Blacks & Jews Entangled

Oreo

by Fran Ross, with a foreword by Danzy Senna and an afterword by Harryette Mullen
New Directions, 230 pp., $14.95 (paper)
Fran Ross, from the frontispiece to her novel Oreo
New Directions
Fran Ross, from the frontispiece to her novel Oreo

Google wasn’t around when Oreo was first published in 1974. You are hit with Greek mythology and Yiddish right away and just the look of the pages of Fran Ross’s novel about an Afro-Jewish girl’s quest to find her white father can discourage or intimidate. Oreo, by an African-American writer who died in 1985, promises a degree of difficulty; the chapter titles, paragraph titles (“Helen and Oreo shmooz”), different font sizes, a graph showing shades of blackness, letters, an elaborate five-page menu of a daughter’s homecoming meal, footnotes, and mathematical equations say this is no naturalistic tale of two ghettoes. The protagonist is called “Oreo” not because of the cookie—i.e., because she is mixed-race or reluctantly black, as in black on the outside but white on the inside. Her black grandmother had been trying to give Oreo the nickname “Oriole,” but couldn’t make herself understood to the family.

In addition to Greek myth and Yiddish, Ross makes use of black slang, popular culture of the time, puns, raunch, her own made-up words—but this is not vernacular, not jive. Ross’s voice is literary, and thrilled with itself, joking about Villon or Bellow, totally into what it takes to get up to outrageous parody. Nothing about the narrative is restful; you have to stay on the alert. Oreo is quick, obscure, sly, and every line is working hard, doing its bit. Ross makes Oreo relentless in her shtick. “Oreo was soon engrossed in ‘Burp: The Course of Smiling Among Groups of Israeli Infants in the First Eighteen Months of Life,’ the cover story in Pitfalls of Gynecology.”

In fractured, short chapters, Oreo decides arbitrarily that she has fulfilled a given task and therefore deserves another cryptic clue from her father. Ross gives us not a send-up of Theseus’s journey of labors, but her appropriation of his battles as her structure, her frame for her provocative urban picaresque.

This is going to be fun. I am having a whale of a time, the omniscient voice seems to say on every page, and you should, too, and so Oreo isn’t a novel that makes assumptions about a reader’s type of education, but one that makes it clear pretty soon that no reader is expected to get it all, or even can. As a puzzle, Oreo is rigged from the start. All is playfulness, but a serious act of insinuation or trespass is going on—a woman, either the author or the protagonist, is carrying on, giving attitude like a man and getting away with it in a literary world made by Plutarch, Cervantes, Sterne, Joyce, Vonnegut, Pynchon.

A word about weather

There is no weather per se in this book. Passing reference is made to weather in a few instances. Assume whatever season…



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