My homie Preston Allen’s new novel,
Every Boy Should Have a Man (Akashic, 2013) is the most interesting
book I’ve read this year. Since it’s still only May, let me rephrase that: it’s
the most interesting book I’ve read in a long, long time. It’s not the sort of
novel I often read; it’s neither realism, nor sci-fi, nor fantasy, nor
speculative fiction, but its own thing, what could perhaps be called an epic
fable or fairy tale. Regardless, what has most impressed me is not its style,
although it is unique, but its heart
—this is a
serious book, a throwback to the polemical novels of Isaac Asimov or Philip K.
Dick, with a little Jonathan Swift thrown in for good measure.
The confusing title refers to the book’s premise: a world
controlled by a race of giants called Oafs, where humans are considered lesser
animals. Some roam in the wild, feral but smart, sort of like industrious
chimps. Some are kept as pets by the oafs, and these come in dumb or fancy
varieties that can talk, sing, or even play instruments. Some are eaten as
meat. These categories are not well-defined; an expensive “talking” or
“musical” man can be a wealthy oaf’s pet one day and dinner the next if
circumstances change. The novel’s main character is a “female man” called Red
(her name changes as her owners change, but it is always some variation of Red
because of her hair and “frecks,” or freckles), a talking, musical man who is
born to a female man owned by a poor boy oaf.
Preston tells the story in an almost fairytale voice,
interspersing the main narrative with tales told by bards as songs and passages
from “Great Scripture.” The oaf world seems pre-industrial, since they live in
villages, and so one has the impression of reading something medieval. A
philologist would have a field day with this novel—in
the oaf world, bears have become beos, horses hoss, cows bovin. Humans are
simply referred to as “man,” whether male or female. In their degraded state,
humanity’s gender has become irrelevant except for breeding. The oafs go to war
and hunt species to decimation. All of these factors contribute to a morally
and ethically complex text that questions the boundaries of humanity, gender,
and sexuality. What makes one species superior to another? What
responsibilities—to each other and to the planet—come with such hierarchies? Is there some greater force that
can survive the mistakes of those in power?
I decided to ask Preston some questions of my own. Though
his last novel,
Jesus Boy (Akashic,
2010) was a huge success
—one of Oprah Winfrey’s top ten of
the year!—it turns out Preston still has the time to remember the little mans
he once knew.
A: At the
college where I teach, we instructors take classes from time to time for such
things as maintenance of rank, promotion, and most importantly to stay current
in our field. As you know, in our
country things change rapidly. One
wouldn’t want the teacher to know less than the student.
In
my conservative field, English, the only rapid change we see is in the area of
technology, and I had taken most of the techy courses that were out there at
the time. So I got to thinking that I
might do something different this go round. There was a course called something
like “biodiversity and sustainability.”
Ah,
I was a schoolboy in liberal, blue-state Massachusetts in the late sixties
during the ecology phase, the country’s original “green” phase. Ah, my eyes were already misting over with
nostalgia. Ah, the good old days in
Boston. Ah, my longhaired, love bead,
tie-dye, perhaps high, hippie teachers.
Ah, their optimism. Studying
nature in a classroom? That would be
nice.
Nice? Nice?
Are you kidding! How, oh how, did
I miss the words “total immersion?” Just
great. Nature would be my classroom.
So
here I was in the Everglades up to my knees in mossy water, on my guard for
alligators, snakes, and other creeping things.
All these dangerous animals.
And
then it hit me. Man is an animal
too. And dangerous.
It
wasn’t an original thought, and to be honest I had had it before. But never with such power and such
light.
In
this ecosystem, the alligator is the top predator, but man is the topmost
predator of all. Man can take the
alligator and turn it into a purse, an amusement in a zoo, an exotic meal. Now what if there were some intelligent
species of creature above man on the food chain?
I
remembered as a child in Boston coming home from the pond with a gift for my
mother that I withdrew from my pocket dead.
Tadpoles. And I wondered what
species of boy could go down to the pond, pick up a handful of humans and at
home withdraw them from his pocket dead.
What
species of boy could bring one of us home on a makeshift leash only to hear his
mother say, “Get that stinky creature out of this house! It’s mangy and full of disease.”
And
what species of boy would pout and say in protest, “But mom, every boy should
have a man?” And that was it.
As
the wildly flying birds sang above my head, I envisioned the novel from
beginning to end, the many issues I could explore, the biblical sound of it,
the title, everything.
I
had to get it down on paper before I ruined it by over thinking. When class was over, I sped home.
Q: The
plight of mans—kept as pets but eaten as meat as well—echoes the ethical
sophistry of our own society, in which we treat pets as family members and yet
eat other animals without a second thought. One of the last facets of the Oafs
before their destruction is that they become almost exclusively carnivores: “ .
