Control Negro by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson, 2017
The magic trick:
Creating a complicated, believable character at the heart of a high-concept story
This is the first story in Johnson’s huge hit of a story collection, My Monticello, published in 2021. The title novella was the star of the show, but “Control Negro” is a stunning, memorable story in its own right.
It’s an idea story for sure. The premise, or concept, frames everything here. A man is writing to his son, after 20 years of secretive silence. Turns out this man has steered clear of his son all this time in order to conduct a kind of sociological experiment.
Like I said, it’s a big idea and perhaps a little difficult to square in the reader’s mind. So it runs the risk of careening off the rails as a story. But never fear, Johnson keeps the story on track brilliantly.
The first-person narrator – the man writing the letter – is the key. We have to buy him as a) believable and b) not a monster. And we do, I think. Or at least I did.
She nails the academic speak and personality. He writes with overly precise or flowery language, which on one hand is admirably intelligent but on the other really a little bit pompous. Similarly, his rationale for this project is admirably intelligent and insightful, while ultimately being a little too godlike for most tastes. Inarguably though, he comes off as a real person, despite the story he tells that feels almost surreal in its drama.
Oh, and then there is the ending. I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t yet read the story, but it’s a masterful and damning conclusion that both repudiates and validates the social experiment. The reader’s judgments of the man are gone, and our ire focuses instead on American society.
And that’s quite a trick on Johnson’s part.
The selection:
The following fall, Mother insisted I attend a private boarding school, miles out of town. I wasn’t to live in the dormitory with the others. Instead, I woke before sunrise, walked out to the highway, and caught a ride with a deacon from our church, an elderly man who smelled of polishing oil. He was the boarding school’s custodian and the only other brown face to grace those halls besides mine. During the school day, we never looked at each other. I was always aware when he was in the same room, but I never let my eyes rest on his, not until we were far away from that place, and even then it was with a kind of shame.
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