Follow us on Twitter!I Am Charlotte Simmons, by Tom Wolfe
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November 4th, 2011
A manipulative frat boy of acid morals "knock[s] the dust off" (528) a naive, rural freshman and concludes the experience with public mockery of her bleeding and "hillbilly beaver" (528). Because people are terrible. Basketball, lacrosse and football players exploit their on-campus celebrity for instant, impersonal sex, free cars and a homework-free existence. Because people are horrible. Entitled straight boys crash an LGBTQIA pride demonstration and try to turn it into an "utter mockery" (651) to punish others for the alleged crime of being different. Because people are no-good. Friends allegedly bonding over isolating "sexiled" (154) experiences turn on one another with slut-shaming glee and further puncture already humiliating situations. Because people are very bad.
Welcome to Dupont University, where even the most seemingly sweet, simple young ladies compete in an eternal circle jerk of mutual condescension. New Journalism pioneer Tom Wolfe interviewed a plethora of university students across the United States – Duke, most infamously – and congealed, stretched, summarized and distilled their personal narratives and perspectives into I Am Charlotte Simmons. The eponymous freshman winds up mired in shell shock as she transitions from valedictorian of a depressed North Carolina industrial town to overwhelmed, overtrusting idealist who winds up on the receiving end of Dupont's monsoon of privilege-fueled cruelty. Although pockets of the narrative elicit sympathy, sustaining any regular flow for the poor girl proves a Sisyphean struggle. Despite the frequent ostracism and socially-mandated withdrawal, Charlotte's attitude channels the very same self-aggrandizing attitude as those she deems "dumb, frightened, rich rabbits" (161). And over time, she sloughs off more and more empathic traits until eventually transmogrifying into every college girl she previously slashed to fake-tanned, blonde-bleached ribbons.
In that, Wolfe almost proffers her up as a sort of deconstructed, twisted, more fully characterized interpretation of a Mary Sue. Male peers from vastly different social strati volley for her attentions, with the more genuine examples of Jojo and Adam clinging to some sort of hope that she'll somehow fill in all their personal holes and make them feel complete. Nobel laureates in neuroscience hope to mentor her and her vast stores of intelligence. She's ever so pretty, ever so smart and ever so deserving of a face-punching. Charlotte Simmons can do no wrong. Until she does. Immersion a world of hypersexuality that's paradoxically asexual – Wolfe relays his many scenes with a detached, often straight-up scientific tone to perfectly capture the phenomenon – and fond of marginalizing all things intellectual and academic harden her to the point readers will find her rather loathsome by the end. Adam, who acts the "vapid soul, the loving friend" (663) and takes her in when crushing depression overwhelms Charlotte callously receives almost no support in kind when the foundation beneath his troubled existence begins cracking. By this point, the formerly impassioned desire to enjoy "a life of the mind" (737) ends up jettisoned in favor of the always advisable and never-ever-eventually-disastrous goal "to be considered special, to be admired for that in itself, no matter how she achieved it" (737).
I Am Charlotte Simmons is by no means a poor read. Just the opposite, in fact. But reality makes punching through its 738 pages so difficult. "Tarantulas" (29) don't scatter once a student hits college – they just happen to evolve their carapaces to fit the surroundings better. Campus further serves as microcosm of the real world, where supposedly civilized and enlightened humans continuously prioritize their own id-driven ends at the expense of others' well-being, marginalize intelligence and innovations (particularly those hailing from the creative sector) and consider themselves superior to others holding different beliefs. The latter phenomenon in particular, as pretty much everybody looks down on somebody. Anyone else who claims otherwise either bandies about with a cranium filled with neon pink aquarium gravel in place of a viable nervous system or is a lying liar who lies. And that right there renders I Am Charlotte Simmons simultaneously a chore to set down and a chore to pick back up. It's true. Sometimes a little too true for comfort.
Bibliographic Information
Wolfe, Tom. I Am Charlotte Simmons. New York: Picador, 2004.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about college and college life, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
