up everything.
Further points of interest about Stella were her impostor syndrome, her being sequestered into the bored white housewife role, and how for all her efforts to give Kennedy everything she never could have if she'd stayed being Black, her daughter turns out to be woefully mediocre and directionless (but with all the privilege to be...so there's that). Still, these instances aren't explored in depth as they could be, and it all rings hollow.
[6]
Reese's story...an unnecessary detour that detracts from Stella and Desiree's story. I get that Bennett wanted to cover identity, and the many mutations it can take over the course of someone's life, and do so through race and gender, but juxtaposing racial passing with "passing as a man" just doesn't work for me, especially since Bennett has crafted Reese to be confident about his identity, unlike Stella. As if to say its easier to change genders than races...which is an odd thing to even compare. All this does is detracts from the twins' story. Worse, Reese comes off as 'too perfect' to be believed, all his personality coming across as eye-rolling wish fulfillment of the perfect boyfriend. Add in the stereotypical crew of drag queens that Jude and Reese befriend, and it just feels like a checked box to cover all the inclusive bases in a gratuitous, not sincere way.
Jude is just...strange as along with Reese, she too has her goody-two shoes on snug. She's a noble Mary Sue chess piece that is constantly referred to her blue-black dark skin as if it's a character trait. She is moved about the board to push other characters plotlines and appear in either in unbelievable coincidental situations with Stella or to stalk Kennedy in order to tell the truth about her mother. That's her character function, to make everybody feel guilty. No chink in her crown, all to not taint Saint Jude (and I just bet her namesake was deliberate...).
[7]
All while reading I felt something was off with this story, that something was missing. It nagged at me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It took going over my notes and writing out my thoughts for it to hit me: This book is allergic to conflict. Oh, it'll get close, but this novel didn't really take any risks.
Missing conflict #1: It's the 1970s and Reese's transitioning is not even met with any form of qualm or query from Jude, in fact, it's just not even dealt with at all, by anyone. Nothing irritates and takes me out of a story more when an author puts on rose colored glasses and plays revisionist history in historical contexts, making characters and their surroundings have 21st Century mindsets and not of their time. Great if Jude is super secure in her sexuality, and progressive for her time era, but we aren't given much indication of that. We don't see any conflicts between them on any matter, and that is just unrealistic. No couple is perfect, and transpeople were and continue to be treated with derision and abuse even within the gay community: let's be real. Add in the erasure of the types of health complications associated with Reese's steroid use and I couldn't take their storylines seriously at all. The only conflict about their relationship deals with the financial, and even that is not presented in a compelling way.
Missing conflict #2: Emotional toil aside, Stella's passing comes without much fallout or repercussion. No exposure that really turns the table. This story was begging for the non-existent Desiree to come back into the picture (after vanishing for half of the book...) and expose all. Begging for Stella's husband to find out who his wife really was and confront his own racism and privilege (or not). I know, I know I said: "never is there any clarity when it comes to identity", but for how this book just kept meandering it'd been nice if Stella really had to look inward at her self-hatred and confront the lies she lived. It was too easy for her.
[8]
If I haven't dragged this enough...the ending is a flat soda mess. Desiree and Stella's reunion is just rushed and uneventful, unsatisfactory for the journey we go through, for the absences of them for most of this book. Jude and Kennedy are...*sigh*. I'm left with questions, frustrations, eye rolls: What was all this decades-long sadness, this weight of secrets for? Why are we supposed to care? It's frustrating that we don't go beyond what's stated in the synopsis. We get skeletal sketches of lives, without the flesh, without hitting some sturdy bones, and having them break on the course to mend. We don't get any twists, any surprises, any challenges. Not that I wanted neat, tied bows to every story line --- ambiguity has its moments --- but, damn, this novel was so ripe with potential to explore people who struggle with how they're born and why they want to change that just doesn't...land. It's too glib, too frothy to where I don't feel a thing for anybody at the end.
[9]
Eh...I should've just re-read Caucasia, Plum Bun, and Nella Larsen's writings. Now those books are sincere, challenge ideals, and are well worth the time --- and deserve their own limited television series...
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