Joyce Carol Oates, Black Girl/White Girl

I purchased Black Girl/White Girl warily, fearing it might be a politically correct dramatization of liberal angst.

It wasn’t. Oh, both girls had been shaped by American attitudes about race (who growing up in his country hasn’t been). And Genna Meade was indeed the daughter of a fighting liberal, one who put his own freedom on the line in opposing the Vietnam war, and still used his position and skill as a trial lawyer to defend other liberals in trouble with the law. By parental training and ancestry—her ancestral Quaker forebears were anti-slavery crusaders—Genna was proBlack, thrilled to find herself roommate at a small liberal Schuyler College with black Minette Swift. But Minette, the daughter of a minister, who organized her life as a lover and follower of Christ, wasn’t interested in political activism and had no desire to be integrated with whites.

In “Conversations with Joyce Carol Oates” from the P.S. section of the Harper Perennial edition of the novel, JCO rejects the notion Black Girl/White Girl is focused on politics or the Viet Nam war, characterizing it as “primarily a story of a powerful, life-altering if unrequited feeling on the part of one girl for another.”

A powerful psychological novel “shown” not “told” with no authorial explanations is my take. While Ginna, the narrator, is given more page space with her thoughts and feelings, Minette is revealed only through her behavior and dialogue. And both are intriguing, well characterized, and thoroughly believable.

Scenarios about Minette’s motivation makes an on-going personal sidebar for readers. The plot is highly original; the reader won’t guess the conclusion of either storyline until a deliberate hint of one ending shortly before the novel comes to its close.

Just then, two girls from Haven House with whom I was friendly (oh, I was friendly with anyone an everyone who encouraged me with a smile!) came to sit at our table. These were white girls who, like me, were somewhat in awe of Minette Swift, whose efforts to befriend her had been met with a coolness that was sometimes polite and sometimes not so polite. This morning Minette barely acknowledged them and took no part in our conversation about Hurricane Audrey. I told them about the cracked window, where a broken tree limb had been blown. Minette hadn’t appeared to be listening but a moment later she shut her book, pushed back her chair and carried away her tray without a word. Her face was shut like a fist, she seemed furious. Left behind the three of us looked after her with bewilderment.

Three white girls. Looking after a black girl, bewildered.

“Is something wrong with Minette this morning?”

“’This morning’! Any morning.”

Quickly I said, “The storm kept her awake. She’s afraid of hurricanes. Her family is from South Carolina…”

Girls in Haven Hall sometimes asked me about my roommate: what was she like when you got to know her? I was evasive in answering. I did not want to confess that I had not yet gotten to know my roommate and felt at times that, as the weeks passed, I was coming to know her less and less.

In the freshman class at Schuyler, Minette Swift was emerging as something of an enigma.: a black girl who didn’t act “black.” A girl with a strong personality who was generally admired and respected but not, so far, much liked.

A page turner, definitely, but definitely not a feel-good novel. My guess is that JCO neither intended this novel to “feel good” nor wants to write such fiction; she seems to view contemporary American life as anything but fun and wants her fiction to reflect what she sees. Black Girl/White Girl will leave its readers thinking about families, about American culture, and speculating about where their shaping influence leaves off and the individual’s biological makeup begins.

From the plot the reader is free to conclude, as I did, that Manette’s insecurity and antisocial behavior came by no means entirely from U.S. victimization of blacks, but in part from her own quick-to-take affront nature. As though to tip readers toward this conclusion Oates has enrolled at the school a number of young women who were both outgoing and successful.

Shelly Lowenkopf regards the compliment s/he writes well as an insult, feeling, I believe, that voice, characterization, storyline are much more worthy of discussion, whereas writing well as compliment is in the nature of a s/he-looks-good-in-hats description. Well, Joyce Carol Oates has a fine commanding voice, a major talent for characterization and storyline, but she does write well. Indeed her prose is this novel’s one feels-good element, making me squirm with pleasure as I read.