There There

I heard an interview with Tommy Orange and he was so thoughtful and intelligent... he had a deeply human way of talking about things and making connections that welcomed the listener into the conversation. The minute I got home, I bought There There and dove into the world he had captured and the people he created to bring that world to life. It’s a phenomenal book. On top of a riveting story and characters that you invest in deeply, the story itself is so well-constructed, so intimately and carefully layered, that when you get to the end, you know you have just experienced a true work of art. I recently went to a arts conference up at Western Washington University in Bellingham and an elder from the Lummi Nation was speaking about language and placenames. I have always considered myself a local. I was born here. I am invested in this town and in the surrounding land. It means something to me, very dear and very real. But listening to him, it dawned on me (duh) that I am a colonist. Maybe an accidental colonist, but still. When I’ve talked to others about it, I’ve been met with hostility and racism and ignorance. People denigrating and undermining what the Lummi people went through, minimizing their value so as to make it okay that we non-Natives are here and the reservation is small. Finally, I could hear it for myself. The language and reasoning of colonization - the mindset of takers who don’t want to feel bad for taking. We were raised in a community that looks down on the people who actually belong here... which is such a sick and backward and unhealthy way to think and act. It’s been strange to see myself that way, as a colonist. But once I realized that we’re no different than the Boers of South Africa or the non-natives of New Zealand and Australia and Hawaii and Fiji and... I mean... this is a bloody and unhealthy legacy. And then this book comes at that issue from the other side. I needed to hear this. I needed to read this. And I think we need to reorganize how we teach history and culture. Not once did I learn anything about the Lummi Nation in school. Not once did a teacher explain to me that Whatcom - the name of our lake and creek - meant “the sound of water going over stones.” I would’ve liked to have known those things. I think it would’ve connected me in a deeper way to the place where I live, but also it would’ve given every single kid in that classroom the message that the people who were here first are important, are still here, and are a key part of our history. Instead, we learned about the colonists. The loggers and mill owners. The early settlers. And the message was clear, even by third grade: We were the winners. They were the losers. And that’s a messed up message to send. But you can hear it in the way people talk in my town. They don’t see the Lummi Nation as survivors, as people who maintained their culture and their language and who thrived against all odds. They don’t see themselves as the beneficiaries of their colonist ancestors. They live in a fantasy. And, from what I can tell, when you’re living in a fantasy, you can’t accurately solve things in the real world. I think this book will help wake people up. Natives and non-Natives alike. It’s also a fantastic book and stands on its own merit as an amazing piece of writing.

There There is a literary fiction novel written by an Indigenous author. Tommy Orange is a citizen of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes of Oklahoma. This book is set in Oakland, California, where the author grew up. As many Indigenous people, Orange grew up off-reservation. At the prologue, the author lays the foundation to the historical violence and massacre of the Indigenous people - I think the prologue was the best part of this book. In this story we follow twelve different perspectives told by twelve different characters. It discusses the struggles of modern Indians in contemporary society. The reader doesn’t realize at the beginning of the book but the lives of these characters are intertwined by an event that will happen at the end of the story. The author points out the loss of Native American culture to colonialism and also writes about a variety of themes such as family, death, poverty, ceremony, tradition, addiction, abuse, suicide, and memory. This novel is powerful, insightful, and I believe any book that is able to educate its readers is a book worth reading.

Y’all. This book. It packs a punch like no other, and I was captivated by it as the stories began to intertwine and come to a head, to one final moment that brings the characters all together in this gripping tale transcending multiple generations. Gripping is an understatement… when all was said and done, and the novel stopped, I felt myself continue to lurch forward with momentum. I don’t think I can express how deep and beautiful this novel is. I can’t do it justice. But let me back up. Tommy Orange’s novel is difficult to start. When I first began listening via audiobook, I thought I was going to hate it. It didn’t make sense to me. The prologue, which is part of the novel and should be read, begins with a candid retelling of history as North Americans know it–laying bare what the history books don’t teach us, shedding light on the part of history that we’d like to forget and sweep under a rug, never to be seen again. I thought to myself, “is this novel a history lesson?”. No. But yes. Though fictitious, it has many truths, and the experiences of many of these characters are unfortunately all too real. Because those affected by our nation’s bloody history in the past are still affected by it in our present, which Orange makes explicitly clear as his novel commences with the first story from our twelve narrators, Tony Loneman. Truth be told, the first story, Tony’s story, was not how I’d start this novel. I found it a bit dry, and I wasn’t sure where Orange was going with the novel. Then the second narrator took over, and I didn’t see any obvious connections, and I was wondering, “is this novel just a grouping of short stories?”. The stories were just there, and they didn’t entice me. They were just unhitched stories. But as I continued, I began to see the connections methodically woven between the characters, all of which is leading us, the narrators and the reader, to one final moment at the powwow; all of these twelve characters are perfectly interconnected, though they don’t know it as of yet. And as they continue their stories, adding to what we already know, and beginning to converge on Oakland’s Coliseum, the novel takes hold, creating feelings of intense foreboding through Orange’s employ of dramatic irony. The interlude, from which I quoted a particularly stunning section above, floored me, and it was then that I knew, without a doubt, that this novel is a five star read. Orange is matter-of-fact, and he’s hitting on topics that we, as a nation, have fought about for far too long, still attempting to sweep truth under the rug in order to not face the reality of our current world, or who we are, and our sordid history. And while the interlude above is just that, and the narrators barely touch upon what is explicitly stated above–it’s not a novel steeped in politics or in your face–it’s there, calling to the reader, reminding us that privilege exists, that some are luckier than others, and that if we are to survive this harrowing world, we must come together, to understand one another, and to stop the fighting. This novel is fierce. When There There ended, I was speechless. One, I couldn’t believe Orange left us the way he did, but two, it’s just so unspeakably beautiful, thought-provoking, and intense. Five amazing stars! I borrowed the audible of this novel from the library, but then purchased my own paperback copy from Amazon, because this powerful novel is a must for my shelves.

