I don’t know if Kevin Sessums took the name of his astonishing new book, Mississippi Sissy, from Faith Hill’s hit song of last year, Mississippi Girl — a rousing rock number about a rich and famous country singer turned movie star going back to her less glamorous roots (and I don’t mean those on her head of luscious hair), but the theme is there between the lines of this mesmerizing memoir. For Kevin Sessums has left behind the gloss and glare of his glitzy Vanity Fair profiles of the rich and famous and gone back to his wild and crazy childhood in the Deep South. It is a powerful tale of prejudice and pride, cunning and scheming, self-hatred and rebellion. While there are still a few boldface names in the pages of this book — Eudora Welty’s figuring most prominently (and hilariously) — this is primarily the coming of age saga of a needy young boy told with piss and vinegar. It is a tour de force as well as farce, yet is quite moving.

All the more reason why I am appalled at the review this book received in the New York Times. The editors of the book review section assigned the piece to Norah Vincent who was completely unqualified to pass judgment on this book. Just because she has written a first-hand account of her own gender-bending, having spent a year dressed up as a man (a kind of tranny Black Like Me), does not mean that she can express the subtleties and literary finesse of Kevin Sessum’s attempt to relate his tortured childhood. (In fact, her review was wooden and dull). His tale is not so much about gender-bending as it is about turning the world on its ear. It’s like asking Rudy Giuliani to review Holly Woodlawn’s memoir, Low Life in High Heels, just because he once wore a dress.

The subject matter of Mississippi Sissy is gritty and lurid. Fag-bashing, murder, interracial romances, molestation. It reminded me a lot of Charles Hulse’s little known novel, In Tall Cotton, about the sexual awakenings of a young boy as his family moves across the Southwest during the Depression. Kevin does an equally fine job of capturing the mood of the times (in his case the 60s and 70s) while holding nothing back in terms of gay sex. This is a shocking book, but also an honest one. The only false note is the consistent use of the term African-American which in the context of the times in which the book mostly takes place, is an anachronism, and seems more like a nod to political correctness than fairness.

What is most impressive about this book, however, is the skill with which Sessums weaves all the disparate themes: being orphaned, coming out, sexual abuse, black-and-white relations, homophobia, class struggles and naked ambition. It zips along like a white tornado, ruthlessly tearing up everything in its path, yet blazing a brilliant trail.

(Note: I first met Kevin years ago in the city, back before his Vanity Fair days (and before mine). I hope he doesn’t mind my posting his photo here. He’s held up very well! )