Not Kurt Vonnegut, but in the same vein

I Am Not Sidney Poitier, by Percival Everett

“I am the ill-starred fruit of an hysterical pregnancy, and surprisingly, odd though I might be, I am not hysterical myself. I’m rather calm, in fact; some would say waveless. I am tall and dark and look for the world like Mr. Sidney Poitier, something my poor disturbed and now deceased mother could not have known when I was born, when she named me Not Sidney Poitier.”

Thus begins the wacky coming-of-age tale of Not Sidney Poitier, whose mother had the foresight to invest in Ted Turner’s fledgling media company before she died, making young Not Sidney a very *rich* orphan. (Don’t let the Dickensian opening lines fool you.) He moves in with Ted Turner, whose  manic musings are among the funniest parts of this novel, until he is old enough to strike out on his own. Alas, he doesn’t get very far - he is arrested and imprisoned for Driving While Black in rural Georgia.  (“Once you leave Atlanta you’re in Georgia,” Ted had presciently warned.) Misadventures abound as Not Sydney buys his way into Morehouse College (the descriptions of his negotiations with the college development officer are hilarious), gets a girlfriend and investigates a murder, all narrated in his deadpan delivery. Along the way Everett manages to send up issues of race, class and identity in America.

This is a screamingly funny novel, with the scathing wit and absurdist situations that can be found in Vonnegut’s best work, and that’s what I was reminded of (pleasantly so) as I read it. Not Kurt Vonnegut, but then again, who is? Quite an achievement, nevertheless.