In Which a White Guy Talks about Cultural Appropriation
By Keith Cronin | May 9, 2017 |
DISCLAIMER: The views presented in today’s post do not necessarily reflect those of Writer Unboxed or its other contributors. They are solely the opinions of the author of this post, and should not be read while flossing, practicing goat yoga, or ghost-writing a book for James Patterson.
Last September – before being eclipsed by our current all Trump, all the time zeitgeist – a flurry of conversations erupted across the internet focusing on cultural appropriation. Fanning the flames of this topic was a keynote speech best-selling author Lionel Shriver gave at the 2016 Brisbane Writers Festival. Regardless of where you stand on cultural appropriation, it’s well worth reading the text of her whole speech.
Taking the stage wearing a sombrero, Ms. Shriver quickly made it clear where she stood, lashing out at political correctness and flat-out dismissing the concept of cultural appropriation – particularly when writing fiction. She cited a recent incident where some college students were excoriated on social media for a cruel and hurtful act of “ethnic stereotyping” – because they had been photographed wearing miniature sombreros at a tequila-themed birthday party.
Ms. Shriver observed, “The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.” She went on to offer numerous examples of important books that would not have been written if the authors hadn’t dared to explore experiences or cultures other than their own:
“If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to ‘appropriate’ the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.”
A disrespectful vocation
In her speech, Ms. Shriver pushed back – hard – against the notion of writers being somehow morally restricted to writing only stories that are “implicitly ours to tell.” Instead, she maintained that “any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.” Taking her defense a step further, she said:
“This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.”
Stating her hope that the concept of cultural appropriation is just “a passing fad,” Ms. Shriver worried that if writers restrict their work to only what they have directly experienced, “all that’s left is memoir.”
I agree – in theory – with much of what Ms. Shriver said. But it soon became clear that plenty of people didn’t…
The art of the dramatic exit
Several people walked out on Ms. Shriver’s speech. Among them was Yassmin Abdel-Magied, a writer, mechanical engineer and social advocate who had spoken at the event earlier that day. She went on to post this op-ed about the event. I have to admit, I found the initial description of her departure a bit melodramatic:
“As I stood up, my heart began to race. I could feel the eyes of the hundreds of audience members on my back: questioning, querying, judging.
I turned to face the crowd, lifted up my chin and walked down the main aisle, my pace deliberate. ‘Look back into the audience,’ a friend had texted me moments earlier, ‘and let them see your face.’
The faces around me blurred. As my heels thudded against the grey plastic of the flooring, harmonising with the beat of the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my mind was blank save for one question.
‘How is this happening?'”
Once she shifted her focus away from herself and back to Shriver, I found Ms. Abdel-Magied’s tone and reasoning much more compelling:
“Her [Shriver’s] question was – or could have been – an interesting question: What are fiction writers ‘allowed’ to write, given they will never truly know another person’s experience?
Not every crime writer is a criminal, Shriver said, nor is every author who writes on sexual assault a rapist. ‘Fiction, by its very nature,’ she said, ‘is fake.’
There is a fascinating philosophical argument here. Instead, however, that core question was used as a straw man. Shriver’s real targets were cultural appropriation, identity politics and political correctness. It was a monologue about the right to exploit the stories of ‘others,’ simply because it is useful for one’s story.”
As Ms. Shriver’s speech continued, Ms. Abdel-Magied found the speaker’s tone more and more offensive, to the point where it became intolerable. She summed up Ms. Shriver’s keynote as “a poisoned package wrapped up in arrogance and delivered with condescension,” and condemned Shriver for advocating an attitude that “drips of racial supremacy.” She was apparently not alone in this reaction…
A calmer take on some “dangerous” ideas
A much less hand-wringing response was posted here by blogger Yen-Rong, who describes herself as “a writer, reader, musician, scientist, and an aspiring academic.” She also attended Ms. Shriver’s speech, and in its early stages found herself grudgingly agreeing with the speaker. But that all changed when Shriver claimed that “Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity.” Ms. Yen-Rong states her problem with those remarks both eloquently and pointedly:
“Identity is important, and yes, making sure that we don’t pigeon hole ourselves into one thing, or into what others want us to be is also important. But it’s easy to say that ‘Asian isn’t an identity’ when you haven’t experienced what it’s like to have to confront racism (both casual and overt) in your everyday life.”
