In spite of marginal notability compared to the likes of household names, such as bestsellers, which it was not, USA was, however, a controversial novel. Mellon Street — Milhouse Dahmer’s publisher — never did recover — following in the wake of USA’s emergence as a relentless go-to source of kindling by critics in critical theory, Milhouse Dahmer was left as perhaps the only author on a Mellon Street roster in the past twenty years of any significant note.

 

“Critics have long been ambivalent of USA,” Franklin Brady said to his students. He was seated in a chair behind his desk, which seemed unusual, as it was nearly the trademark of Franklin Brady to lecture while standing, pacing the front foyer of his room during lectures. His students took immediate notice of this apparent anomaly in his demeanor as he sat speaking listlessly being the metal desk. “By some critics –of the critics who praised it,” he went on, “USA was an important statement on matters of race relations, and by race relations, I do mean, of course, specifically the race relations between African Americans and caucasian Americans,” he said. His tone shifting perceptibly from one that was listless to one that was conveying poignancy.

 

Terance Morgan felt a gulp sink down his own throat as Franklin Brady said this last sentence. It seemed like his body had reacted to do so, on its own, without conscious direction. Terance Morgan had grown somewhat paranoid in recent weeks that Franklin Brady was less admiring of him. In weeks prior, Terence Morgan was more generally dumbfounded by his own perception that Franklin Brady seemed inexplicably all-approving of him; as Terence Morgan’s old habits kicked into full gear, however — as the semester progressed — as Terence Morgan began missing classes, showing up to classes unprepared, arriving late, and things of the like, he had soon suspected that Franklin Brady was rendered much less impressed, which bothered Terence Morgan somewhat greatly, as he felt adamantly that Franklin Brady was one of the very best professors he’d yet had. This was provoking enough to leave Terence Morgan with a strong feeling of guilt for his own lack of academic fortitude — guilt that was strong though not strong enough to change his bad habits, but strong enough, though, to render himself ashamed for having such habits. He was convinced that Franklin Brady was eyeing him as he spoke; Franklin Brady wasn’t.

 

“When analyzing USA, it’s important to account for Milhouse Dahmer’s own background — something which some critics do fail to consider — as mind boggling as that may sound — and is something some critics do always fail to consider — no matter what it is they are critiquing — something which gripes me like no other, to be honest. But all the same, as I was saying, before he was an author, Milhouse Dahmer was a Phd candidate in the field of anthropology, a field which I myself had studied as an undergraduate,” Franklin Brady said, reminiscing on this fact of his past with fondness.

 

“There is a famous essay by an influential anthropologist — Horace Miner — Body Ritual Among The Nacirema. Published in 1956, the essay is a staple reading of undergraduates — in fact, it was the first piece of literature I myself had read, my freshman year, all those years back when — and in fact, as I discovered just this week, Professor Greenberg, the director of our anthropology department, assigns the essay to students every semester as the opening material for his intro course, APY 101. Professor Greenburg — by the way — is an excellent educator. If there might be any of you here in need of satisfying a–world civilizations requirement–or whatever, what have you, I do certainly recommend Professor Greenberg.”

 

Franklin Brady stood up from his chair. “But, so, anyway,” he said, continuing, and began pacing the front foyer of the room.

 

Franklin Brady did admire Professor Greenberg quite much. As the notably young professor Franklin Brady was — being only recently hired and still yet to establish himself, he took great solace in knowing that the tenured anthropology director, Professor Greenberg, admired Franklin Brady to extent he did. Though their fields were different, their passions were identical. Franklin Brady was well observed by colleagues for his oftentimes openly verbal desire to write novels and, not actually be teaching them — though this caveat as it was, never was explicitly stated by Franklin Brady, of course, as he was actively mindful for his own professional well being; however, as it was held deep inside him, the truth of the matter was, that Franklin Brady’s dream was to be a writer — a writer such as the very writers of the works on which he was lecturing.