La descripción de los indios americanos, sus problemas, su vida, su situación, maravillosa La presentación de los personajes, genial una buena forma de mostrar los puntos indicados. Pero el final, el desenlace, el pow wow, aburre, no resulta creíble y le sobra truculencia, una pena con un inicio tan genial

Looking forward to more of Orange’s books

Tommy Orange „There There“ („Dort Dort”) New York 2018, deutsche Ausgabe München 2019 Indianische Autoren schreiben anders. Das Erzählen von Geschichten gehört von jeher zu den kulturellen Fähigkeiten der indianischen Nationen, bevor sie von Kolumbus „entdeckt“ wurden. Aber ihr im Gegensatz zu weißen Erzählern "unterentwickeltes" hierarchisches Denken führt dazu, dass man es als weißer Leser nicht immer leicht hat mit der Lektüre. Wer es gewöhnt ist, dass sich Dramen um eine, zwei oder höchstens drei Hauptpersonen ranken und dass man die anderen immer mal vergessen kann – der verliert bei Indianern schnell den Überblick. Denn hier ist jede einzelne Figur wichtig. Wie im Kreis, der indianisches Denken bis heute prägt, sind alle in einem Verbund, und jeder einzelne hat seine mit den anderen verflochtene Geschichte. Wenn es sich in Tommy Oranges Roman „There There“ um zwölf Leute handelt - mit denen weitere zusammenhängen – dann hat man sie spätestens nach 100 Seiten durcheinander geworfen, weil es den ungeübten weißen Kopf überfordert. Es ist hilfreich, sich von Beginn an Notizen zu machen, was auch die Erzählstruktur selbst bis in ihre Verästelungen besser erkennen lässt. Das große Thema von Orange sind, wie könnte es anders sein, die katastrophalen Auswirkungen der Kolonisierung durch die weißen Siedler. Der Titel „There There“ („Dort Dort“) entstammt einem Song der britischen Rockband Radiohead, den eine der Romanfiguren auf dem Handy hört. Das klingt harmlos nur auf der Oberfläche – der Songtext deutet vielmehr an, dass es keinen Ort mehr gibt. Der Ort, die konkrete geographische Mitte eines Geschehens, unverzichtbar für indianisches In-der-Welt-Sein und für die Verbundenheit mit dem Planeten Erde, wurde den Menschen entrissen: „Aber für die Ureinwohner dieses Landes, des ganzen amerikanischen Doppelkontinents, ist das alles neu bebautes, vergrabenes Ahnenland, Glas und Beton und Draht und Stahl, unwiederbringliche, bedeckte Erinnerung. Es gibt dort kein Dort,“ heißt es an einer Stelle. Im Gegensatz zu seiner Kollegin Louise Erdrich, die teilweise deutsche Wurzeln hat und sich die komplizierten Verbindungen und Zerstörungen weißer und indianischer Lebensgeschichten zum Thema gemacht hat, richtet der Cheyenne-Autor Orange den Fokus allein auf die indianische Seite – auf die Unmöglichkeit, sich als Indianer zwischen Weißen einen eigenen Platz zurück zu kämpfen. Die Lebensgeschichten der zwölf Menschen sind eigentlich Geschichten des Nichtlebenkönnens, des permanenten Unglücks, der Suche nach einem noch so bescheidenen Zuhause, es sind Geschichten von zerfallenden Beziehungen, von linderndem Alkoholismus, von Drogendealern und Autodieben, die ihren Lebensunterhalt nicht anders bestreiten können. Und es sind Geschichten, in denen die Menschen immer mal versuchen, wieder den Kopf zu heben, in einem neu gegründeten sozialen Zentrum sich und anderen die Möglichkeit zu geben, wieder Wurzeln zu treiben. Orange hat als Schauplatz der vielen auseinander driftenden und doch ineinander greifenden Leben einen konkreten Standort etabliert, an dem er selbst geboren wurde und aufgewachsen ist: die 1852 gegründete Stadt Oakland in Kalifornien, am Ufer der Bucht von San Francisco. Und hier kommt auch alles wie unter einem Brennglas zusammen. Es soll ein Powwow veranstaltet werden, ein Treffen, bei dem Indianer von nah und fern sich temporär wieder als sie selber fühlen können, eine Erneuerung ihrer Identität. Tänzer, eine Trommlergruppe werden erwartet, ein Wettbewerb soll die Besten auszeichnen, ein Safe mit Geldkarten ist unterwegs. Zarte Hoffnungen keimen, eine Jahrzehnte zurückliegende Geschichte zwischen Jacquie Red Feather und Harvey, der sie damals missbraucht hat, scheint ein unerwartetes, harmonisches Ende zu nehmen. Harvey, damals unterdrückt von einem brutalen Vater, erweist sich als einsichtiger, empathischer Erwachsener. Die damals gezeugte Tochter Blue, die Jacquie zur Adoption freigegeben hatte und die beide Eltern nie gesehen hat, findet aus der Distanz einen Weg zu ihnen… Doch: „Die Wunde, die gerissen wurde, als die Weißen kamen und sich nahmen, was sie nahmen, ist nie verheilt. Eine unversorgte Wunde entzündet sich. Wird zu einer anderen Art von Wunde…“ heißt es im Text, und die komplizierte Verflechtung der Personen endet in einem Desaster. Drogendealer Octavio, Indianer, Mitglied einer von Gewalt zerstörten und mühsam von Großmutter Fina zusammengehaltenen Familie, löst ein Blutbad aus bei dem Versuch, sich beim Powwow der Geldkarten aus dem Safe zu bemächtigen. Er und seine Mitstreiter erschießen sich praktisch gegenseitig, wobei viele andere sterben. Der Roman endet in kleinen einzelnen Kapiteln – in den jeweils individuellen Empfindungen und Bewusstseinsschichten der einzelnen Sterbenden. Diese Passagen gehören zu den intensivsten und – man zögert bei dem Wort – zu den poetischsten des Romans. Es ist, als bringe der Moment des Todes ihnen die indianische Identität zurück. Hier werden keine Schuldfragen aufgeworfen oder gar beantwortet. Es gibt keine Schuld der Akteure, die Schuld, die es gab, liegt Jahrzehnte und Jahrhunderte zurück und wurde nie gesühnt, sie wurde und wird von den Schuldigen nie auch nur erkannt. Es gibt stattdessen die Wirklichkeit und ihre zerstörten Orte. Und Hoffnung? Immerhin weiß ja Großmutter Fina noch, wie man, wenn auch vergeblich, auf indianische Weise gegen einen Fluch angeht. Die Powwows, die gibt es noch. Es gibt die Trommler, denen das Trommeln ein Gebet ist. Es gibt den jungen Filmemacher Dene Oxendene, der Indianer-Interviews als Dokumentation aufzeichnen will. Und es gibt diesen Erzähler, der das alles sagt.