In what I thought was a particularly perceptive observation, Ms. Yen-Rong also called Shriver out for the way she leveraged rhetorical techniques to couch her message:
“Shriver covered her musings with humour (which was admittedly only humorous to those who agreed with her), and under the guise of their being dangerous ideas. But as far as I’m concerned, it is unfair and enabling to call harmful ideas ‘dangerous’ . . . Dangerous is too often used (incorrectly) as a synonym for ‘subversive,’ or ‘a challenging of the dominant discourse’ – things that we so desperately need.”
From reading Ms. Shriver’s speech, there’s no question that she was being purposely provocative. While she definitely pushed some social hot-buttons with her keynote, it doesn’t seem like she made any real progress in accomplishing her overall goal. As this piece in The New Yorker observes: “A common lesson in every fight about cultural appropriation is that no one appears to be changing anyone else’s mind. Shriver wanted her detractors to be less touchy, and instead she reinforced their position.” [emphasis mine]
A shared complaint
Both Ms. Yen-Rong and Ms. Abdel-Magied highlighted another issue they felt Shriver’s speech only exacerbated: that writing about a culture other than your own can take opportunities away from writers who actually do hail from that culture. As Ms. Yen-Rong put it:
“The publishing industry is chock full of white men, and advocating for their ‘right’ to write from the perspective of someone in a marginalised position takes opportunities away from those with authentic experiences to share. In other words, the subaltern continue to be silenced, and still cannot speak.”
Ms. Abdel-Magied was even more vocal in expressing the same complaint:
“It’s not always OK if a white guy writes the story of a Nigerian woman because the actual Nigerian woman can’t get published or reviewed to begin with. It’s not always OK if a straight white woman writes the story of a queer Indigenous man, because when was the last time you heard a queer Indigenous man tell his own story? How is it that said straight white woman will profit from an experience that is not hers, and those with the actual experience never be provided the opportunity? It’s not always OK for a person with the privilege of education and wealth to write the story of a young Indigenous man, filtering the experience of the latter through their own skewed and biased lens, telling a story that likely reinforces an existing narrative which only serves to entrench a disadvantage they need never experience.”
I will be the first to admit that these are two very articulate women whose cultures I do NOT share, and in whose shoes I have NOT walked a mile – let alone ten yards. That being said, I just don’t know if I agree with their take. Here’s why.
What about the P-word?
While the term is not being bandied about quite as much as it was a decade ago, you’ll still find that most agents and editors love it when a writer has a strong platform. For those not familiar with the dreaded P-word, it’s usually about the writer having some unique experience that makes them “qualified” to tell a particular story. Agents love a good platform for one reason: it makes the book easier to sell. As an example, if Serena Williams and I each decided to write a novel about a female tennis player, which one of us do you think an agent or editor would be more interested in?
This makes me question the notion of stolen opportunities. While it was daring of American author (and white guy) Arthur Golden to write the best-seller “Memoirs of a Geisha,” don’t you think that if an actual Japanese (and – here’s a crazy idea – female) geisha approached an agent with a book pitch about the life of a geisha, the agent would at least request a look at the manuscript?
Similarly, I can think of quite a few non-white writers whose works focus on their own cultures, to the point where their expertise and experience really differentiate them in the literary marketplace. I mean, I sure wouldn’t want to compete with Amy Tan at writing about the complexities of Chinese-American identity, nor with Khaled Hosseini at writing about the Afghan immigrant experience – would you?
