Harry Sylvester Bird
- eBook
- Audiobook
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
From the award-winning author of Under the Udala Trees and Happiness, Like Water comes a brilliant, provocative, up-to-the-minute novel about a young white man’s education and miseducation in contemporary America.
Harry Sylvester Bird grows up in Edward, Pennsylvania, with his parents, Wayne and Chevy, whom he greatly dislikes. They’re racist, xenophobic, financially incompetent, and they have quite a few secrets of their own. To Harry, they represent everything wrong with this country. And his small town isn’t any better. He witnesses racial profiling, graffitied swastikas, and White Power signs on his walk home from school. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to leave. When he finally is, he moves straight to New York City, where he feels he can finally live out his true inner self.
In the city, he meets and falls in love with Maryam, a young Nigerian woman. But when Maryam begins to pull away, Harry is forced to confront his identity as he never has before—if he can.
Brilliant, funny, original, and unflinching, Harry Sylvester Bird is a satire that speaks to all the most pressing tensions and anxieties of our time—and of the history that has shaped us and might continue to do so.
Release date: July 12, 2022
Publisher: HarperCollins
Print pages: 320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
Harry Sylvester Bird
Chinelo Okparanta
Kizimkazi, Tanzania
December 2016
We arrived at the resort in the afternoon when the sun was rising above the army of palm trees, lined and fanning in the breeze like windmills in the brightening orange and blue. Chevrolet and Wayne (I refuse to call them Mom and Dad) had remained silent for the forty-five-minute drive from the airport, except for brief responses to the white-capped, white-gowned driver (such as when the driver asked if they’d be needing the Wi-Fi access code, and they both nodded and said “yes” and “thank you” at once). In the spirit of solidarity, I nodded too.
But the signal had been weak and the connection elusive, and soon Wayne and Chevy leaned onto their separate windows (I in the middle) and zoned out as if they were sleeping with their eyes open. When the driver pulled up to the resort’s gate, the Maasai warrior—with his red-and-pink shuka, his cowhide sandals, and his wooden club—rose from his bamboo stool and inspected our car before waving us in. All in an instant, the resort emerged before us like a tropical paradise. Behold, before my eyes: conical thatched makuti roofs flanked by the green fronds of the palm trees, white hammocks dangling between the stems, gold-trimmed lounge chairs with rolling arms and claw-foots, wide-beamed umbrellas, and, in every direction, lush and low-lying tulip and hibiscus bushes.
Wayne and Chevy had fought on the plane, and before getting on the plane, and before that, and I had begun to think that perhaps for once they had grown satiated with their fighting for the day, but as we stepped out of the cab, a new fight materialized: the taxi service had been included in the booking, but who would pay for the tip, and how much to tip? I was only fourteen and without any income other than the occasional allowance, but knowing them, they would have had me pay if they thought I could have somehow managed it.
My stomach knotted with their bickering, palms sweaty, head full and woozy. As if the car sickness were not enough, now this fight.
Wayne said, “Honey, it’s Africa. One dollar is enough for a year’s living. You don’t need to give them more than that.”
“Fine, I’ll get it this time. But it was nearly an hour drive,” Chevy said. “I don’t see what giving five dollars will hurt.”
In the end, they settled on two dollars. Two years’ income, Wayne said, for less than an hour’s drive. Chevy narrowed her eyes at him then walked away, dragging her luggage along. I followed Chevy. Of the two, she was the one to follow. Wayne often erred too far on the side of harshness, of cruelty. Treat others the way you would not like to be treated, it seemed to me, was his motto. No golden rule for him. With Chevy, at least sometimes there were surprises. As I rolled my luggage away, I heard the driver softly say, “Asante,” and maybe the driver truly was grateful. Gratitude in principle and by practice. I knew a bit about that: this was late December, and our Christmas tree had been an oversize mother-in-law’s tongue in a tall maroon urn. It was a houseplant that we’d owned for the preceding half decade. Wayne had insisted it was the perfect segue into our Africa safari trip. Chevy had insisted that Christmas was its own event and deserved its own tree.
Why spend the money after he had doled out so much on the impending trip? Wayne had asked.
Well, Chevy answered.
We laid our three gifts under the plant. My Christmas gift from them had been a nail clipper wrapped in an empty matchbox. Nothing to brag about. Still, I had made a practice of gratitude—a notion that I had stumbled upon on the Internet—and so I was grateful for the gift. And after all, nails grew and would always need clipping. Maybe this was how the driver saw it too. A practical sort of gratitude.
