“In the last few years, black writers have been speaking out about double standards in the world of publishing. Among these are Martha Southgate’s NYT essay, “Writers Like Me” and more recently, Bernice’s MacFadden’s Black Writers in A Ghetto of the Publishing Industry’s Making. In these articles, both writers (who also are novelists) put into a public conversation the issues that black writers have been complaining about for years– like why is that stories about black folks that are written by white folks get so much traction. (The Help, The Secret Lives of Bees, Little Bee, etc.) How come books about us by us are not thought to be “universal”? Why are black faces on the cover of a book thought to be so alienating? At this point in the gripe session, I break out my favorite oh-no-he-didn’t moment– when someone asked me what percentage of my work is “black” and what percentage is “human.””
Since reading this post on author Tayari Jones’ blog, it hasn’t left my mind. She asks why books by black writers aren’t considered universal, starting her post with these words:
It’s not only a great post, it’s an important question for all readers and writers. For readers: you/we are missing a vast store of great books by staying within one’s cultural boundaries. We’re missing great reads, and as important, we’re missing that most important (to me) method available to understand each other. How better to understand other’s experiences, than to immerse in their lives through novels and memoirs? Whether or not one has issues with The Help, it is beyond argument that one will be immersed in a more honest experiential read with Anne Moody than with Kathryn Stockett.
Not that I think we should be reading across racial and cultural lines to do good, read for the common good, or as an act of charity. But Jones’ point in her post is important: as regards the need for black writers to be considered American authors as well as Black American authors, “It is going to be up to readers.”
I am not going to belabor her points—she makes them far better than I could. I will say that I am grateful that I found her through Twitter (another point for Twitter!) And I am grateful that it led me to read one of her books, because now I can look forward to reading all her work.
My main question is this: I gobble novels. I read a certain sub-genre (the troubled family in a troubled culture) like crazy. Leaving Atlanta is a perfect gem of the genre. I also read reviews, magazines, papers—you name it—like crazy. (My home would be a candidate for Hoarders, if I weren’t also addicted to recycling and clear surfaces.)
So why didn’t I know about Jones before Twitter? Why is Kim McLarin, a great writer, not a household name? Why are there so few readings by black authors in Boston—a city rife with author visits?
Yes, it’s up to us as readers to discover the gems we’ve been ignoring, such as Leaving Atlanta. Based on the true story of the Atlanta child murders from 1979-80, the three narrators in this book will break your heart. Jones’ writes in the transparent manner I love—calling no attention to itself, while wrapping words seamlessly around the story with clarity, precision and beauty. Describing a scene of traumatized children, she writes”
All of the kids wore weird expressions, like their eyes had been reversed and they were all staring inside their own heads.
When we can read page-turning work, learn about history, and drink in great writing, that seems like a good deal to me—especially if we can pull away from ghettoizing writers at the same time.
(This post originally ran in 2010. Since then, Tayari Jones has published Silver Sparrow (Algonquin.) It is a magnificent book. If you haven’t yet read it, you’re in for a treat:
“With the opening line of Silver Sparrow, “My father, James Witherspoon is a bigamist,” Tayari Jones unveils a breathtaking story about a man’s deception, a family’s complicity, and the teenage girls caught in the middle.
Set in a middle-class neighborhood in Atlanta in the 1980s, the novel revolves around James Witherspoon’s families– the public one and the secret one. When the daughters from each family meet and form a friendship, only one of them knows they are sisters. It is a relationship destined to explode when secrets are revealed and illusions shattered. As Jones explores the backstories of her rich and flawed characters, she also reveals the joy, and the destruction, they brought to each other’s lives.
At the heart of it all are the two girls whose lives are at stake, and like the best writers, Jones portrays the fragility of her characers with raw authenticity as they seek love, demand attention, and try to imagine themselves as women.”
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I worked in a local public library in recent years. Our particular branch did not have an African American section–the AA books were interfiled with other fiction. There was a call by some of the Black patrons to start one. They wanted to be able to find these books easily. They seemed to want only to read black fiction.
Thanks, Randy, for this post. This is an issue that has been heavy on my mind as I prepare for the paperback launch of Silver Sparrow. I do believe that times are changing, but it’s coming slowly.
I do have a question for the librarian who commented above. Has anyone other than the African American patrons asked about how to find literature by people of color? The reason that I ask is that we could easily wonder if the other patrons were comfortable reading all, or mostly, literature by white writers. The thing is that they didn’t have to get help in exercising this privilege, so they largely go unnoticed. The white patrons can easily find their experience reflected and don’t have to seek it out.
Let me start off by commending you for addressing this issue. It is one that continues to be open for discussion and for growth among book lovers and authors.
I am in the generation of readers that remember when there were sparse number of books available for Black readers. Our circumstances at that time trained us to be cross cultural readers.
The idea that all we want to read is book by authors from our culture is understandable because of the connection that we make with the content. But we also still continue to read works by other authors outside of our experience. A good book is just that-good. People who think that Black authors or other authors of color are not producing well written books are missing a true reading treat.
I hope that we eventually come to a point where we can recommend good books no matter what the author’s ethnic identity is to anyone who reads.
I found Leaving Atlanta on the new book shelf in my library here in Atlanta the week it came out. I was blown away by the story and when The Untelling came out, I bought it. Ms. Jones is a writer that inspires me to write my best. There is a rich, rich bounty of books out there written by people of color. To this day, I will never forget a professor placing Alice Walker’s In Search Of Our Mothers’ Gardens in my hand. My whole book junkie life changed. I was so absorbed with her writing. When my mother died, I went in search of a book because this is who I am and what I do to heal. I found Ms. Walker’s The Way Forward Is With A Broken Heart. My healing began with this read. I love Zora Neale Hurston’s books. Pearl Cleage and Toni Morrison. I read my copy of Beloved so many times it fell apart and I had to buy a new one. I could go on and on naming books and authors. My personal library is very diverse for one reason: I’m always searching for a good story told in a true voice.