Before you grab the pitchforks, let me add that I am not naïve enough to think non-white (and non-male, while we’re at it) writers don’t face serious challenges and disadvantages within the publishing industry (and okay, pretty much everywhere else). But for the highly specific scenarios Ms. Abdel-Magied cites, I would think writers who are actually from those cultures and/or situations would have a far superior platform from which to pitch their work. But maybe I’m kidding myself. If so, I’m sure you’ll let me know in the Comments section.
Dealing with appropriation guilt
I’m well aware that I write this from what seems like the least defensible perspective: that of a white middle-aged male American published author. That’s not a culture anybody’s appropriating – at least to my knowledge. Probably the worst “cultural pain” I have to endure is seeing a writer or a musician poorly portrayed in a movie or book – or hearing yet another “dumb drummer” joke.
But I do take the concept of having the right to tell a story very seriously. The main characters in my debut novel are stroke victims and their care-givers. I am neither, nor is anybody in my immediate family. Stroke is literally a deadly serious topic – killing 130,000 people a year in the U.S. alone, and injuring hundreds of thousands more, often permanently. So I struggled long and hard over whether I had the right to tell this story – a tale of personal tragedy created solely to be sold as entertainment.
During that soul-searching, I learned that I am nowhere near as bold and brash as Ms. Shriver, who would probably consider me a wimp. In the end, I assuaged my “cultural guilt” by donating a percentage of my book’s earnings to stroke research. Sure, it’s a nice thing to do, but I did it purely out of guilt. Because for me, something felt wrong about writing a made-up story about a topic with such real and serious implications for so many people, particularly when I didn’t have any “skin in the game.”
Clearly, Ms. Shriver would think I need more gall.
Appropriation, or voyeurism?
I’ve also indirectly experienced a kind of after-the-fact appropriation – and I sure didn’t like it. Working as a musician in the early and mid ’90s, I was poor. I’m talking pawning my drums to pay our rent poor. Things started turning around for me in the late ’90s, but I vowed never to forget what rock bottom felt like. So when I was in business school and heard about a book called “Nickel and Dimed” by Barbara Ehrenreich, which purported to shine a light on what it’s like to be poor in America, I got the book and read it.
And became enraged.
The author, touted on Amazon as “our sharpest and most original social critic,” decided to “go undercover” as an unskilled worker to “reveal the dark side of American prosperity.”
In other words, Ehrenreich – a highly educated and financially comfortable professional – pretended to be poor, and spied on poor people.
Her stance was that by living as one of them, she would gain a true sense of what being poor was really like, and share the experience with her readers. But here’s my issue: while she might have experienced what it’s like to work at a crappy job, her “undercover assignment” was self-imposed, and she could bail out of it at any time. When you’re actually poor, you don’t have that escape hatch. I know that feeling all too well. And that’s what she failed completely at capturing.
A big difference worth noting here is that this was a work of non-fiction. That changes things – at least for me. I’m pretty sure that author Thomas Harris, the creator of the fictional character Hannibal Lecter, never killed (and, I hope, never ate) anyone. But I can’t for a minute consider him guilty of “appropriating” the “culture” of a serial killer (or a cannibal). I accept that he’s telling me a story, and doing so in an incredibly distinctive and powerful way. By contrast, Ehrenreich purports to be sharing firsthand what it’s like to be poor, in what to me amounts to an act of literary blackface.
“Nickel and Dimed” has been hailed as an important social work, and became a huge best-seller. To me, Ehrenreich’s book is nothing more than “poverty voyeurism,” and the disrespect and condescension she showed poor people by portraying them as something so alien and wretched infuriates me to this day.
Okay, Keith. Deep cleansing breaths, pal. Deep cleansing breaths…
You can’t please all the people…
One thing I’ve learned – and I think it’s a key point Ms. Shriver was trying to make – is that your work is inevitably going to offend somebody. But I feel that Shriver is exhorting us not to live (or write) in fear of offending. After all, as writers, we want to evoke an emotional response in our readers. Sometimes, that response is going to be negative.