 

And so, there entered his friendship with Professor Greenberg. Like Franklin Brady, he too had desired from his own respective field more than what his career could bring him — Professor Greenberg, as an educator, may have taught anthropology to anthropology students, but Benjamin Greenberg, as the man he was, had wanted nothing less but to perform real field work in his real field. Both Franklin Brady and professor Greenberg, in this sense were very much the same, and they had come to see this much in each other rather quickly — the only real difference in this sense between them was Professor Greenberg’s chances at self-redemption — at the age that he was and, as he’d have to admit, if albeit begrudgingly, enjoying the very real comforts of his impressively earned tenure — the young and thought as brash professor, Franklin Brady had conversely still many years left to plot his own great escape from the walls of academia.

 

“This was the very source of some astute criticism Dahmer received in 1986 — the year USA was published — the fact that Millhouse Dahmer had a background in anthropology. One critic had made this connection and drew the parallel to Horace Miner’s essay — citing Horace’s Nacirema, which intentionally spells American backwards — Miner’s essay was written as a clever spoof on American culture and our own proclivities for ethnocentrism — the essay begins as a biassing ethnography of a strange people, known as the Nacirema  — it goes on and reads in this fashion, describing the habits and behaviors of its people — only at the ending is the reader then made to realize that the strange people he or she has just read of, was in fact his or her own self. It truly is a brilliant essay, and in many ways, it is also a work of art — Not unlike a work of fiction. And so, the critic had claimed this — that Dahmer’s USA — The United States of Africa — was in some way or another, a total ripoff of Horace Miner’s creative efforts. This, however, is a very bold claim — Miner’s essay is an academic essay, with a concrete foundation and anthropological basis — USA, on the other hand, is nothing of the sort. And not to mention the storyline is entirely different — The United States of Africa, in USA, is indeed set as the actual continent of Africa — the novel is a reversal of time and space as we know it — Dahmer shows no intention of trying to trick or fool the reader.”

 

Franklin Brady paused his lecture. Stacy had been raising her hand. “Yes, Stacy, sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

 

“I have to say, I think it’s weird that the prose in USA reads like poetry but that only it’s when the white people speaking. Did Dahmer ever receive any criticisms for this, specifically?”

 

Franklin Brady’s eyes had brightened. “Yes and no — that’s kind of tough to answer — and that’s a really good question, by the way, and an important observation you make, as well, in and of itself. Dahmer’s critics, of course, as one would expect, have hammered him most heavily for USA’s subject matter. Dahmer writes the dialogue in a splitting fashion: the white slaves speak in poetic prose, and the black owners speak in a standard, functional prose. Dahmer himself has never clarified his reasons for this, and his critics are therefore left only to speculate. It’s important to realize, of course, that Dahmer himself is a white man — that is important, obviously — but equally important, though, is of course that USA is a work of fiction — it is not an editorial in a newspaper, not an autobiography, it’s not a memoir, not his diary — it’s a work of fiction — it’s not a speech, it’s not a textbook, it’s not somebody’s hate mail — it is a work of fiction.”

 

He continued. “Now, as a black man — when I read USA, which I’ve done many times, I really am not offended by it — but I do say this from reading this, though, through the lenses of a writer and as a professor of fictional literature — when I read USA, what I read is but simply a story and that’s it — but that’s that, though — I speak only for myself — colleagues of my own will have differing principles on this very matter — some might be inclined to feel offended, but my own approach, personally, is not one that’s bent on the social conscious. Dr. Brown Easton, however — if you’ve ever heard of that name before — he’s a famous civil rights activist, African American, and an outspoken critical theorist — and he is also, as well, an academic, though not in this particular field, however — he was, though, regardless, very upset by The United States of Africa. He was Dahmer’s most vocal critic. Brown Easton had claimed, actually, that USA was a ‘disservice’ and a ‘slap in the face’ to all parties involved, which meant not only whites and blacks but the human race altogether.”

 

Stacy penned down these words into her notepad, nodding as he spoke. She commented, “It’s interesting, though — how far Dahmer had pushed the envelope yet managed to get published with a major publisher.”

