Way Past Cool

It seems as if many writers have one book in their lives for which they are remembered more than for any others, even though these may not have been their best books -- at least in the authors' opinions -- or the books they might have wanted to be remembered for.

For Ralph Ellison that book is unquestionably Invisible Man. For John Steinbeck it's probably The Grapes Of Wrath, and for Herman Hesse probably Steppenwolf.

I would never claim to be in the same league with these three great writers, but it seems that for me the book I will probably remembered for writing (assuming I'm remembered at all) is Way Past Cool.

It seems ironic that a book I wrote in about three months should have been so universally well-received; but there's a saying that most writers aren't good judges of their own work.

Just as musicians or actors may have one song or film that becomes their trademark, and perhaps even their identity as far as the general public is concerned, there is often one book by which an author is judged... a work that may cast a living author into a role that he or she is expected to play for the rest of their lives.

This can be a blessing if a writer is happy with that role and doesn't wish to mature, experiment, and/or grow as an artist. Or, it can be a curse if the writer wants to expand his or her horizions.

For a black writer, being cast into a role, as well as his or her own willingness -- or unwillingness -- to play it, can often be the deciding factor in whether that writer will even continue to have a career.

When I first began writing to be published, it was my hope to write many different kinds of Black books. You have only to check out the shelves of any black bookstore -- or the African-American Section of other stores -- to see that the largest category of black books are non-fiction. If I had only one word to describe the selection of black books in most stores, I would say "dry".

Most of these works deal with black history, slavery, apartheid, the Black Diaspora, modern-day racial issues, and things of this type. Such books are good and necessary, of course, but there seems to be far too many of these kinds of books that basically say the same things.

As to black fiction, you will see that black women writers easily outnumber black male writers at least ten-to-one; and the most-used themes are either of the young girl growing up in the South, or in some poor Northern neighborhood, or that of the intelligent and loving black woman who can't find a "decent" black man... often clones of Terry McMillian's first books.

However, one will find relatively few works of fiction written by or for black males -- especially for young black males -- and almost none that I would describe as being "just stories"... few books about black men being ship captains, airplane pilots, or even truck drivers. The genre often described as "adventure fiction" today or "adventure stories for boys" in the past, is almost totally absent from black literature. As a result, what sort of people do young black males have for role-models? What kind of male figures do they have to nurture their dreams and imaginations? Mostly sports and music figures. And, of course, gangstuhs, thugs and hustlers.

If there's a black Harry Potter or Indiana Jones, I have yet to meet him in a book.

Anyone who denies this obviously has either not researched the subject, or is seeing the world through white-colored glasses.

There are several reasons for this gap in Black Literature -- this dearth of "just stories" that young black males might relate to on other levels besides sports, music, innercity and gang-life -- and the fault cannot be entirely attributed to the greed, ignorance, and racism of the mainstream publishing industry. In fact, I would lay more of the blame upon black publishers for producing mostly "scholarly works" and non-fiction to "uplift the race", while ignoring the simple fact that no one will read scholarly works unless he or she develops an interest in reading in the first place! And usually at a very young age.

In my experience, many black publishers, as well as members of the so-called Black Intelligensia (which sometimes seems like a contridiction in terms) appear to feel that reading fiction, even black fiction, is a waste of time for young black people. The attitude seems to be that young black people should read only black history and "essential literature".

This is nonsense. In fact, it is far worse than nonsense. It amounts to turning one's back on the needs of black youth, and especially the needs of young black males.

Of course our young people should know their history and be aware of racism on all levels, as well as having a knowledge of social issues in the world around them: but they must also be entertained in positive ways, offered something to read that is not (at least not obviously) a lesson or a textbook, and be offered role-models and dreams beyond the sports arena, recording studio, innercity... and yes, even beyond the hallowed halls of black academia.

