What if you could contain ambition in a substance, brew it and then consume it?

That’s the idea behind a magical lemonade that becomes a recurring device throughout Sanjena Sathian’s novel “Gold Diggers,” a sweeping tale that combines the classic coming-of-age and teenage rebellion genre with magical realism and social satire. Along the way, there’s also a heist subplot and pieces of a historical epic, too. Published earlier this month, Sathian’s debut has already generated a lot of acclaim — and drawn the attention of Hollywood. Mindy Kaling’s production company recently optioned it for a television series, and Sathian is already at work adapting her novel to the screen.

“Gold Diggers” follows Neil Narayan, an Indian American teenager growing up in the suburbs of Atlanta in the early 2000s. The novel’s array of genres and tropes makes it a riveting read. But what’s even more distinctive and significant is the way Sathian’s prose potently captures the weight of the model minority myth and the constraints it places on a certain subset of Asian Americans. While our experiences vary, a lot of the novel will likely resonate with children of Asian immigrant parents who settled in middle- or upper-middle-class suburbs with highly competitive high schools, where academic achievement was the sole end game. Reading the novel as someone who grew up in a similar environment as Neil’s — details which Sathian drew from her own adolescence — I found myself sometimes chuckling and sometimes shuddering in recognition. In ways that I’ve rarely seen before, in both fiction or nonfiction, Sathian’s novel accurately and vividly articulates the experience of having internalized the model minority trope, which gave us only a few narrow and constricting ideas for how to build an “American” life.

“These experiences, I think a lot of us kind of grow up with not having the language for,” she said in an interview, recounting that it was only through writing and workshopping the novel that she realized she needed “to develop language for it.”

When I mentioned to Sathian how much of my life has involved battling and then unlearning this mentality and all of the emotional weight that came with it, she said for her, it similarly has been a long process and “a slow and internal disillusion.” 

“I wrote a whole book about achievement culture and ambition, and, you know, I still want people to want my book! There’s kind of no way out of it,” she said, noting that the mentality of constant achievement and striving is also tied to capitalism. “I was doing well, according to the system, by all external accounts. So something in me had to give up on it. And I think a lot of it just came from the fact that I really liked to read, and I wanted to engage with thoughts. So having the kind of job my parents would have more easily understood, the two couldn’t go together. So I kind of had to give up on this system in my mid-20s, when I decided I was only going to be a writer.” 

When our parents sacrificed everything for our success, but success is marked by such limited definitions — certain schools, certain “acceptable” careers — “It’s like, ‘Well, what was it for?’” Sathian said. “I just found that there was sort of a poverty of values that I felt when I got to that stage of having done everything right, and yet I still didn’t feel like I had enough of a picture of what life could look like. I didn’t have a really good sense of what came on the other side of all of that mindless striving.”

As her novel’s protagonist Neil, who is also the narrator, says, this subset of Asian Americans lives with “certain inconvenient truths … that sometimes America baffled us teenagers as much as it did our parents. That every emphasis of achieving a certain future came from the anxiety of simply not knowing, none of us knowing, what life here could be. There was no room to imagine multiple sorts of futures. We’d put all our brainpower toward conjuring up a single one: Harvard.”

In the novel’s second half, Neil has become a Ph.D. student in history at UC Berkeley, unmoored and muddling through his life and cynically watching many of his peers continue that achievement mentality in Silicon Valley.

“In the space between us and the rest of adulthood lay a great expanse of the unknown. We had not grown up imbibing stories that implicitly conveyed answers to the basic questions of being: What did it feel like to fall in love in America, to take oneself for granted in America?” he says. “Starved as we were for clues about how to live, we would grip like mad on to anything that lent a possible way of being.”

When Sathian began writing what became “Gold Diggers,” it wasn’t intended to be about the weight of the model minority myth and the experiences of the groups of Asian Americans who grew up with that weight. Sathian said she started with the idea of gold theft, which manifests itself in multiple contexts throughout the book, most prominently in the magical lemonade concoction. Early in the novel, Neil learns that a family friend has been stealing other people’s gold jewelry in order to melt it down and put it into a magical lemonade. Anyone who consumes it becomes imbued with the ambitions of the person whose gold was stolen, therefore also taking away a piece of that person. 

At first, this conceit is an intriguing curiosity for the reader to follow. But as it recurs throughout the novel, it becomes a much deeper and sinister metaphor for the novel’s themes and plays a major role in a tragedy that ripples through several of the characters’ lives well into their adulthoods. 

According to Sathian, the book was initially “much lighter and more playful,” she said. “And then I started writing the world around [the characters], and I just realized: Oh, that’s actually what this is about. It’s about the cannibalizing experience of being ambitious, and then kind of wanting to rid yourself of the addiction to ambition, and not being able to.”

The book plunges the reader into that milieu, using details that are both comically and unsettlingly familiar to people who grew up in these environments. Sathian describes suburban thoroughfares dotted with strip malls and Kumon math tutoring centers. Neil’s family friends throw raucous dinner parties where they gossip about their children’s achievements (or lack thereof). It’s only in the basement where Neil and the other teens can briefly let their guard down and escape the gossiping aunties and uncles’ constant scrutiny.

“Basements were the safest places to survive an Indian party in the suburbs,” Neil says in the book. “In basements, a semblance of our due — American teenagedom.”

Sathian said that as she wrote, those details just came pouring out of her.  

“I think because it just must have been in me for so many years,” she said. “It was like, oh, I’ve been waiting to say all of this!” 

She also discovered that she “was becoming aware of what other people didn’t know about the places that I was from.” 

“I didn’t know that strip malls were a particularly apt description of my childhood in the suburbs, until I lived in other places and I was reading other people’s work and realizing that the landscapes of my childhood were not there in other people’s work,” she said. “I have always been really interested in Indian hair salons. I’ve written, like, three things set in an Indian threading salon at various points, and two of them are published. I think I sort of had that idea in my head for a while — like, there are these spaces where they’re often oriented around commerce, they’re often not attractive, but they’re where immigrant America congregates. And wouldn’t it be interesting to give that the full literary treatment that we give, like, beautiful cobblestone alleyways or whatever?”

Now, some of these spaces will also get the full television treatment, with the forthcoming adaptation of the novel, which Sathian said is still in its early stages. So far, she has been fascinated with being part of the collaborative process of producing a TV show and seeing her novel from an entirely new artistic perspective.

“It’s been interesting to see how many people are involved, given that, like, you do this whole novel thing on your own. It’s just been exciting to talk to people who have a completely different artistic language for how they approach stories,” she said. “They can see all the moving parts structurally in a way that I can’t. I see it as like, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, here are my arcs through Part 1 and Part 2. I built it in a very linear fashion. And then, they could come in and be like, ‘Oh, what’s the visual language that’s going on in Chapter 1 and Chapter 5 and Chapter 7, and how would we turn that into a show?’ There’s a visual language around narrative, but I’ve never thought of it in those terms before, so that’s been cool to see.”




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