Book Review: Brathwaite flexes his writing chops and expands Black literary canon with debut ‘Rage’

There was a class at my university called Black Arts, Black Power. Lester Fabian Brathwaite’s “Rage” would fit snugly right into that syllabus.

With an extensive writing portfolio already under his belt working for publications like “Out,” Brathwaite’s debut book is part memoir, part academic review of culture and society, part philosophical musings of a queer Black millennial man who was born in Guyana and grew up in New York. It fits comfortably alongside the works of other greats to whom it pays homage, like Huey P. Newton, James Baldwin and Nina Simone — the latter being apparent by the book’s full title: “Rage: On Being Queer, Black, Brilliant … and Completely Over It.”

No doubt Brathwaite is a great writer, but he’s also a great thinker.

In a chapter largely focused on muscular dysmorphia, he makes a shockingly persuasive — if bracingly cavalier — argument for bodily autonomy that invokes trans rights, women’s rights, drug use and bodybuilding.

“Rage” is conceptually heavy and multilayered, but with casual syntax and regular use of pop icons and common people, places and things as touchstones. At the same time, there’s a touch of high-brow, with several literary references and famous turns of phrases thoughtfully employed to bring new light to old ideas — and sometimes turn an idea on its head.

With a teaspoon of empathy and an open mind, you’ll find that any differences between the author and the reader melt away because the heart of what Brathwaite is saying is universal.

That said, “Rage” is anything but demure. The Table of Contents is peppered with profanities and even a chapter titled “I Hate the Gays.” Readers will either be turned off here before ever buying the book, or tempted to know more about this self-described “hateful child who grew into an even more hateful adult” — said, like most reflections in the book, with a protective layer of comedy around a kernel of truth.

But being off-putting is part of Brathwaite’s shtick, one readers have not only allowed but praised time and again with arguably more upsetting works (looking at you, “Lolita”).

Still, the writing can admittedly be annoyingly abrasive, like with its overuse of the f-slur and other choices that I personally didn’t love. But in the end, Brathwaite really grew on me. He wholeheartedly owns these pieces of himself. He reclaims words and is ready to live wildly, make mistakes and then grow from them.

And the tender moments hit harder for it, whether Brathwaite is describing his mother’s burial on his 14th birthday or the fifth-grade teacher who took him to Boston for being her top student.

Is “Rage” a little thick? Yes, at times, for sure. But it’s more like academic-lite, broken up with comedic relief, romantic exploits and, as Brathwaite loves to say, debauchery. If you find the starting pace a bit slow, rest assured it ramps up — quickly.

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