I think it's accurate to say that there are many young black males who don't even realize that they could be ship captains, airplane pilots, or truck drivers for the simple reason that they've never been shown -- either in movies, on TV, or in books -- that they could indeed be any of these things, and a lot more besides. But, again, most black publishers, no doubt with the best of intentions, are not publishing much fiction for and about black males... and almost none that is "just stories."

Compounding this problem is the fact that white mainstream publishers will not publish black books that don't fit into their preconceived notions and stereotypical images of how young black people -- especially young black males -- "should" act, aspire to, or even dream about. And too many white publishers feel that white people don't want to read books in which the characters just happen to be black but who are not drug-dealers, pimps, prisoners, or gangstuhs.

This is also nonsense -- most people of any color like reading good stories about interesting characters -- but this racist misconception is glaringly apparent in the genre of young-adult literature; and is probably a very good reason why so many young black people don't want to read. There is simply nothing to read... unless they wish to read about sports or innercity life.

I suggest that instead of listening to white publishers (as well as more than a few publishers of color) pat themselves on the backs and point out how many "black books" they publish every year, one should take a good hard look at what kinds of books those actually are.

As with all my books and stories, Way Past Cool was written about a certain group of people -- in this case West Oakland kids in the early 1990s. Way Past Cool was only one story and was never intended to to be an example of how all black kids -- or even all black innercity kids -- live and behave. The story is about two groups of 11 to 14-year-old boys who are tricked into fighting one another by a local drug-dealer who wants to move into their neighborhood. It was first published in the U.S. in 1992, in hardcover by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, and hit the shelves about two weeks before the Rodney King rebellion... and I would be the first to admit that didn't hurt its sales.

The book went into several hardcover reprints with FSG, and was also published in France, the U.K., Germany, Italy, Denmark, Sweden, Finland, Holland and Japan.

It was also optioned three times for a film, and was finally produced in the Fall of 1997, a production for which I co-wrote the screenplay. Check the Way Past Cool film page on this site.

There has also been a stage version of Way Past Cool written and musically-scored, but which has not yet been produced.

Way Past Cool, then, has been both a blessing and a curse to me -- a blessing in that I was able to tell the truth and to show the world a view of how the U.S. treats these children -- but a curse in that I seem to be expected by mainstream publishers to write this kind of ghetto fiction for the rest of my life. And they don't want to publish anything of mine that doesn't deal with "guns, gangs, drugs and violence".

Excerpt:

"Gordon! GUN!" screamed Curtis, diving off his skateboard onto trash-covered concrete.

Gordon dove from his board too, all 180 pounds rolling and skidding then scrambling warp-seven behind a dumpster as a full-auto fired from a battered black van. Velcro ripped and his backpack burst open. Books and a binder tumbled out. Another gun joined the first, a rhythmic steely stutter of Uzis in chorus. Bullets pocked brick, sending chips whizzing and spattering to a whine of ricochets that sounded just like in the movies. The dumpster rang dully as silver dents stitched its rusty sides.

Gordon was a born leader, first to risk his butt, with a natural balance of brains and balls tempered by a healthy helping of fear. As with all good leaders, his decisions came fast under fire; if they happened to be the right ones, so much the better. But there were times when a gang leader had to do stupid things -- like jumping to his feet and offering his head and shoulders as an easy target while he cupped his hands to his mouth and bawled, "DOWN, suckers!"

The warning wasn't needed: the other boys had already scattered among garbage cans, their boards abandoned and darting away as if seeking cover too. Gordon's stupidity would be remembered later as cool, though he never considered that. In another sort of war he might have won a medal.

The auto-fire cut off; thirty-two-round magazines emptied fast at 550 rounds per minute, as most kids in West Oakland knew. It was as if somebody had switched on silence. Gordon jerked the old .22 pistol from the back of his jeans and got off three quick shots in the van's general direction before the worn-out little gun jammed. Its popping sounded weak and wimpy after the 9mm Uzi snarls.

