'Professor's Daughter' tells all

"My father is black and my mother is white and my brother is a vegetable."

These words, which appear on page three of "The Professor's Daughter" by Emily Raboteau, are the simplest summation of this explosive yet elegant new novel exploring race and family in America. Raboteau, who currently teaches creative writing at The City College of New York, is, appropriately enough, the daughter of Princeton professor Albert Raboteau II, Henry W. Putnam Professor of Religion. Blurring the lines between fiction and reality, she writes about a similarly-named character, Emma, who is also the daughter of a Princeton professor, Bernard Boudreaux II. Her parents' marriage is struggling, her chronic rash is flaring up again and her fellowship-winning father can't go out to celebrate at a nice restaurant without being asked to show his money up front. Things finally snap when Emma's brother Bernie — the third, in a line of doomed men — the family's golden boy and her confidante, has an accident that results in a coma.

Emma is left alone to deal with the pressures of never fitting in. While Emma struggles in the present, we are presented with snapshots from her father's past which help us to understand his distance and rage.

From Bousicault's "The Octaroon," published in 1859, to Kern and Hammerstein II's "Showboat" in 1927, the story of an individual from an interracial family — "the tragic mulatto narrative" — has occupied its own pervasive space in the American canon, and Raboteau's book fits neatly into this genre. In this particular narrative, the main character, usually a female, is of mixed race and struggles to live in either a white or black community, and while she passes for white, or a different race, she finds it impossible to fit in with either, and must become an outsider. There is a deterministic aspect in the character's blood; her fate is inextricably linked to her racial makeup.

"People have said of Fran" [Emma's roommate at Yale] "that she has classic American good looks. Nobody has ever thought to say that about me, even though I wouldn't have resulted anywhere else," Emma says in the novel.

This is a novel about characters who are trapped by what seems like unavoidable, self-destructive destiny, and, as such, there is an air of fatalism about the book. There appears to be a trend in modern fiction to shy away from happiness; often writers seem to believe that they must force their characters into complete, never-ending misery in order to write something "important" or "deep." Raboteau's book teeters dangerously on the edge of this trap, but is saved by its excellent writing and captivating stories.

The narrative jumps around between different characters, alternately focusing on Emma's present, her father's past or her brother Bernie's in-coma thoughts; this can get confusing. When we see only one character's point of view from a first-person standpoint, it's harder to accept that other chapters in the book will be from other characters' points of view. This is a novel in which one must make sure one reads the chapter titles to see who we will be following next. Also, while Professor Boudreaux past feels rich and linear, the snapshots we get of Emma's maturation seem strangely episodic. However, this jumpiness serves to keep the book interesting. We get Emma's Yale creative writing assignment: stories within stories. Bernie's stream-of-possible-consciousness is like poetry. Another professor's wife is a legend come to life. Raboteau uses all these techniques effectively and well, quickly drawing the reader into the landscapes of her story.

With regard to Princeton content, the book is set in many different locations — Emma spends her college years at Yale — and does not over-emphasize Princeton as a location even when we find ourselves there. Still, there are a few moments when students can feel the thrill of "I know where that is!" More often than not, the Princeton action takes place in professors' houses; however, Boudreaux does take a detailed walk down Prospect Street, which leads to one last, very picky comment: Raboteau spells "Cannon Club" incorrectly. We expect more from our shout-outs. However, misspelled former eating clubs aside, "The Professor's Daughter" is an engaging and thought-provoking, if occasionally depressing, read.