A Black Man Enters the Heart of Whiteness
An African-American author enters America’s whitest cities and emerges with a fantastic book. Also under review: Chuck Klosterman’s relatable new collection of essays, Creed’s latest and lamest, and the most heartwarming new blog around.
By Cord Jefferson, Kay Steiger, and Delaney Rohan
October 23, 2009
Just like a utopia, but racist. (Hyperion)
Searching for Whitopia
Hyperion
Published: Oct. 6, 2009
In less than 40 years, whites will be a minority in the United States. If you’re like most progressive white Americans, that’s a statistic you fear about as much as a housefly. But for the subjects in Rich Benjamin’s wonderfully interesting new book, Searching for Whitopia, this impending shift is cause for great distress. So much so that they left behind their ethnically mixed former locales for Benjamin’s titular Xanadus: profoundly white towns, mostly in Middle-America, where, as one woman tells the author, they’re around their “own kind.”
It all sounds very scary at first, especially considering the fact that Benjamin, who took it upon himself to visit and study these cities, is black. But give Whitopia a few pages and you’ll probably discover something amazing: you don’t hate these people!
For the most part, the denizens of these ultra-Caucasian boomtowns (St. George, Utah; Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; etc.) are there because they actively pursued the comfort of racial homogeneity, a quality, either consciously or not, they associate with safety, security and wealth. And yet, as they excitedly welcome Benjamin into their communities, their poker games and their Sunday barbecues, one can’t help but notice the way these domestic emigrants seem genuinely interested in making him feel at home. At one point, Benjamin even dines with members of the Aryan Nation, who speak openly about their segregationist views while offering him more mashed potatoes. You might even find yourself occasionally agreeing with the Whitopians, like when Stan, a hard-drinking, 24-year-old in Idaho, assures Benjamin, “We don’t hate black people, we hate those yuppies from L.A.”
Essentially, reading Whitopia is both an exercise in sympathy and a great character study. It helps one realize that the people watching Bill O’Reilly and Lou Dobbs every night aren’t monsters; they’re just terrified—of change, of mystery, of practically everything. They’re not evil, they’re self-secluded and pitiable.
9 out of 10 frightened Idahoans in golf carts
-Cord Jefferson
They’re baaaaaaaaack. (Wind-Up Records)
Full Circle
Creed
Wind-Up Records
Release Date: Oct. 27, 2009
I know, no one cares. They’re just so terrible. Whenever anyone mentions their name, there lingers the stench of a gross amount of underserved attention. If you ask someone who their favorite band is and they say Creed, you take proper steps to end that conversation promptly.
But you’re not like me; I love Creed. Scratch that. Loved Creed.
By now, you know the story. Virtually unheard of prior to 1997, the boys from Tallahassee exploded onto Top 40 stations almost overnight. They then dominated the charts for years, making more than $70 million in the process. For males between 20 and 30, Creed’s music conjures memories of adolescence. My Own Prison and Human Clay are probably albums that many of us are embarrassed to say we owned. For broskies especially, Creed was manna from heaven. The power chords and lead singer Scott Stapp’s overwrought lyrics, which sounded like they could have been written by a 15-year-old who didn’t make the soccer team, provided the perfect background noise for aggro high school males.
Then again, in the minds of many, Creed was the embodiment of a musical genre void of inspiration. Hampered by cheesy lyrics, emotionless pseudo-sensitivities, derivative musings about life, wife beaters, and greasy hair, the band became the critics’ treasured pariah.
And now Creed’s back for more abuse. Full Circle—the band’s first album since its 2004 split—has all the signs of a desperately predictable reunion attempt: painfully thoughtless lyrics reflecting, wildly powerful guitar riffs, and a general aura of overcompensation. After inspiring a generation of mediocrity (Nickleback, Three Days Grace, etc.), Creed’s newest iteration comes off as a latecomer to a musical path it trailblazed.
Super-fans will definitely not be disappointed, and critics will surely be invigorated—fish in a barrel can be fun.
10 out of 10 horribly awesome, throat-scraping "yeahrs"
-Delaney Rohan
Klosterman showcasing his Midwestern charm. (Scribner)
Eating the Dinosaur
Scribner
Published: Oct. 20, 2009
Chuck Klosterman, depending on your opinion, is either a brilliant and hilarious cultural critic or a self-indulgent and trivial asshole. His latest book, Eating the Dinosaur, will only seek to magnify the opinion you hold of him.
I happen to be one of those people that thinks Klosterman is the former. But this is probably because after reading Fargo Rock City, I’ve come to believe he and I had roughly identical childhood experiences. And if Klosterman and I are so similar, I could never admit that he’s an asshole. It’s true that he tended to gloss over the sexism of metal when writing, City, his fanboy manifesto on the genre, but I’m willing to forgive it since Mötley Crüe played a similarly important role in my teenage years.
Dinosaur incidentally doesn’t actually contain anything about dinosaurs and is Klosterman at the peak of what he does best: writing rambling yet pointedly funny essays on pop culture and news events. The topics in Dinosaur range from Mad Men to NBA giant[1] Ralph Sampson to ABBA to the siege at Waco, Texas to Garth Brooks to the Unabomber to a meta analysis of the concept of the interview. There definitely isn’t a plot, a unifying theme, or even a question that Klosterman sets himself up to answer. But he does carry the reader on a rather entertaining and thought-provoking journey through some of the key components of culture today. Some are enlightening, others are silly, but they are all entertaining.
In short, reading this book is roughly what I believe sitting with Klosterman for several hours at the bar would be like. Klosterman, if you’re reading this, I’ll buy the next round.
8 out of 10 bets that Klosterman drinks Budwiser non-ironically
-Kay Steiger
[1]In this case, the word "giant" should be applied to Sampson in the literal sense. His NBA performance was ultimately disappointing thanks to his injuries, but the man was 7-foot-4.
A couple of parents, being awesome.
My Parents Were Awesome
To be sure, I’m not, nor have I ever been, above having a laugh at the Internet’s more mean-spirited memes. When that news lady stomping the wine grapes fell and knocked the wind out of herself, and then started talking like a Gremlin, I—like her, I’m sure—was in tears. The same goes for that sleepwalking dog knocking his noggin. Nevertheless, cruelty is like junk food: it must be enjoyed only in moderation.
That’s why I’m recommending My Parents Were Awesome. Not only is the idea simple—great pictures of parents in their youth, submitted by proud sons and daughters—in one tightly packaged tumblr blog, there’s something for everyone looking to escape the seedier sides of the Web: young love, cool outfits, and beautiful photography.
Again, I’m not saying people falling and hurting themselves won’t always be awesome; I’m just saying that so will your parents. Enjoy.
10 out of 10 nostalgic tears
-Cord Jefferson
Cord Jefferson is an associate editor at Campus Progress. Kay Steiger is the editor of Campus Progress. Delaney Rohan is an editorial intern for Campus Progress and a grad student at American University.
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