In October I was on a panel at the Southern Book Festival in Nashville. Afterwards I went out to sign books. After my line readers shortened, I looked up to see Ms. Jones signing five chairs down from me. I was blown away. There I was at the same table as one of my inspirations. I of course acted like a groupie and introduced myself. Good writers do that to readers.
I truly hate to think Ms. Jones’s post is correct about the publishing industry but I know it is dead on. We are responsible as readers to step out of our own skin and find new voices. I’m so thankful the seed was planted in me early on.
I posted a version of this comment on Facebook, then realized I should actually comment on the blog post. So here I am.:-)
Miss Randy, I think this is a great post, and very timely. Also, I think it’s lovely of you to take the time to write about this. In reading the first comment, though, I’m glad that I decided to post here instead of just on Facebook.
What I said a couple of hours ago, and what I’ll say now is that I’d like to see more of an open discussion of what I hope would be a really obvious issue, but which I’m realizing (after reading the first comment) is not: we Black folks read across the racial divide all the time, and we do it willingly and cheerfully.
We start out in first grade crossing that racial divide when we learn how to read. Here where I live in Norman, OK, I went into a Barnes and Nobles to find Black children’s books for Xmas presents–because my niece and nephew would like to look at pictures that resemble them, too, just as much as little White children do– and in a children’s section that was twice the size of my entire living room, a section that contained literally hundreds of different books, I found only four picture books about African Americans. I went home and wept.
I’m an adult, and I have crossed that racial divide more times than I can count. Tolstoy, William Faulker–who loved to use the “n-word” just as frequently as any contemporary rapper.:-) Phillip Roth is one of my absolute favorite novelists, and Alice Munro is the tie for my most favorite short-story writer. (AfAm author Edward P. Jones is the co-winner.)
This is an excellent blog post–but I do think that once non-Black/non-POC folks bring up the issue of our cheerfully crossing the racial divide and never complaining about it, that we Black readers never, ever demand White novelists to write about POC/Blacks in order to be “universal” or “relevant,” then the real conversation will have begun. Of course, Toni Morrison wrote about this lack of “recrossing” in Playing in the Dark, but I’m not sure how many folks have read that.
Thank you so much again, Miss Randy. This was greatly appreciated, at least by me. Please keep doing this important work.
I read, and loved, both Leaving Atlanta and Silver Sparrow, but would never have found Tayari Jones if she had not been recommended to me (I think by Randy). It simply never occurred to me that there would be a separate section for fiction writers of color.
Thanks so much for taking the time to write (and repost!) this thoughtful comment. The entire topic is so fraught, but without entering it, nothing can move forward. I think many White women (not that I can speak on behalf of everyone!) are nervous of appearing less-than-perfect around the whole topic, so they avoid an/or tiptoe rather than consider it with their heart. I have had battles with friends (White) when I brought up the POV of Association of Black Women Historians regarding The Help; mainly I think because they immediately felt attacked (by me) for loving the book & movie. It’s a tough call–that was a page-turner of a book, right–but a little intense analysis, and it becomes enraging. Being afraid to look at these issues are what will keep us from changing the climate.
It reminds me of the whole “men being reviewed vs women being reviewed.” The numbers are there and obvious, and yet so many men (and women) try like heck to twist the numbers into a paradigm of literature.
I worked with violent men for many years; they resisted change until forced to. As I pointed out to them many times, people in power rarely give up the reins without struggle. It’s always easier to turn away, but in doing so, oh the loss.
Such a good point, Nancy. Who goes to these separate sections? If I were put into a section tagged “Jewish Women Authors” would folks find me? I’ve Skyped with many book clubs–including those which were exclusively non-White. It has to go both ways.
I don’t know what the solution is. I am an avid read, and a black woman. The distinction Ms. Jones points to in her post is most apparent in readers’ choices, I think. I read at least a book a week, and I know who the other avid readers in my office are. I also know that I read the books that they do, but yet they don’t read the books I do. We go to the same library, and yet they would never pick up Pearl Cleage or Diane Mckinney Whetstone. I am sad to say that I truly believe that they are not interest in our stories, and that they assume that our stories are not relevant to them. I have not figured out how to address this politely. I did let them all know that I despised The Help, and I tried to explain why. I found that book infuriating and insulting. But even when I told them that my grandmothers WERE “the help”in Mississippi, with one exception (a latina), the women weren’t very interested in my point of view.
On another note, in an number of bookstores these days, african american literary fiction books are double shelved — both under a section for African American writers, and within regular fiction. Or, at least, writer such as Ms. Jones are. Other black novelists, those considered “street fiction,” can’t always be found that way. I live in Iowa– I have to look everywhere to find black authors, sometimes I am running all over the store. But I don’t often see new release highlighted anywhere. Most of the time, I have to rely on Essence or Ebony magazines, or Amazon suggestions, to learn about new works by authors such as Ms. Jones.
(Another great read: Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self by Danielle Evans, a graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop. Amazing!!)
Hi all, I found this post through a discussion on Goodreads. In response to mary t’s comment, I work in a bookstore in Manhattan and I’ve had customers come up to me to ask where the African American fiction is. One of my favorite responses is “Sorry, we don’t segregate our fiction by race here. Everything’s together.” They usually accept that answer and go up to general fiction or sci-fi/fantasy or wherever their book is. My coworker (black) and I (mixed) are always amused when it happens.