
In "Bunk," Kevin Young brilliantly dissects America's fake news epidemic, tracing hoaxes from P.T. Barnum to Trump. Longlisted for the National Book Award, this cultural investigation reveals how deception and racial stereotyping intertwine. What dangerous truth about ourselves lies beneath our love of lies?
Kevin Young is the acclaimed poet and cultural critic behind Bunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News, a groundbreaking exploration of deception in American culture.
As the Andrew W. Mellon Director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture and former director of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Young brings scholarly rigor to his examination of historical and modern hoaxes. His expertise spans poetry and prose, with works like Jelly Roll: A Blues (National Book Award finalist) and Book of Hours (Lenore Marshall Prize winner) establishing him as a leading voice in contemporary literature.
Young, who serves as poetry editor of The New Yorker, blends archival research with sharp cultural analysis in Bunk, which won the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award and was named a New York Times Notable Book. A Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, his anthology African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle & Song further cements his authority on narrative and truth.
Bunk has been celebrated as one of 2017’s best books by The Atlantic and NPR, reflecting its enduring relevance in debates about misinformation.
Bunk by Kevin Young examines America’s long history of deception, linking hoaxes to racial stereotypes and cultural myths. From P.T. Barnum’s exploitative exhibits to modern-day “fake news,” Young argues that fakery is ingrained in American identity, using race as a foundational lie. The book blends historical analysis with cultural criticism, exploring figures like James Frey and Rachel Dolezal to reveal how frauds manipulate truth for power.
This book is ideal for readers interested in cultural criticism, media literacy, and racial history. Historians, journalists, and students examining post-truth America will find it particularly relevant. Fans of meticulously researched, essay-style narratives that connect historical patterns to modern issues like misinformation will also appreciate Young’s insights.
Yes—Bunk received acclaim for its timely exploration of hoaxes in a “post-fact” era, earning a National Book Award longlist spot. Critics praise its depth, though some note its dense prose. It’s essential for understanding how American deception intertwines with race and power, offering fresh perspectives on figures from Barnum to Trump.
Young posits that racial stereotypes are central to American hoaxes, citing examples like Barnum’s display of Joice Heth (falsely claimed as George Washington’s 161-year-old nurse) and Rachel Dolezal’s racial identity theft. These cons exploit racial myths, reinforcing systemic distrust and othering. Race, Young argues, is itself a “hoax” perpetuated to maintain social hierarchies.
The book explores P.T. Barnum’s “humbug” spectacles, the fabricated memoir of James Frey, and the forged Native American identities of Grey Owl and Nasdijj. It also dissects Clark Rockefeller’s deadly imposture and the “What Is It?” exhibit, which falsely framed a Black man as a “missing link” in evolution.
Young traces today’s “fake news” to Barnum’s legacy, emphasizing how myths gain traction through spectacle and confirmation bias. He ties Donald Trump’s rhetoric to a tradition where lies thrive by appealing to preconceived notions, particularly racial stereotypes, eroding shared reality.
Some reviewers find the book overly long and stylistically uneven, mixing academic jargon with colloquial language. While praised for its ambition, critics note that Young’s aphoristic prose can obscure clarity. Nonetheless, its research and relevance outweigh these flaws.
Notable lines include Young’s assertion that “fakery is woven from stereotype and suspicion” and his description of race as “a fake thing pretending to be real.” These quotes underscore the book’s thesis that hoaxes exploit societal fractures to distort truth.
As a poet and critic, Young combines lyrical prose with rigorous scholarship. His focus on African American culture and history informs the book’s emphasis on race, while his editorial role at The New Yorker sharpens its journalistic critique of media-driven deception.
Young describes a culture where “truthiness” overrides facts, fostering cynicism and relativism. In this landscape, hoaxes flourish by appealing to emotion over evidence, with consequences for politics, art, and identity. The book warns that unchecked fakery threatens democratic discourse.
The book’s analysis of misinformation’s roots helps contextualize contemporary issues like AI-generated content, deepfakes, and election denialism. Young’s framework for understanding hoaxes as tools of power remains critical in navigating today’s media landscape.
Unlike his poetry collections, Bunk is a sprawling cultural history, though it retains his signature blend of wit and critique. It expands on themes of identity and myth explored in The Grey Album, offering a more direct engagement with politics and media.
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Young's work "changes the way we read American history."
Barnum elevated "humbug" to an art form.
"Well, we fooled 'em for a long time, didn't we?"
The language of hoax spreads like contagion through society.
Spiritualism represented a "retransfer of force from the living to the dead"
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What if I told you that America's relationship with lies didn't start with social media, but with a showman in the 1800s who exhibited human beings as curiosities? The thread connecting P.T. Barnum's "humbugs" to today's viral misinformation reveals something unsettling: we've always been willing to be fooled, as long as the show was good enough. But here's the twist-Barnum believed there was honor in entertaining deception, a line between harmless spectacle and dangerous fraud. That line has vanished. We now live in what could be called the "complete-hoax world," where the very concept of truth has become negotiable, and facts are treated like opinions you can simply choose not to believe. Nineteenth-century America didn't just tolerate deception-it celebrated it as entertainment. Barnum insisted his "humbugs" were morally acceptable because audiences got their money's worth, even if what they saw was fabricated. This philosophy allowed a young nation grappling with the contradiction of slavery in a land of freedom to "marvel at its mysteries" without confronting its hypocrisies directly. The penny press-essentially the internet of its day-prioritized sensation over substance, court scandals over political analysis. Writers like Poe and Twain wove confidence men into the fabric of American literature, recognizing that deception had become central to national identity.
