Oreo

by Ross, Fran

  Oreo at the Central Library, Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street

  She spent half an hour perfecting her forgery of Dr. Resnick’s scrambled-egg signature. Then she rented a typewriter and composed a letter. Its chief paragraph was:

  The bearer is therefore authorized to withdraw any and all deposits made to account no. 865-30-2602.

  Oreo at GI

  She handed the sealed envelope to a man with a head as knobby as a potato and a shaggy, rounded snout of a beard that made him look like a botch of an American bison, the Wolfman, and Cocteau’s Beast—an Irving. He slit open the envelope, read the letter, and subjected Oreo to untoward scrutiny. She tried to look dull-normal when he said what she had expected someone to say.

  “I’ll have to verify this with Dr. Resnick.”

  Oreo replaced dull-normal with sullen-hurt, the look of the congenitally insulted. “He jus’ gib me de ’scription. Say fill it.” She had decided to use Hap’s economical sentence structure and Louise’s down-home accent.

  “I still have to verify it, miss,” he said, smiling like a shaggy potato—almost imperceptibly.

  “He jus’ gib it to me,” she repeated sullenly. “Say fill it.” Irving picked up the phone and dialed the number at the top of Oreo’s letter. “Dr. Resnick? GI here. I have a young lady here.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s your name, girlie?”

  “Christie.”

  “A Miss Christie.” He chuckled. “She says you just gave her a ‘prescription’ and told her to fill it.”

  Oreo could hear what sounded like angry barking at the other end.

  Irving held the phone away from his ear. “Okay, okay, sir. You can’t be too careful in these cases, you know. Just wanted to double-check.”

  “I work fo’ ’em,” Oreo said petulantly when he hung up. “Send me fo’ ’scriptions all de time,” she added, just loud enough to lead him to believe that she had not meant him to hear her.

  “I have to run this through the computer,” said Irving. “Only take a minute.” He left the room.

  Oreo counted the dots in the wallpaper design while he was gone. She got to 381 before he returned. She would have to tell Louise to play it.

  “Now, just as a last, final check, what’s the name of account number 865-30-2602?”

  “Huh?” said Oreo dull-normally.

  “The people you work for, what’s their name?”

  “Now, what Mr. Sam’s las’ name?” she asked herself. “Begin with a S. Don’t tell me. I get it shortly.” She bit her lip. “Schwartz,” she said triumphantly. “That what it is—Schwartz.”

  Irving smiled his unseemly potato smile. “Good girl. It never hurts to check.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” said Oreo, smiling her cookie smile.

  Oreo leaving GI

  She walked out of Generation, Incorporated, swinging her cane and whistling “Hatikvah.” When she tired of that, she switched to “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing.” A special shipping container, about the size of a bread box, knocked against her leg as she walked. In the container were sixty vials of frozen sperm.

  The story of Helen and Samuel, Oreo’s version

  Piecing together all she had learned from Hap, Marvin, and Edgar, what she had known and now knew, Oreo’s scenario went like this: Helen and Samuel meet in college, lust after each other, make out like minks, get married, and make out like minks. In a moment of calm (while the sheets are being changed), they determine to give the world human evidence of their endearment. Jacob would shep such naches from his first grandchild, he would forgive, forget, and make a new will. “At the rate we’re going, it’s a wonder I’m not pregnant already,” Helen says. “It’s understandable, sweetheart,” Samuel says, “up to now, we’ve been taking precautions.” “Of course,” says Helen, “what are you using, honey?” “What am I using? I thought you were using something.” Gravid pause. They decide to have checkups. “Low sperm count,” says the doctor. “Sorry about that.” Samuel is desolate. Then he sees an ad for New York City’s first research center for artificial insemination. Samuel fills vial after vial with semen. GI centrifuges, concentrates, and freezes the issue in liquid nitrogen at minus 321 degrees Fahrenheit. Superimpositions of symbolic swiving and sets of vials being defrosted. Nine months later: “It’s a girl!” But Jacob does not forgive, forget, or make a new will. In fact, he says, “This you call my aynekel? In any war between Israel and Egypt, may all the Arabs have eyes like you got.” Perhaps a boy? They try—getting and spending and thawing for days on end. In the fullness of time, Jimmie C. is born. But even before that, Jacob has made clear: “Kosher kinder or you’ll get makkes.” And even before that, Helen and Samuel have split up. Solely over Jacob’s gelt? Perhaps, perhaps not. In any case, Samuel determines to make his own fortune. Montage of Variety headlines of the “O’s Pop Top Flop” genre.