. . for oafs in those latter days had become monstrous indeed. They had
resorted to a diet almost exclusively of meat (chicken, goat, hog, hoss, bovin,
beo, dog, cat, rat, and man-meat whenever they could get it).” Do these
allegories reflect your own personal philosophy? Is EBSHAM a vegan manifesto?
A: Vegan
manifesto. Me? I’m not sure.
Maybe my mind wandered in that direction.
Yes,
lately I have been thinking about my diet.
I tend to believe that it is more animalistic to eat meat that . . .
“animalistic” is not the word I want . . . I think that if we devolve to a more
primitive state we might tend to eat more meat.
Look
carefully at the list as I wrote it, the order of the animals. The list begins with animals that usually are
eaten for food, then it goes beyond the usual, taking in dangerous beasts as
well as vermin and those we consider pets.
Finally, it ends out of desperation with cannibalism.
Vegan
manifesto. Me? I’m not sure.
The mans in the novel are herbivores and they do inherit the earth, I
guess. I still eat meat, though not as
much as I used to, and when I do, I think about the animal that gave its life
for my meal. Does that count? At some point I am certain that I will give
up eating meat entirely, though mostly for my health and not so much for any
other reason.
Q: EBSHAM strikes me as a profoundly religious book, rocketing from a
kind of biblical pantheism to a condemnation of the role of religion in
justifying war and violence. This is a book with a mission, and I don’t want to
oversimplify by calling it environmentalist, globalist, or humanist. Could you
comment on what you’re hoping readers will be moved to consider by this book?
A: First of
all, I'm hoping that my readers will enjoy the ride. The sugar in the medicine.
The dancing and the clapping at the
prayer meeting. In fact, I hope the
message doesn't overwhelm.
I
want them to feel emotion as they're reading.
A connection with the characters.
I want them to read it the way children listen to a fairy tale. The awe,
the magnificence, the magic--that's what I want them to be engaged by.
Maybe
they'll stop and think about what it means later on, but when they're reading I
want them to be scared of the wolf, amused by the foolish decisions of the two
little pigs who did not build their houses out of bricks, and nod their heads
knowingly when the house of straw is blown away by a huff and a puff.
We
adults know what it means. Haste makes
waste. Quick work is not the best
work. Hard work pays off in the end. We've heard our parents tell us this
before. Just not in a story.
And
a story, first and foremost, must be a story. So here we have a boy who wants a
pet. When he gets the pet, he wants to show him off. When he shows him off, the
real owner shows up and just like that, the pet is gone.
Like
those kids sitting on mats around their teacher, we nod our heads
knowingly. That's what happens when you
show off.
Of
course, this pet is a man . . . That must mean something. Hmmmmm.
We
are adults. We know what it means. Be kind to your planet, mans. Be kind to your animals, mans. Be kind to each other, mans. Learn from the oafs, mans, or you'll end up
just as extinct as they are despite your sacred texts, ancient wisdom, good
intentions, whatever.
The
earth is forgiving and resilient, but it can only take so much. We've been told
this before. Just not in a story.
Ah heck, we've been told this many,
many times before in a story. It's my
hope that this time we'll listen. Those Boston hippies back in the day made me
quite the optimist.
Q: For
lack of a better term, I’m calling EBSHAM
an “epic fable,” which to me best describes your tone, the straightforward
neo-biblical language and musical passages sung by “the bard” that
mimic oral narratives. Did this approach come to you from the novel’s
inception, or was it a conscious decision you made later? I’m curious about how
difficult it was to sustain it without slipping into the everyday speech of,
say, All or Nothing.
A: Yes, it's
a fable, and hopefully people will take it as an important one.
From
its very inception, as you put it, the novel was that way. I wanted it to sound the way it came to me in
the swamp. It's a very simple message, really.
A very simple story.
I
think the problem these days is that many important messages and concepts are
written in language that is so complex as to be misunderstood or deliberately
misinterpreted.
In
Richard Attenborough's epic film, Gandhi,
there is a scene after the violence of Muslim/Hindu riot, when a guilt-ridden
Hindu comes to the mahatma, falls to his knees, and fervently pleads something
like, "O, Great soul, help me. I'm going to hell. I've killed a child!"
And
Gandhi responds in a gentle voice something like, "There is a way out of
hell. Go into the streets where there
are many children whose parents have been killed in this violence. Find a boy who is the age of the one you
killed. Take him into your home and
raise him as your own."
When
the kneeling Hindu murderer nods his agreement and begins to rise, Gandhi stops
him with a stern admonishment. "But, it must be a Muslim child! And you must raise him as a Muslim!"
There
is power in simplicity. If we lived by those simple words, there would be no
more war. Go back and look at the "Ten Commandments." Simple words.
People understood them. People knew what
they had to do to be good; people knew what they had to do to be bad.