But the van peeled away, rubber screeching and blue smoke blasting from rusty chrome side pipes. Gordon cursed and beat the gun's butt on the dumpster lid. It fired again, once, defiant now in the sudden morning stillness. Brick dust puffed from a building across the street, and a nearby window slammed shut. The van's engine roar faded up the block. Tires squealed as the van got sideways around the corner.

"Motherfuckin' piece of SHIT!" raged Gordon. He almost whacked the gun again, but caught himself in time and looked around instead while wiping a skinned and bloody elbow on his jeans. "Yo! Anybody hit?"

Four heads poked up from behind a ragged row of garbage cans: Ric and Rac, the twins, identically flat-topped and wide-eyed, Curtis with his long, ratty dredlocks, and Lyon's fluffy bush like an Afro gone wild.

"Hey!" squeaked Curtis, his expression amazed. "I got myself shot in the back!"

Beside him, Lyon lifted Curtis' tattered T-shirt, plain and faded black like the other boys'... gang colors. "Yeah? Well, you for sure be takin' it cool, man. Let's check it out.

Curtis squirmed, trying to look over his shoulder. "Well, how the fuck I s'posed to take it?"

The twins squeezed close too, their mouths open in duplicate wonder and tawny eyes bright with curiosity.

Gordon walked over, carrying the gun muzzle-down.

Lyon glanced at the fat boy over Curtis' head. "That thing gonna go off again, Gordon?"

Gordon spat on the garbage-slimed concrete, holding the pistol like a snapping rat by its tail. "Now how the fuck I know, man? Piece of shit jam up just when you needin' it, an' then go off when you don't! How many goddamn times I say we gotta save back for some kinda better gun?"

He scowled at the other boys, and pointed. "An' how many motherfuckin' times I gotta tell you dudes NOT to hide a'hind stupid ol' garbage cans in a firefight?" He aimed a finger at one can bleeding yellow goo. "Dumpster steel mostly stop bullets. Them don't!" His eyes, obsidian hard in a coffee-colored face, softened slightly and his voice gentled down. "So, how Curtis?"

Lyon dabbed at Curtis' shoulder blade with the tail of his own tee. "Stop that silly wigglin', sucker!" Spitting on his fingers, Lyon wiped more blood. The scent of it was coppery, like new pennies. Finally he smiled and patted Curtis' arm. "it be only a cut. Like from a chunk of flyin' brick or somethin'. Nowhere near his heart. That be all what matter."

Way Past Cool is Jess Mowry's 310-page tour guide through Oakland's gang scene, a somber, morbid, yet optimistic and non-judgemental look at how young teens survive in the inner city. Much like John Singleton's Boyz 'N The Hood, Mowry's novel focuses on the good and bad, breathing life into his characters and avoiding the stereotypes of gang culture frequently shown in the media. The novel deals with a gang called The Friends, who are trying to protect their 'hood from a rival gang called The Crew and a drug dealer named 'Deek'. Deek, and his feared bodyguard, Ty, are involved in a scheme to force The Friends and The Crew into letting Deek move his business into their 'hoods. The Friends ain't wit it so they form a plan to shut Deek down. Not to ruin the ending, but suffice to say that the book rushes towards a climax that's disturbing, beautfiful, thought-provoking, and unforgettable. Way Past Cool's only flaw is some of the dialogue spoken by its characters. Lines like "I gonna kill you!" are a little too stiff and unrealistic for "ghetto talk". But this minor flaw aside, the book compels as it weaves a web involving elements of socioeconomics, religion, race, police brutality, a slanted media, love, and senseless murder. A little hometown rap is thrown in by Too Short and Hammer. Jess Mowry's Way Past Cool is a fascinating and sad look at the gang scene and those it enslaves. Mowry, who once lived in an abandoned car with his family, emerges as the literary equilivilent of street reporters like Cube and The Geto Boys. Plans are already underway for a feature film, but don't sleep on the book.