  After years of floppolas, Samuel meets Mildred. Miraculously, his luck seems to change. He starts pulling down heavy change doing commercials. He marries his luck. He can qualify for Jacob’s loot as soon as Mildred has a totsicle. What a bulba: Jacob hates her. Make that two bulbas: Samuel hates her. She’s weird, with her arm in the air and her Lucretia Borgia lab. Samuel reasons: Why should I risk making another boo-boo and lose all that mazuma? Luck or no luck, I’ll give her grounds for divorce. I’ll even let Jacob pick my next wife. Why take chances? I have a potential fortune stored there at GI. All I need is the right oven and—hoo-ha!—bread!

  Clues, shmues

  One of Samuel’s flops must have been a play about Theseus—hence his legendary clues. Of course, the clues had been meant only to make Oreo think of the legend of Theseus. They had had nothing to do with any of her actual adventures. But since from the beginning she had determined what each item on her list signified, she would complete her task and ascribe meaning now, at the end. She took out her list and crossed off “Lucky number” (865-30-2602); “Amazing,” which she felt should have been “A-mazing” (trying to find her way through the labyrinth of the subway); and “Sails” (her black headband and its mirror image). The last she crossed off a bit sadly.

  Samuel had chosen to style himself “Aegeus.” Perhaps he had played the part. Oreo had refreshed her memory of the legend in the library. (She had also found the newsmagazine story on artificial insemination—an invaluable guide to making the withdrawal from the GI sperm bank.) Theseus could be said to have had two fathers—Aegeus and Poseidon. Oreo and Jimmie C. could also be said to have had two fathers—Samuel at room temperature and Samuel frozen. Had the freezing process brought to Samuel’s tsedoodelt mind the god of flowing waters? His brains had definitely been in his tuchis—definitely.

  Oreo planning her next move

  Jacob deserved a few days to mourn in peace. Meanwhile, she would deposit Samuel’s semen in the sperm bank of her choice. There was no rush. The frozen tadpoles would keep for at least five days in their special container. She had been tempted at first to destroy the vials. But she was not ready to see Samuel die twice in two days. She thought of her mother. Helen would probably say, “Your father’s dead. Let him rest in peace,” and urge her to spill the seed. Her grandfather James would probably tell her to soak Jacob for every cent she could get in return for the vials.

  But why not give Jacob an opportunity for what she was pleased to call a Judeo-Négro concordat? He was, after all, her paternal grandfather. They shared misfortune. Perhaps, in these circumstances, he would greet his granddaughter as a zayde should, with love and affection. If he did, she might give him the vials as a present. It was no skin off her skin. If, on the other hand, Jacob’s greeting was not all that she felt a grandfather’s should be, well, then . . . She would have to think about how best to impress upon Jacob the full import of her actions, how make him appreciate her fleeting possession of divine caprice as she poured the last of his strain down the drain. It was all up to Jacob, of course. The way he acted would in large part determine the way she acted. She would allow fo
r his still fresh grief, his shock when she told him who she was and how she got there. Yes, she would cut him some slack. But, for all that, she would not forget herself completely.

  Oreo put her package down at the intersection, resting one sandaled foot lightly on top of it as she waited for the light to change. She idly twirled her walking stick, smiled her cookie smile, and whispered slowly and contentedly to herself, “Nemo me impune lacessit.”

  A Key for Speed Readers, Nonclassicists, Etc.

  Pandion and Pylia beget Aegeus. Pittheus and wife (let’s call her Neglectedea) beget Aethra. Aegeus visits old friend Pittheus. On the same night, both Aegeus and randy sea-god Poseidon sleep with Aethra. Aethra conceives. Who’s the father? Generous Poseidon to Aegeus: “I’ve got enough kids—he’s yours.” Aegeus to Aethra: “Well, I’ll have to be getting back to Athens now. Send the kid to me when he can lift this rock and recover the sword and sandals I’m leaving under it.”