Compare
the Commandments to the many chapters devoted to the hundreds of laws and
corollaries and addenda to the laws of Moses in the books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Their number
and complexity make our tax code look like a nursery rhyme.
Now
compare them to the simple parables of Jesus.
I'm not preaching. I'm just saying.
Like
I said before, I knew immediately how the book would sound. Furthermore, I was
prepared for this sound by my upbringing in the holiness church of my
childhood. I often joke that I'm
bilingual as are most of us who grew up in the black church. I speak English
and King James Bible.
The
real difficulty (wink, wink) was in keeping the everyday speech in All or Nothing and especially Jesus Boy from slipping into the King
James.
Bible
stories, fairy tales, parables, fables, and this novel all contain important
lessons told in simple language. They
follow the KISS principle.
Keep It Simple, Stupid!
Q: You write
about sex, religion, gambling. You write short stories, poetry, novels. You
write realism, erotica, and now—what to call EBSHAM? Speculative fiction? Do you ever worry that readers will be
bewildered by your choices, or, perhaps, that editors and critics will not
follow you on such a winding road?
A: Thus far,
one may argue, that I have been writing so as not to be accused of
self-caricature.
At
the same time I've been kicking myself for my inability or my reluctance to
write sequels.
During
my erotica phase, after I had written my first short piece "Nadine's
Husband" for Brown Sugar (Plume
Penguin), I was called on to write a second and said I could not. I had
exhausted all of the erotic content in my heart. I always write from the heart.
But
my editor waved a good chunk of money at me, and suddenly I felt my erotic
heart pumping in my chest.
When
I finished the story, my editor read it and said, "Where is Nadine? Where is Pam?
These are not the same characters."
Groan.
So
I went back to the computer to accomplish a task that seemed to me boring and
unpleasant, if not downright impossible.
To revisit the scene of the crime after the crime has been solved. Where was the joy in that? Where was the inspiration? It seemed like too much work. It seemed too much like work. But money is money.
Beat on,
my starving artist's heart. O, the
things we do for money.
What
I gave her next was met with the same complaint. "Where is Nadine? Where is Pam?"
This
time I had an answer:
"This
is Nadine's lover's wife. She suspects
that he is cheating with Nadine, and so she sleeps with her best male friend
who has been in love with her since childhood.
The best friend she sleeps with is also the best friend of her husband,
Nadine's lover. In other words, the
lover is sleeping with his best friend's wife.
In other, other words, the
lover, the wife he is sleeping with, and the husband who is sleeping with
Nadine were all best friends as children, get it?"
She
got it even if you don't, and more importantly, my heart was pumping for these
new characters and this fresh scenario.
Nadine
be damned. "Nadine's Husband part
2" would proceed without you.
She
did, however, show up in parts 3 and 4.
With all that money being waved around, one can only delay the
inevitable for so long.
But
it taught me something about myself and about my writing process in
general. For me, writing is effortless
when I write from inspiration. When I
write for work, I write well, but it is, in fact, work. And I don't necessarily find it pleasurable.
Work
writing resides in the head, from which it I can be pulled when needed . . .
Because of practice, because of my academic training perhaps, I am able to do
this efficiently.
Inspired
writing resides in the heart, out of which it copiously flows once the heart is
tapped.
I
think that with this story, I may have found a key that may tap my heart at
will. I'm not promising sequels, or
anything like that, but I'm not ruling them out either.
There
are quite a few more issues that can be explored in that magical realm above
the firmament.
Amen! I must admit, I’m jealous. If there’s
anything one can learn from Preston’s experience (should anyone remember this
blog’s original mission!), it’s the importance of keeping yourself open to new
passions and writing with them whenever possible. Thanks, Preston, for these
thoughtful answers. May the bard continue singing.
A recipient
of a State of Florida Individual Artist Fellowship in Fiction and winner
of the Sonja H. Stone Prize in Literature, Preston L. Allen is the
author of the short story collection Churchboys and Other Sinners
(Carolina Wren Press 2003) and the novels All or Nothing (Akashic 2007)
and Jesus Boy (Akashic 2010), which "O the Oprah Magazine" listed as one
of "Ten More Titles to Read Now," Dennis Lehane called "a tender
masterpiece," and about which the New York Times proclaimed, "no one
does church sexy like Allen."
His
short stories have appeared in numerous literary journals and have been
anthologized in Miami Noir, Las Vegas Noir, Brown Sugar, Wanderlust,
Making the Hook Up, and Here We Are: an Anthology of South Florida
Writers.
His
latest novel, Every Boy Should Have a Man (Akashic 2013), which has
been called by Booklist "Imaginative, versatile, and daring," is a story
about, well, er, um, boys who own mans as pets.
He
holds a BA in English from the University of Florida and an MFA in
creative writing from Florida International University. He teaches
writing at Miami Dade College.
