My San Francisco New Year’s trip a few from 2014 into 15 had to include a stop at City Lights bookstore. I found the store has a publishing arm so decided part of my mission while in town was to sample what was currently being promoted. I spent a while looking back at forth over the shelves reserved for the store’s own books until I could narrow my choices to two.
I held “Man Alive” and another book in my hands. I looked at their covers, read the descriptions on the backs and flipped them over. I put them back on the shelves and took them off again. I can’t name the other book now, so something about Thomas Page McBee’s work must have hooked me.
The other, now unremembered title, talked about violence, homelessness and a man’s journey. Standards for the bro-edged story. McBee’s said something similar but with more force, and did it right there on the cover, so I looked inside. I do this often, stealing a quick look at a single sentence from a random page in the meat of a book in order to finally make up my mind. The sentence I found in McBee’s was not only violent, it mentioned my hometown. Did I need another sign?
What I didn’t catch right away was how literal McBee’s journey to manhood was. “Man Alive” is the story of the author’s transformation from female at birth to the man he is today. Okay, maybe I was a little put off by the subject. I wasn’t curious about what such a change in life would be like. I didn’t care. I don’t care. Now that’s a posture waiting to be tested. Still, I needed something from City Lights and why go on with the same thing I’m always finding? This is still the story of a man on a journey, only with a sharp angle. The dare was made and I accepted.
The author faces violence, navigates a meaningful but fragile relationship, contemplates his past and future, and confronts what may or may not have made him the man he is and will be. Every angle of his life is considered. We see his childhood in Western Pennsylvania, late youth in San Francisco and his search for answers in the South, where his family’s roots lie. There is a bit of a road trip narrative embedded in the story that keeps it moving. Flashback scenes are revealing but not overly shocking.
We meet the men in his life. In short, they are muggers and molesters. You kind of see them coming. They are bad from the start and don’t really get much better or worse. They show themselves, are examined and pass through the author’s eyes. None deliver the unshakable answers he is looking for.
The author’s mother is the character who proves to be the shifting, unsteady and enigmatic force throughout. She is the influence who is revealed as more than her initial presence. Her actions and the role she played in the author’s life are dragged out and exposed and we, along with him, are forced to decide and judge just who this person is and what she means. When doubt is undeniably cast and the focus of its shadow is someone’s mother, shown in all her imperfection and humanity, well that’s a rare kind of conflict and its intensity can be disturbing, even repellant. McBee does not shy away. He paints the stubbing of cigarettes, chewed skin on fingertips, sour exhalations after long drinks, and confessions across kitchen tables with precision and restraint. Did I get flowery there? Sorry, this is his story not mine, and McBee does his job well enough.
The book is not short; it’s compact. The pages are thinner than what is between them. The thing for me that I loved and will steal was on the front cover the whole time. I missed it even though I stared for so long. The narrator forgives unconditionally. Through all of his consideration and introspection, we are shown without doubt that the sinners and offenders in the story will be given a pass. They are held up and examined as are their actions but they are just as soon set down and released into history. He walks with a constantly turned cheek. He forgives at every turn. I couldn’t let this go. If the story is true, and there is little doubt that it is, I can’t help but be stunned by the lack of anger the voice in the pages carries. It’s humbling. It transcends the subject matter. He seeks no revenge, only the causes of his pain and whether he finds them or not can only be inferred, not proven.
I personally don’t think he finds the truths he seeks. I think some of the pace of the story is compromised by an effort to make the truth fit, or to mold or end a pattern where there may be none. This doesn’t kill anything but it does lead to an increase in dramatic closing sentiments in paragraphs and chapters. These attempts at sweeping philosophy increase toward the end of the book.
Take this book off the shelf if you are looking for a meaningful yet light read. The page count is minimal. There is nothing to read over again to catch the meaning. I appreciated the sparse but present meaningful statements. Some descriptions overreach but McBee keeps his philosophy limited, at least at the beginning. He does not preach. As the story goes on, the heavy statements increase but they don’t smother. Nothing is cryptic in the story, though the narrator moves between a constant state of reflection and deciphering.
There may be an excess of effort made to bind a true life lived to a story arch, but the narrator doesn’t expect the reader to be as amazed or frustrated as he. Facts are stated; we follow along. We are invited but we don’t have to stress out if we don’t want. Maybe there could be a little more harshness or a swing could be taken at the reader’s comfortable seat, but why? This wasn’t what the narrator was looking for. There was enough violence thrust upon him in reality, so why do the same to the imagination of someone listening? Maybe this is the emblem of someone wiser, a true teacher: to experience and pass on the wisdom and not the pain. I won’t try to say this is the mark of a man. I have far too many books left to read and stories to hear to make that decision.
