Philip Roth and American Manhood
As a first-generation American of Cuban descent, people are always surprised, if not dismayed, when they find out that my personal literary canon consists of the following writers: Roth, Carver, Shepard, Miller, Salinger, Hannah. Whenever I drop one of these names to a fellow literary citizen, I’m met with a pained look, not unlike that of a puppy whose biscuit has just been snatched. The look, of course, says: How can you, a Cuban American from Miami—a child of exiles!—read those writers? Don’t you know what they stand for? Didn’t you get the memo that we’re not supposed to bring up their names in polite company anymore?
To those who’ve looked at me as I’ve committed an atrocity by praising Henry Miller, let me say: I know that my favorite writers are white males. I know that no one, especially not a Cuban American person of color, is supposed to read them anymore. I know that they must be ridiculed and replaced and hopefully one day forgotten and relegated to the bargain bin for the crimes of white men throughout recorded history. I know, I know, I know. I got the memo. I read the think pieces. I’ve even skimmed through some of the books of the new woke canon in hopes that the politically correct, intersectional writers would teach me how to be a proper person with the proper beliefs. And yet, I still can’t get enough of those pesky, problematic white dudes.