* * *
That first day on Mchangamble Beach, after we had all dragged our luggage to reception, and after Wayne, Chevy, and I had been greeted with coral-colored drinks with miniature umbrellas, and after we had checked in and inquired about the Serengeti excursion (which Wayne claimed would be the highlight of the trip), we settled in our executive room. Wayne and Chevy placed their luggage at the foot of their queen bed, and Chevy hurried into the bathroom. I knew what she was doing in there: washing her hands and her face, and maybe more, before she would as much as touch anything in the room. She emerged disinfected, in a robe, and snaked her way through the opening of the mosquito netting that surrounded the bed frame. Pink flower petals had been arranged in the shape of a heart at the center of the coverlet. With one wave of her hand, she dispersed the petals onto the floor and sat on the bed. Wayne said, “But, sweetie, why?” To which she rolled her eyes.
“Harry, your area is all set up. Make yourself comfortable,” Wayne said from the archway between the room and the expanse of space leading to the adjoining walk-in closet. He waved his hand as if to wave me toward him. When I approached, he headed back to the main bedroom.
The closet was large enough that, even with my cot, there was enough space for me to move around. I placed my luggage in a corner. There was no door separating the main room from the closet, but the arched doorway provided me semi-privacy. I sat quietly for some time on the cot, breathing in intentionally from one nostril, holding it for five seconds, breathing out the other nostril, until my head and belly settled, and the car sickness vanished.
“Breakfast?” Wayne asked Chevy cheerfully over in the main bedroom. It was afternoon, which meant that it was actually lunchtime, but earlier Wayne had argued with the hotel staff until they agreed to make a special exception and serve him breakfast. Travel delays, Wayne had said, and “It isn’t fair for us to miss breakfast due to no fault of ours!” I turned my head away, embarrassed that he was beginning again. Wayne was doing what he did best—being a cheapskate. Breakfast was included in the price of the accommodation. Lunch was not.
“Breakfast, indeed!” Chevy said, leaping off the bed. But then she sat back down. “You two will definitely need to clean up first! What time did they say again that breakfast would end?”
“That’s the beauty of it!” Wayne replied. “No time at all! Whenever we arrive, they will serve it to us!”
I walked over to the desk not far from where Wayne stood celebrating his win. Win upon wins. Even this trip was a celebration of a different win: the Purists, the third political party said to have splintered off from the Republicans, but who everyone knew also included many Democrats, had won the presidential election. All over our hometown of Edward, Pennsylvania, yellow-and-red elephant stickers, posters, and bumper stickers decorated front yards, windows, and cars. This trip, Wayne insisted, was a celebration.
Well. I picked up the hotel’s restaurant menu, leafed through it. “It’s usually over at ten o’clock,” I said to Chevy. I brought the menu to her so that she might see for herself, but as I held it up, she whisked it away.
“Don’t you dare!” she said sternly, flinging her hand at me but also keeping it from touching me. As if I were not her very own child, as if I were not flesh of her loins, as if I were instead some foreign pathogenic prototype! Her mouth was a bag of knives. All my life, she’d been cutting me with her words.
“You’re covered in filth!” she scolded. “Have you washed your hands?” My skin felt the slash and the stab of shame. I walked to the bathroom to wash up, though I knew that even after I was clean, she’d still recoil at my touch.
At breakfast, Wayne was jovial and whistled loudly as he weaved between the people like smoke between stacks. Servers also laced through the crowd, their greetings of “Jambo!” and “Mambo?” and “Na wewe?” filling the room. By the time Wayne had decided on what he’d eat, it seemed to me that he’d picked up quite a bit of the language. But what business did he have speaking the people’s language, I wondered, much less being in these people’s country when he despised them so? But of course. The answer was clear to me even then. Wayne saw them as beneath him, as servers, as people to be exploited, and so it made sense that he’d come to their country to exploit their services.
There was a frenzy to Wayne’s manners—the frenetic movement of his arms and the sharp way he jutted his head as he ordered his meal: a vegetable omelet breakfast from the grill. He ordered the same for Chevy and me. I had long ago learned not to protest.
We sat quietly, Wayne whistling a song I did not recognize. My thoughts flashed in and out so quickly, I could not have articulated them. All I knew was that they left me feeling anxious.
When our omelets arrived, they were decorated with carrot pieces shaped so that they read “Karibu” and “From USA to Zanzibar” and “Hakuna Matata.” I nibbled at my food, looking out the open sides of the restaurant. Trees like windmills. Hammocks like thick ethereal clouds. Empty spaces. In all of that beauty, I felt hollow. “It is beautiful,” I whispered to myself. “This resort is very beautiful. This omelet is very tasty. These flowers are very pretty.” On and on I went, because something in my heart told me that what is true must be said. Because if I didn’t say it, then I didn’tthink it, and if I didn’t think it, then I didn’t feel it, and if I didn’t feel it, then it didn’t happen. And surely, all of this was happening. Whether I liked it or not, all of life was going to keep on happening.