Ce livre est difficile à comprendre pour quelqu'un qui ne connais pas bien l'histoire de l'Amérique mais je le trouve très intéressant : il explique bien certains problèmes dont on ne parle pas beaucoup ici en Europe.

There’s so much happening in There There, but not once did it feel overwhelming or confusing. I could understand each character, their motivations, and the plot as well, right till the end when it all unravels. Actually., it starts unravelling quite early on. As early on as the third chapter or so. There There (title referring to a quote by Gertrude Stein, which is out of context, but works here) by Tommy Orange is not only important because of the socio-political issues it raises or the ones that are deep-rooted in the novel. It is also important because it is written so well and needs to be read widely. There are 12 characters whose lives are interwoven. They are all Native Americans, living or have lived in Oakland, California. They are all dealing with identity issues, and want to make more sense of their lives, and do better at living. And all their stories and lives converge and meet at the Big Oakland Powwow. It is a Canterbury Tales like novel, with each narrative unfolding, and un-layering till we get to the end. At the heart of it though it is about Native Americans and their lives – their stories, the injustices, the motivations, the histories deep buried and sometimes unacknowledged, the need to fit in so strongly because that’s what’s been drummed into your head, and about the marginalized and the invisible lives they lead. Each chapter is of course focused on one character, and yet it never feels disjointed or separate. It all magnificently comes together in the manner of how families are formed – sometimes by birth, and sometimes just. Dene Oxedene’s track in the book is pretty much what the book is about – he is making a documentary on the lives of Native Americans, as they speak about their experiences of living in Oakland. Tommy Orange’s writing is direct and cuts to the bone. He shows and tells. He does it all. He is a traditional storyteller, and also breaks form multiple times in the course of the book. Yes, sometimes it can get overwhelming to follow lives of 12 people, but it is a ride you want to be on gladly, and understand, comprehend, and make sense of the world we live in. “The messy, dangling strands of our lives got pulled into a braid—tied to the back of everything we’ve been doing all along to get us here…we’ve been coming for years, generations, lifetimes, layered in prayer and hand-woven regalia, beaded and sewn together, feathered, braided, blessed, and cursed.” Do you need to say anything more with this imagery on paper? All I can say is that read this book. Read it with an open mind and heart. I am eagerly looking forward to Tommy Orange’s next.