There There • Tommy Orange

With my reading choices, I often sail in safe waters. Life is limited—and too short for a bad book. But every now and then I also try literature outside what I usually love, even if the hit rate can be very poor. There There was recommended to me, along with the suggestion that I should be “open-minded.” Of course, contemporary books generally have a tougher time with me. Contemporary literature in Germany, for example, is a complete fail these days—I give it a very wide berth. Whether There There is a good book or just another entry in the list of contemporary disappointments—you’ll find out in this post.

There There follows ten Native Americans who live in or around Oakland and are descendants of various North American Indigenous nations. The book portrays different characters with their very own life stories and problems: a woman who took part in the occupation of Alcatraz in the ’70s; a young filmmaker; a drug dealer; or Tony, who struggles with the consequences of his mother’s alcohol use during pregnancy. The individual chapters bear the characters’ names and present an episode from their lives or portray them in different ways. The fates of all these characters are interwoven, and their paths finally converge at a powwow—a traditional Indigenous celebration.

I was curious what to expect. Based on the blurb, I feared I was holding an ideological novel. I was surprised at how unagitated it is. It does without sentimentality, excessive accusation, or ideology. The chapters are fragmentary, and Orange manages—with plain yet very cinematic, image-rich prose—to bring scenes to life before the reader’s inner eye. His style is varied, and he shifts his narrative mode: some chapters use an omniscient narrator, others switch to first person, and even second person. That variety is refreshing, though the effect—the sense of closeness and insight I had into the figures—felt quite similar across modes. Still, Orange often finds striking formulations that make it easy to feel with the characters:

“She […] tried for two hours to tell herself she was sleeping—or maybe she did doze off now and then, but dreamed that she couldn’t sleep.”

p. 105

Even so, the language only moderately thrilled me. It’s very precise, clearly aimed at conjuring a specific image or feeling for the reader. At the same time, the sentences were often too plain for my taste. They certainly fit the characters. But in terms of reading flow and the resonance the book stirred in me, it landed more in the average range.

What fascinated me was how the book considers the cultural legacy of Native Americans. It’s not a culture that no longer exists and has vanished (as, for example, in Horcynus Orca). It’s a culture that is still present yet was torn and scattered by the destruction and takeover of its homelands by Europeans. It hasn’t completely disappeared; rather, it has been massively damaged and transformed—further shaped by urbanization, industrialization, and technology. That’s also where the meaning of the title “There There” lies: there is no longer a singular “there”—no home. It was torn away and rebuilt—directly in the novel with reference to Oakland, and more broadly the mother earth, the land that once belonged to Native Americans, the fertile ground of their culture that no longer exists as it did.

The few remaining representatives of this culture are scattered, and the novel clearly shows how the characters search for cultural identity—how they struggle with themselves and how they are the descendants of a socially marginalized minority facing corresponding disadvantages. All of the figures have serious problems: many are dependent on alcohol or drugs, involved in the drug scene, struggling with identity, facing family issues, and living in precarious circumstances—with very high suicide rates due to sheer lack of prospects.

“In a community in South Dakota where I worked recently, people told me they were all grieved out. That was after seventeen suicides in eight months.”

p. 107

The episodes and figures convey this missing or deficient cultural identity, the hardship, the broken sociocultural environment that nevertheless carries traces of Indigenous culture. That’s what is so compelling: through these many heavy personal fates, the reader can still perceive those traces. How difficult this identity formation is becomes clear again and again. For example, when “Pretendian” comes up—people claimed not to have the right to be considered Native American because they are only a small part Indigenous and otherwise of white descent. Or in the belief in “Indian curses,” while at the same time very little knowledge is passed on to children and grandchildren. Some characters suffer because of this, for instance Orvil, who would like to dance at a powwow but practices in secret. Especially in adolescence, when one’s own identity, origins, and personality matter, the figures often have to struggle. One’s cultural background plays an important role, and the fact that it is so deeply damaged for Native Americans is palpable throughout the book. Orange often finds very good words for this:

“Here’s the thing: If you can afford not to think about history, not even to notice it—whether you learned it right or not, or whether it’s even worth your notice—then you can be sure you’re on board the ship, being served hors d’oeuvres and fluffed pillows, while others are out at sea, drowning or clinging to little life rafts they have to keep reinflating, short of breath and never having heard of hors d’oeuvres.”

p. 139

The novel culminates in a powwow where all the characters ultimately meet. I hadn’t heard of powwows before. A powwow is a traditional gathering of Native American communities that includes dance, song, drumming, and other cultural activities. It serves to celebrate cultural heritage, strengthen community, and pass on traditions. Orange introduces it as follows:

“We made powwows because we need a place to be together. Something intertribal, something old, something to make money, something to work toward—for our jewelry, our songs, our dances, our drum. We keep powwows going because there aren’t many places we can all gather, where we can see and hear one another.”

p. 137

Orange gathers many more reflections on this heavy Indigenous inheritance: from the TV test pattern with an “Indian head,” to the question of who counts as Native American if someone is only one-eighth, one-sixteenth, or even less, to the many metaphors for what was done to Indigenous peoples.

Tommy Orange, born in Oakland in 1982, has Indigenous roots himself. With There There he was a finalist for the 2019 Pulitzer Prize and won the 2019 American Book Award. This year a follow-up to There There appeared under the title Wandering Stars. Beyond that, he has published just one short story.

At the front of the book there’s a brief glossary listing the individual characters. I found this very helpful whenever a few days passed between reading sessions. I also quite liked the book’s design: the feather on the dust jacket and the endpapers, the choice of colors, and the typography. There’s no ribbon marker or other extras, though—bibliophilically speaking, just the basics.

Conclusion: With There There, Tommy Orange has written a novel that felt genuinely new and unfamiliar to me—both in theme and in narrative approach. The way Orange weaves together his characters’ paths and individual fates while offering an intense look at the cultural dislocation and shaken foundations of Native Americans is fascinating, superbly executed, and truly broadens the horizon. The focus on the remnants of a culture lends the book a deep layer of meaning. Orange’s tightly calibrated prose—varied and tailored to his figures—hits home, creates vivid, expressive scenes, but was often a bit too plain for my taste. All in all, it’s a very well-composed novel that offers an authentic view of a cultural sphere that would otherwise have remained completely closed to me.

Book information: There There • Tommy Orange • Hanser Verlag • 284 pages • ISBN 9783446264137