Black, White, and Jewish

Many of us look back, analyze, and dissect each moment we've lived with clarity and wisdom, berating ourselves with the pointless statement, "If I had only." It's through this universal experience that author Rebecca Walker, the 32-year-old daughter of Alice Walker, connects with her readers.

Black, White, and Jewish starts out as an intelligent, passionate memoir about growing up biracial and bicultural (her father is white and Jewish). When she was a young girl, Walker's parents encouraged her to be proud of the colorful aspects of her genealogy. After their divorce, she lived the strange double life of shared custody. Unfortunately, at this early point in the book, Walker stops writing about the dynamics of her family relationships and about the development of characters (Rebecca's included). In other words, this is where the interesting part ends.

Walker's self-absorbed world disintegrates into tale after destructive tale of "the girl the world cannot accept." She gets shipped from household to household, a series of ever-changing environments (the African-American neighborhood of her then-struggling mother, the white-picket-fence suburbs of her father) where she never quite fits in. Almost every relationship she forms is doomed: Alleged friends (both black and white) claim that she is either "too black" or "not black enough."

Sadly, the book rarely mentions her mother, or their relationship, in any detail. The writer may have wanted the audience to think of her as Rebecca rather than as "Alice Walker's daughter." Then again, if that were her intention, she might have used her father's last name instead of her mother's more famous maiden name -- but what do I know. Also lacking are any references to religious experience (Jewish or otherwise) and any discussion of triumphant moments in her life. The book leaves the reader with big questions, especially about Walker's sexuality. The story subtly and ambiguously raises the issue, yet never directly confronts it: She talks about male partners in graphic detail, but then refers in passing to a lover as "she."

The most important point of Walker's book is clearly that shared custody does not work, but I would have liked to know more. Almost in spite of herself, Walker reveals the promising writing style that may someday be paired with a formidable story. Until then, I have only one thing to say to Ms. Walker, something someone should have said years ago: "Girl, let it go."