 

Franklin Brady raised his head, but then kept it there, he did not drop it — he didn’t nod — he spoke, “I’m not surprised, actually — If there could be Kerouac, if Ginsberg could write Howl — Dahmer, thirty years after, could write United States of Africa,” he said acerbically. Stacy noticed this in his delivery. Franklin Brady continued, “Brown Easton is a smart man, but he’s a hellbender,” he said. He nodded to himself, and continued pacing.

 

“Mr. Morgan,” he said, speaking loudly from across the room. Terance Morgan felt a gulp in his throat again. “You said to me once, that you like beat writers, is that right?”

 

Terence Morgan cleared his throat, “Yeah, I like beat writers,” he answered. Stacy rolled her eyes, although not at him (as she was seated in front of him), when he said this.

 

“I applaud you for saying that,” Franklin Brady said. Stacy was stunned when she heard this. He continued, “At this level, people tend to act uppity, at times, especially in regards to what writers they admire. In my 101 class, every student says they love the beats and yet, one year later they’ll forsake their own words. It’s refreshing to see that you know what you like and that you don’t abandon your roots on a whim,” he said, “I swear — if I hear another 2nd year student gush of how much they love — insert esoteric author of the day — then I must be living another day in my life,” he said, shaking his head to himself. Terence Morgan felt another gulp in his throat. He’d thought Franklin Brady must had assumed more in him than he actually was — that he was a literature major, which he wasn’t. “What’s your favorite book, Mr Morgan?”

 

Terence Morgan cleared his throat, “Um, it’s The Road.”

 

There was a pause. Terence Morgan got the feeling in his throat again.

 

“Uh, McCarthy’s–” Franklin Brady said slowly, looking at Terence Morgan, hinting for his feedback. Terrence Morgan said nothing. His face was frozen, staring blankly at his professor. Franklin Brady quickly filled this void, “I mean, On The Road, of course, I had misheard you” he said, nodding to himself. Terence Morgan nodded in return — On The Road was in fact what Terence Morgan had meant saying, but he did not, however, catch the momentary lapse that was caused by his error.

Franklin Brady clapped his hands — comically. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, “I mean, I like to hear to anything, really, as long as it’s genuine. Well said, Mr Morgan.”

 

“And, for the record, Mr Morgan, I thought for a moment that you’d said, The Road, which if you had, would be a great answer, too, just as well,” he added, and continued pacing.

 

“Yes, Stacy.” Stacy had been raising her hand. She seemed somewhat irritated. “Sorry to have kept you waiting again,” he added

 

“It’s alright, I know I always have something to say,” she said. Franklin Brady looked at her. He was unsure of how he should react to this. She continued. “You know, speaking as a woman — and as an Indian woman  — Indian American — Asian — not Native American — you know,” she said, in short choppy fragments. Franklin Brady raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure of what Stacy was getting at, but he was intrigued by it, and as well bit stunned by her forthright demeanor. Stacy had paused, but not due to fear, or shyness, or bashfulness — she seemed somewhat frustrated.  “And I mean, I was adopted–” she said, then pausing. Franklin Brady was nodding slowly, as if hoping to encourage her to continue. The room was nearly silent but had seemed then even quieter — everyone was watching Stacy, waiting for her to gut her thoughts out.

 

“USA is a shitty novel,” she said fiercely. Franklin Brady smiled. She then added, “On the Road is kind of shitty, also, and beat literature, just in general is horrible, racist, and sexist.”

 

Franklin Brady tilted back his head. He nodded, “So, you don’t like the beats,” he said. Stacy shook her head, “No, not really.”

“Fair enough,” he said, “That stuff’s not for everyone, but I am kind of surprised that you don’t like On The Road  — That’s a great book.” Franklin Brady had almost stepped over to his left. He was about to start pacing. But he didn’t. “You know, what I like about the beats, is that they had all wrote so honest–”