  Aethra names her son Theseus (“tokens deposited”). “Boy, it’s hot in here,” says visiting relative Heracles (Hercules), flinging off the skin of the Nemean lion he’s slain. Young Theseus and playmates enter, see lion. Playmates panic. Theseus attacks lion. “Brave lad.” Later, he invents wrestling.

  When Theseus is sixteen, Aethra says, “I’ve got something to tell you.” Theseus lifts rock, retrieves sword and sandals, and sets out to see his father. He decides to take the overland route because it’s dangerous. He wants to be another Heracles.

  Epidauris: Theseus kills the lame bandit Periphetes, who’d been dispatching tourists with a club of brass (or iron). Theseus confiscates the club (Heracles has one like it).

  Isthmus of Corinth: Sinis likes to play games with people and trees. You bend this tree, see; then you tie . . . Theseus does unto Sinis what Sinis, etc.

  Crommyon: Thesus kills a wild sow.

  The Cliffs of Megaris: “Wash my feet,” the bandit Sciron (“parasol”) would say to passing strangers, and then he would punt them into the sea. Theseus does unto Sciron . . .

  Eleusis: Cercyon likes to wrestle wayfarers to the death. Theseus invented wrestling, remember?

  Corydallus: Procrustes has a long bed and a short bed (or one bed). He fits overnight guests to his bed(s) by racking or lopping. Theseus does unto Procrustes . . .

  Cephissus River, Attica: Theseus has done unto so many that he takes time out for purification.

  Temple of Apollo Delphinius (the Dolphin), Athens: Hard-hats building the temple make unseemly comments to Theseus, believing that our hero (in braids and white robe) is either a girl or gay. Theseus tosses their oxcart (or ox) over the temple.

  The Palace, Athens: Aegeus has married Medea. She knows that Theseus is not just another stranger. If he’s who she thinks he is her child(ren) won’t get to sit on the throne. Medea to Aegeus about the Stranger: “He’s dangerous, poison him.” But Aegeus recognizes his token sword, knocks the poisoned cup to the ground. “My son!” General rejoicing. Medea and child(ren) take flight (she has a dragon-drawn chariot).

  Months Later: Ambassadors from Crete come to Athens. “Well, here it is that time again. Where are the seven youths and seven maidens we need for the Minotaur’s dinner, in tribute for [another story] the murder of Androgeus?” (Cretan king Minos’ wife Pasiphaë and a white bull were the proud progenitors of a fine half-bull, half-human with a taste for all-human flesh.) Theseus says, “I’ll go with the gang and kill the Minotaur, Dad.” “Son, be careful. And for Zeus’ sake, change the black sails on this death ship to white ones if you’re successfull.” “Black sails to white—okay, Dad.”

  Crete: Theseus boasts, “I’m a son of Poseidon.” “Who isn’t?” says Minos. “But prove it.” Minos tosses his ring into the sea. Theseus dives in and, with the help of Amphitrite and/or lesser Nereids, retrieves it, along with a golden (or jeweled) crown (“You have to lay it on thick with these Cretans”). Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, ever a softy for a showboat, gives Theseus a sword and a ball of string so that he can find his way through the Minotaur’s Labyrinth (built by Daedalus), kill it/him, and find his way out again.

  All the baddies are killed; all the youths and maidens get away. Theseus abandons Ariadne on the island of Naxos. “I just can’t stand to be in anyone’s debt. Besides, Athena or Minerva or whatever her name is came to me in a dream and told me to do it. Now, was I supposed to change the sail if I was successful or unsuccessful?”

  Athens: Aegeus, seeing the black-sailed ship, flings himself into the sea—hence its name, Aegean.

  White is the talismanic color in the Theseus legend, eight the magic number.

  Further Adventures of the Hero: Theseus and the Amazons; Theseus and Phaedra and Hippolytus; Theseus and Pereithous and Helen and Hades.

