There’s a moment in Tommy Orange’s “Wandering Stars” where a character describes feeling “like a cloud without rain.” It’s a perfect encapsulation of the novel itself – heavy with the weight of history, yet somehow unanchored, drifting through time and space. Orange’s follow-up to his Pulitzer-finalist debut “There There” is a sprawling, ambitious work that spans generations of Native American experience. It’s a book that refuses to settle, constantly shifting between timelines and perspectives, much like its characters who struggle to find their place in a world that has systematically tried to erase them.
Recently longlisted for the 2024 Booker Prize, “Wandering Stars” cements Orange’s status as one of the most vital voices in contemporary American literature. It’s a raw, unflinching look at the long-reaching tendrils of historical trauma, and the ways that violence echoes through generations. But it’s also a testament to resilience, to the stubborn persistence of identity in the face of erasure.
A Constellation of Stories
Orange weaves together multiple narrative threads, spanning from the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre to present-day Oakland. At the heart of the story is the Red Feather family, whose lives we first encountered in “There There.” We pick up in the aftermath of the powwow shooting that concluded that novel, with Orvil Red Feather recovering from a near-fatal gunshot wound.
But Orange doesn’t stay in one place for long. We’re soon thrust back to 1864, where we meet Star, a young Cheyenne boy who survives the Sand Creek Massacre only to be imprisoned at Fort Marion. There, he encounters Richard Henry Pratt, the real-life founder of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School. Pratt’s mission to “Kill the Indian, Save the Man” through forced assimilation casts a long shadow over the rest of the novel.
The stories pile up like layers of sediment. We follow Star’s son, Charles, through his brutal experiences at Carlisle. We meet Opal Viola, Charles’ classmate and eventual wife, whose granddaughter (also named Opal) becomes a central figure in the present-day narrative. Orange deftly navigates these jumps in time, creating a rich tapestry of interconnected lives.
Language as Weapon and Refuge
One of the most striking aspects of “Wandering Stars” is Orange’s exploration of language – both as a tool of oppression and a means of reclaiming identity. The sections set at Carlisle are particularly gutting, as we watch Native children stripped of their names, their languages, their very sense of self.
Yet even in the face of this cultural genocide, language becomes a form of resistance. Star finds solace in the Bible, twisting the colonizers’ words into something that speaks to his own experience. Charles and Opal communicate in secret codes, preserving fragments of their heritage. In the present day, Orvil turns to music as a way to express what he can’t put into words.
Orange’s own use of language is, as always, stunning. His prose crackles with energy, veering from lyrical flights of magical realism to stark, brutal depictions of violence. He has a gift for finding beauty in unexpected places – a phrase like “the smell of bad decisions” lingers long after you’ve turned the page.
Ghosts of the Past, Specters of the Future
Intergenerational trauma is a central theme of “Wandering Stars.” Orange shows us how the violence of the past reverberates through time, shaping the lives of characters who may not even be aware of their own history.
This is most evident in the present-day sections, where we see Orvil struggling with addiction in the wake of the shooting. His younger brother, Lony, performs secret blood rituals in a misguided attempt to connect with his Cheyenne heritage. Their aunt, Opal, experiments with peyote ceremonies, searching for a way to heal her fractured family.
There’s a palpable sense of characters grasping for something just out of reach. Identity, belonging, purpose – these all feel frustratingly elusive in a world that has worked so hard to sever Native people from their roots. Orange doesn’t offer easy answers, but he does suggest that healing might be found in community, in reconnecting with traditions that have been suppressed for generations.
A Kaleidoscopic View of Native Experience
One of Orange’s great strengths is his ability to portray the diversity of Native American experiences. He resists the trap of presenting a monolithic “Native identity,” instead showing us characters who relate to their heritage in vastly different ways.
We see this most clearly in the contrast between Orvil and Lony. Orvil, struggling with addiction and PTSD, initially seems disconnected from his cultural roots. Lony, on the other hand, becomes almost obsessed with reclaiming a “traditional” Native identity – even if that means resorting to Hollywood stereotypes and half-remembered stories.
Orange doesn’t judge these characters. Instead, he presents their struggles with empathy and nuance, highlighting the complexities of trying to forge an identity in the face of historical erasure.
Echoes of “There There”
While “Wandering Stars” works as a standalone novel, readers of “There There” will find plenty of connective tissue. Characters from the previous book make appearances, and we get a deeper understanding of the events leading up to the powwow shooting.
That said, “Wandering Stars” feels like a more ambitious work. Where “There There” was tightly focused on a specific time and place, this novel sprawls across centuries. Orange’s scope has expanded, but his piercing insight into the Native American experience remains razor-sharp.
A Brutal History, An Uncertain Future
It’s impossible to talk about “Wandering Stars” without acknowledging the brutal history it depicts. The Sand Creek Massacre, the horrors of the Carlisle School – Orange doesn’t shy away from the violence inflicted on Native people. These sections are often difficult to read, but they feel necessary. Orange forces us to confront the ugly truths of America’s past, truths that are too often glossed over in history books.
Yet for all its heaviness, “Wandering Stars” isn’t without hope. In the present-day sections, we see characters struggling to heal, to reconnect with their heritage, to forge new paths forward. It’s messy and imperfect, but there’s a resilience that shines through.
The novel’s ending feels both haunting and oddly hopeful. Without spoiling anything, it leaves us with a sense of cycles breaking and reforming, of wounds that may never fully heal but can perhaps be lived with.
A Voice That Demands to Be Heard
Tommy Orange has firmly established himself as one of the most exciting voices in contemporary American literature. “Wandering Stars” is a novel of immense ambition and skill, one that grapples with big questions about identity, history, and what it means to belong.
It’s not always an easy read. Orange’s refusal to provide neat resolutions or tidy narrative arcs can be frustrating at times. But that messiness feels true to life, especially when dealing with the long-reaching effects of historical trauma.
The Booker Prize nomination feels well-deserved. “Wandering Stars” is the kind of novel that stays with you long after you’ve turned the final page. It’s a book that asks hard questions and doesn’t pretend to have all the answers. But in giving voice to stories that have too often been silenced, Orange has created something truly powerful.
Final Thoughts: A Constellation of Pain and Hope
“Wandering Stars” is aptly named. It’s a novel that refuses to stay still, constantly shifting between perspectives and timelines. At times, this can be disorienting – you might find yourself flipping back to earlier chapters, trying to piece together the connections between characters. But stick with it. Orange is a skilled guide, and the tapestry he weaves is richly rewarding.
This is a novel that demands your full attention. It’s not a breezy beach read, but rather a book that asks you to sit with uncomfortable truths and complex emotions. It’s a portrait of a people who have been systematically erased, yet stubbornly refuse to disappear.
In the end, “Wandering Stars” feels like both an indictment and a celebration. It’s a howl of rage against historical injustices, but also a testament to the enduring power of story, of family, of identity. It’s a novel that will leave you shaken, but also oddly hopeful – much like its characters, wandering through a world that’s often hostile, yet still searching for connection, for meaning, for home.