The resort manager arrived at our table the instant that I was coming out of my thoughts. “Jambo!” he greeted. His tall, olive-skinned body towered over us. “How are you finding everything?” he asked. His wet, dark eyes moved purposefully from Wayne to Chevy to me, his gaze perching on each of us.
“Oh! It’s so wonderful to be here! Lovely food, lovely servers, lovely everything!” Wayne said. I cringed. The effusive praise wasn’t what made me cringe, but the knowledge that certain topics seemed to gravitate toward Wayne, or he seemed to gravitate toward certain topics, like a magnet to iron, or like an object falling toward the earth. It was only a matter of time before the conversation arrived at one of those.
“Glad you’re finding it so good,” the manager said in a thick French accent. “You know, the workers here can be very lazy. Maybe it’s the Zanzibari culture, but I’m glad you’re happy with what you see.” To Chevy, the manager said, “And you, madame? How are you finding things?”
“Very well, thank you,” Chevy said rigidly.
“She’s having a splendid time,” Wayne declared.
“So, you arrived from the States this morning?” the manager asked, turning back to Wayne.
“Early this afternoon, actually,” Wayne said. “And, yes, from Pennsylvania.”
“Near Philadelphie?” the manager asked.
“About two hours away,” Wayne said. “Have you been to the States?”
“Aahh,” the manager said. “If memories could talk!”
“But they can!” Wayne said with alacrity. “Tell us! What took you to the States?”
“Long story, but let’s just say I once had a nice life in the States. In Californie, actually. It all started as a holiday visit, but I fell in love with Californie.” At this, he brought the tips of his fingers together to a point at his mouth, for a kiss. “Loved the place like I’ve never loved a place before. Long story short, I ended up overstaying my visa so that I could build myself a nice life there. Had a nice job, worked as a chef, managed restaurants, then things got interesting . . .” he said. “Not a very easy country to live in without papers.”
“Oh my,” Wayne said, visibly disturbed.
“We should be finishing our breakfast and heading out to the beach,” Chevy said matter-of-factly.
“You’re French, from France?” Wayne asked, and I could tell in that moment that a new thought had come to him, something that would make things more orderly in his mind.
“Yes, from a small town by the name of Soulac-sur-Mer. Have you heard of it?”
“Oh, I thought as much,” Wayne said eagerly. “That you are French, that is. Then you’re not really one of those illegal immigrants we find all over the place in the States.”
“Ah, oui, but I was illegal for seven years,” the manager said, chuckling.
Wayne stared at the manager, his mouth agape.
“When things began to get too difficult, I resorted to working under the table at the very restaurants I used to manage. You wouldn’t believe, but I also had a period of a few years when I sold drugs just to make a living—pay rent, maintain my Porsche, put food on the table.”
Wayne’s mouth was even wider now, but then the manager said, “Ah, don’t worry, I didn’t use; I only sold.”
Wayne’s face lifted as if this were the beginning of a redemption. “So, how did you end up all the way here? All the way from California to Tanzania?” he asked.
“I’ll have to tell you another time,” the manager replied. “Like I said, it’s a long story. My life has been one long adventure, and I’m afraid you don’t have the time for it.” As he spoke, he pointed to Chevy, who had already stood up and was walking away from the table.
“She’s a bit particular with people,” Wayne said, apologetically.
“No problem,” the manager said. “Hakuna matata.” His teeth glistened nearly enough to mask the wrinkling of the tawny leathery skin around his smile.
At the jungle spa, inside the massage pagoda, no one spoke. I sat with my feet dangling at the edge of the veranda, outside the curtains that separated me from my parents, waiting until the ninety minutes were up. My eyes hovered at a vanishing point somewhere on the Kizimkazi Bay. The ginger and papaya aroma of the massage ointment crept into my nostrils. Occasionally, I kicked up the sand with my feet. Why did adults even need massages? I wondered. Especially Chevy. Why was it acceptable for a stranger to touch her when she didn’t allow her own son the very same right—or was it a privilege? She hadn’t asked the masseuses if they’d washed their hands first, or if they’d showered before administering the massages.
Some months back, I had eavesdropped on one of Chevy’s exposure-response-prevention sessions, and I had heard the therapist remind Chevy that the goal of the sessions was to get her to fight against the force. “Everything is contaminated, as you know,” the therapist said. “Whatever force is keeping you so preoccupied with contamination—keeping you so restrained from life—you owe it to yourself to fight. You fight it by making one thousand correct exposure-driven choices. One thousand correct choices and the force will no longer have a hold on you!”
Needless to say, the force still had its hold on Chevy at the resort. Yet, the massage!
The dolphin tour was next on Wayne and Chevy’s agenda, so I reasoned that if I could just make it through the massage session, then I could at least swim with the dolphins.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...