  Aegeus — Samuel Schwartz

  Aethra — Helen Clark

  Apollo Delphinius, Temple of — Apollo Theater

  Ariadne — Adriana Minotti

  Cephissus — Jordan Rivers’ sauna

  Cercyon — Kirk

  Heracles — Uncle Herbert

  Medea — Mildred Schwartz

  Minos — Minotti

  Minotaur — Toro the dog

  Pandion — Jacob Schwartz

  Pasiphaé — Bovina Minotti

  Periphetes — Perry the gonif

  Phaea — Pig killed by taxi

  Pittheus — James Clark

  Procrustes — Manager of Kropotkin’s Shoe Store

  Sciron — Parnell the pimp

  Sinis — Joe Doe

  Theseus — Oreo

  Afterword

  Under the banner of the Black Arts movement that emerged as the cultural component of Black Power politics of the 1960s and 1970s, African American writers and artists struggled to define and practice a distinctive black aesthetic that departed from traditions based in the history and values of European cultures. The Black Arts movement was fueled by the desire to use art to recover—or, if necessary, to create or reinvent—an authentic black culture based in the particular historical experience of Americans of African descent.

  Like the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and 1930s, the Black Arts movement resulted in an outpouring of music, art, and literature, and inspired many educated and middle-class African Americans to re-evaluate and to identify themselves more closely with the vernacular culture associated with the black proletariat. At its best, the Black Arts movement stimulated a creative exploration of the folk, popular, and fine art traditions of a community in which diversity and unity, innovation and preservation are interactive forces. At its worst, in their eagerness to purge black identity of all traces of Europe, some critics and theorists proposed narrow prescriptions for black art that resulted in formulaic expression from some artists. Even this served to provoke others to question and transgress the limits, while the thorough exploration of blackness not only contributed to the collective self-knowledge of African Americans, but also helped to redefine the culture of the United States as a hybrid multicultural gumbo rather than a white monocultural melting pot.

  Paradoxically, as much as it was concerned with defining the cultural distinctiveness of African Americans, the Black Arts movement also helped to create unprecedented opportunities for the creative expression of African Americans to enter and influence “mainstream” American culture. Sometimes the more “black rage” was vented in the work, the more the writer was celebrated in the mainstream culture. In addition to this tense interaction of political, aesthetic, and commercial impulses, another contradiction that the Black Arts movement posed for authors was the idea that black Americans possessed no authentic literature or language of their own. Writers wrestled with the dilemma that they were severed from the spoken languages and oral traditions of their African ancestors, and had no intrinsic connection to the language and literature of their historical oppressors. The English language itself was perceived by some as a tool of oppression. The more fluent in standard English, or other European languages, the more immersed in established
literary culture, the more likely one might be accused of forsaking one’s own traditions, or abandoning the black community—by writing works it could not comprehend, or enjoy, or draw upon for inspiration in the coming revolution that radical activists envisioned.

  Fran Ross’s novel, Oreo, was published in 1974, when the Black Arts movement had reached the height of its influence. Yet, as its title signals, Oreo does not claim to represent any singularly authentic black experience. More eccentric than Afrocentric, Ross’s novel calls attention to the hybridity rather than the racial or cultural purity of African Americans. Ross’s playfully innovative novel displays a discursive spectrum engaged in by African American characters who express themselves in a variety of languages and dialects, including standard English, African American vernacular, and Yiddish.

  Compared to more familiar works of African American literature, this book might seem at first glance bizarrely idiosyncratic, but precedents for it do exist. In certain respects it bears a striking resemblance to a text that was published in 1859, but not widely read until it was rediscovered and reprinted in 1983. The first known novel by an African American woman, Harriet E. Wilson’s provocatively titled Our Nig is the story of a freeborn woman of color, the indentured servant of a white Northern family who is treated little better than a slave. Like Wilson’s novel, Ross’s Oreo challenges received opinion about African Americans. Oreo is a character whose linguistic and cultural competence allows her to travel between two distinct minority cultures, while enjoying the resources of the dominant culture and exploring her own identity. Both Wilson and Ross have created intelligent African American female characters whose strategic placement within the white household allows them intimate knowledge of America’s family secrets. From a position at the intersection of black and white, both Wilson’s Frado and Ross’s Oreo articulate astute critiques of America’s hypocrisy about race. The two novels share other features. In each story, a young, attractive, plucky, defiant biracial heroine, in the absence of protectors, learns to defend herself against the physical aggression of hostile antagonists. Both authors employ innovative narrative strategies, resulting in complexly discursive, generically hybrid texts. Both novels were originally published in small first editions that were largely ignored; and because their works found few receptive readers in their lifetime, both authors remained virtually unknown until their books were rediscovered.