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A review by tiannagripp
Fresh Off the Boat: A Memoir by Eddie Huang
2.0
I really wanted to like this book, but I just couldn't get down with it.
Imagine the most braggadocious rapper you've ever heard. You like his rhymes and style in 3-4 minute bursts. Now imagine reading 250+ pages of this. This constant convincing that the rapper is smarter, quicker and better dressed than everyone. He sucked at school because he was so great at school. He was the best fighter in the playground. Welcome to a book about the greatest man in the world!
I found Eddie Huang exhausting. When I was just listening to him tell me his story, his pain, how proud he was of himself for succeeding when so many people didn't want him to, it felt earnest and sincere. But then the bragging. So much bragging. Another theme was him attempting to convince the reader that he didn't care about whiteness and white culture when he so clearly felt rejected by it. When he called himself a "rotten banana" and wanted me to believe that he didn't also find it painful that certain people in his own culture didn't accept him. And I get it. Because I was this person at one point in my life. "Too black for the whites, too white for the blacks," I would say. And then I realized that my ass is black no matter what. When I'm listening to rock and roll, or rap. Eating fried chicken or boiled potatoes (what do white people eat? I mean, not like haggis, but what food represents American whiteness? Cucumber sandwiches? I digress.). The only person who needs to be comfortable is me.
And I wanted to believe that Eddie was being honest, but it read like a ton of posturing. Posturing about HOW Asian he was. HOW real and hip hop he is. HOW anti-white America he is. (Though, dude, you went to rush a white fraternity "just to see"? Miss me with that. You wanted in, but you hated authority and couldn't keep up the facade. Again, I GET IT, but I don't believe that story the way it was told for a second.)
It was loaded with hip-hop references. I thought I'd like that part, but after a while, it just felt exhausting. Like a white person greeting me with an overly complicated handshake and asking me if I like The Wire and Barack Obama. I GET IT. YOU LIKE BLACK STUFF. I promise I believe you. You don't have to bury me in Wu Tang lyrics. All-in-all, this book read like Eddie Huang had a lot to prove. I'm happy for his success. Happy he wrote a book, (hell, I still haven't) happy he's still making buns and changing lives one dumpling at a time. But I cannot with all the bravado in this book, I just cannot.
Imagine the most braggadocious rapper you've ever heard. You like his rhymes and style in 3-4 minute bursts. Now imagine reading 250+ pages of this. This constant convincing that the rapper is smarter, quicker and better dressed than everyone. He sucked at school because he was so great at school. He was the best fighter in the playground. Welcome to a book about the greatest man in the world!
I found Eddie Huang exhausting. When I was just listening to him tell me his story, his pain, how proud he was of himself for succeeding when so many people didn't want him to, it felt earnest and sincere. But then the bragging. So much bragging. Another theme was him attempting to convince the reader that he didn't care about whiteness and white culture when he so clearly felt rejected by it. When he called himself a "rotten banana" and wanted me to believe that he didn't also find it painful that certain people in his own culture didn't accept him. And I get it. Because I was this person at one point in my life. "Too black for the whites, too white for the blacks," I would say. And then I realized that my ass is black no matter what. When I'm listening to rock and roll, or rap. Eating fried chicken or boiled potatoes (what do white people eat? I mean, not like haggis, but what food represents American whiteness? Cucumber sandwiches? I digress.). The only person who needs to be comfortable is me.
And I wanted to believe that Eddie was being honest, but it read like a ton of posturing. Posturing about HOW Asian he was. HOW real and hip hop he is. HOW anti-white America he is. (Though, dude, you went to rush a white fraternity "just to see"? Miss me with that. You wanted in, but you hated authority and couldn't keep up the facade. Again, I GET IT, but I don't believe that story the way it was told for a second.)
It was loaded with hip-hop references. I thought I'd like that part, but after a while, it just felt exhausting. Like a white person greeting me with an overly complicated handshake and asking me if I like The Wire and Barack Obama. I GET IT. YOU LIKE BLACK STUFF. I promise I believe you. You don't have to bury me in Wu Tang lyrics. All-in-all, this book read like Eddie Huang had a lot to prove. I'm happy for his success. Happy he wrote a book, (hell, I still haven't) happy he's still making buns and changing lives one dumpling at a time. But I cannot with all the bravado in this book, I just cannot.