The 1835 Moon Hoax captured this perfectly. Richard Adams Locke's fabricated lunar discoveries-complete with bat-winged humanoids and blue unicorns-generated unprecedented excitement. But the descriptions revealed something darker: "yellowish flesh," copper-colored hair, faces compared to orangutans. The hoax recreated earthly racial hierarchies in space, with "superior" lighter-skinned lunar beings ruling darker subordinate creatures. Even fantasies about other worlds couldn't escape terrestrial prejudices. This tradition of identity theft runs deep. Grey Owl, born Archibald Belaney in England, became famous as a "Native" conservationist while concealing his origins. Tim Barrus reinvented himself as "Nasdijj," an imaginary Navajo, accepting prizes and publication. Native writers like Sherman Alexie warned publishers that Nasdijj was stealing their stories, but publishers ignored them. Even the famous "crying Indian" from the 1971 environmental campaign wasn't actually Native. The American tradition of "playing Indian" dates back to the Boston Tea Party-defining identity through appropriation, using masks "for good and evil."
Slavery's contradiction with American ideals was so profound the Constitution addressed it only through euphemism. This hypocrisy found cultural expression in exhibiting Black bodies as "freaks." William Henry Johnson, a Black man with microcephaly, was displayed as "What Is It?"-supposedly a "missing link" captured in Africa. Barnum weaponized evolutionary theory with pseudoscientific language to reinforce racist hierarchies. Yet Johnson maintained a fifty-year career, developing complex awareness of his role. His deathbed confession-"Well, we fooled 'em for a long time, didn't we?"-reveals agency within exploitation. Even progressive intellectuals participated. In 1910, Virginia Woolf and her Bloomsbury friends donned blackface to impersonate the emperor of Abyssinia, successfully boarding Britain's premier battleship while speaking gibberish they claimed was Swahili. Their invented phrase "Bunga-Bunga" became a popular catchphrase, demonstrating how hoax language spreads like contagion. The prank revealed theories positioning Blackness as disease-racial disguise served to define whiteness by contrast, signaling the hoaxers' own identity through what it was not.
While Barnum debunked spirit photography in court, Spiritualism emerged as America's homegrown religion of fakery. Beginning in 1848 with the Fox sisters' "spirit rappings," the movement exploded during the Civil War's national grief. William Mumler's spirit photographs-charging $10 per supernatural portrait-captured Mary Todd Lincoln with the "spirits" of her assassinated husband and dead son. These images didn't reveal actual spirits; they "domesticated death," allowing the living to maintain property rights over the dead-a "retransfer of force from the living to the dead," particularly for white Americans seeking to "colonize heaven." Even Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the rational Sherlock Holmes, desperately wanted to believe after his son's World War I death. He championed the Cottingley fairy photographs, taken by two young cousins who had traced drawings from a children's book. Their working-class background was interpreted as evidence of honesty-they were deemed too simple for sophisticated deception. The girls didn't confess until 1982. When Margaret Fox admitted in 1888 that the sisters had simply been cracking their toes, believers refused to accept it. The need to believe had become more powerful than truth itself.
Americans' grief over their martyred president made them easy marks for deception. In 1928, Wilma Frances Minor sold The Atlantic Monthly intimate love letters between Lincoln and Ann Rutledge. Even Carl Sandburg praised how they "chime with all else known of Lincoln." The suspicious volume of letters, diaries, and memorabilia for a brief frontier romance should have raised alarms. When exposed, Minor claimed she and her mother had "channeled" Lincoln and Rutledge's voices spiritually. This trajectory from Barnum's spectacle to sophisticated fraud continues in today's memoir industrial complex. James Frey's *A Million Little Pieces* epitomizes memoir's slide into "truthiness"-what feels true over factual accuracy. Originally fiction but repackaged as memoir for sales, Frey invented prison scenes with racist tropes despite minimal jail time. Margaret Seltzer's *Love and Consequences* featured a white author posing as half-Native, raised by a Black foster family in South Central LA. These fabricated memoirs peddle extreme realities because plausibility might trigger reader skepticism.
Stephen Glass's fabricated stories for *The New Republic* reveal a fabulist's paradox-simultaneously evading detection while leaving clues to exposure. His article titles like "Hack Heaven" ironically foreshadowed his unmasking. Glass exploited journalism's fact-checking by fabricating entire source networks, creating feedback loops where unverifiable "facts" originated from reporters themselves. His novel *The Fabulist* reads as evasion rather than confession, portraying exposers as heartless while casting himself as repentant victim. Glass's article on Vernon Jordan exemplifies racial hoaxing-depicting the powerful Black attorney as both professional "phantom" and threatening physical presence. His broader significance lies in his "beseeching blandness"-cultivated banality that made wild fabrications believable. His stories predicted our post-factual world where reality has become "fractional, virtual, unreal," where writing is mere "content" and people are "consumers" rather than citizens. Glass's legacy mirrors how his fabrications anticipated our increasingly fictional existence where even human connections have become virtual and commodified.
We've entered an Age of Euphemism where hoaxes have become mainstream. The Ringling Bros. circus closed just as a reality TV showman took office-a poignant symbol of spectacle moving from margins to center. The most effective modern hoaxes disguise themselves as hoax exposures, creating recursive loops of distrust. Today's cons employ "ropers" who bring in marks, "inside men" who work them, and "the store"-semi-permanent displays mimicking legitimate establishments. Truth has become a skill-a muscle that atrophies without use. We must strengthen it daily through rigorous questioning, demanding evidence, and refusing to accept that all narratives are equally valid. Facts remain on our side, but only if we fight for them. The alternative isn't just misinformation-it's a world where reality itself becomes optional, where we can't agree on what's real enough to argue about. That world isn't coming. We're already living in it.