Ms. Shriver maintains that “the last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us.” And she closed her speech by saying, “We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.”
That sounds great in theory. But in actual practice, I’ve learned it’s harder than it seems.
How about you?
What are your thoughts on Ms. Shriver’s speech? What did you think of the two responses I cited? Have you had any aspects of your own culture appropriated? How did that make you feel? For a fiction writer, are any topics off-limits? Why or why not?
Please chime in, and don’t pull any punches. This is a sensitive topic, I know, so I’m aware that some of my views may not align with yours. That fact makes me no less interested in hearing your views, because I strongly believe this is a conversation that needs to be taking place far more frequently. Thanks in advance for any insights you choose to share, and as always, thanks for reading!
[coffee]
Author of the novels Me Again (originally published by Five Star/Gale), and Tony Partly Cloudy (published under his pen name Nick Rollins), Keith Cronin (he/him) is a corporate speechwriter and professional rock drummer who has performed and recorded with artists including Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemons, and Pat Travers. Keith’s fiction has appeared in Carve Magazine, Amarillo Bay, The Scruffy Dog Review, Zinos, and a University of Phoenix management course. A native of South Florida, Keith spends his free time serenading local ducks and alligators with his ukulele.
Excellent piece! I appreciate your balanced approach to the issue and am glad you went for a more sober tone than Shriver did. Having read, enjoyed, and been moved by her novel Big Brother, I know that she’s capable of extremely sensitive writing that allows readers to view the world from the perspective of “the other,” but I wonder if her attempt at going for a punchline — aided by what was essentially a sight-gag — got in the way of her overall messages, or at least prevented her from delivering her message as sensitively (and perhaps sensibly) as you’ve done here.
Thank you, Marc. I’m not familiar enough with Shriver’s writing to know her usual sensitivity level, but I got the impression she came on stage with the goal of shocking her audience, like “I bet you didn’t think that somebody who writes books like mine would ever get up on stage and say THIS.” While she accomplished that mission, I don’t know if she did much to affect positive change. Time will tell…
Keith, what a complex topic but, as you wrote, a conversation that needs to take place.
I am offended by Ms. Shriver’s speech. As an author, I think whenever we try to enter into the experience of an “other” it needs to be done with humility. And, in sincere relationship with people who are a part of that “group” whenever possible.
My Work in Progress does have people of color in it and people struggling with disability and ageism. Not everyone will agree with my character depictions but they are full-fledged people. Not 1-dimensional stereotypes. Yet my protagonist, whose eyes we see my story through, is a white woman.
You point out the necessity for humility in your statements about the “Nickel and Dimed” book. No matter how much I am friends with a person of color, or an elderly person, or a person with a specific disability, I can always, as you noted, escape their reality. Just as people of poverty work from a disadvantage so too do people of color. And you were fortunate that, in addition to working to get out of poverty, you were also a white male.
There’s so much more to say. But my ability to articulate isn’t always there. I look forward to reading other reader’s comments.
Lisa, you raise a great point: that of approaching a subject with humility. I share that feeling, which is why the “sombrero of gall” (see what I did there?) is not necessarily a good fit for somebody like me. Thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts and reactions.
Whew! Keith, you and I have had a couple of online—and maybe one offline—conversation about this topic. It is as deep as it is wide, and there are as many layers to the issue of appropriation are there are arguments about it. I appreciate you standing in the middle of the street and looking at the discussion taking place on either side of you.
A few thoughts that will probably be a little scattered, but might help people see another viewpoint. This is long and typed on my tiny phone’s keyboard, so apologies for typos.
I understood Ms. Abdel-Magied’s reaction to what she heard Ms. Shriver say during her speech. Her tone may have seemed melodramatic, but I have experienced that same heart-racing, pulse-pounding sensation you get when you are in a room full of allies and hear something being said that deeply offends. Her visceral reaction wasn’t voluntary, definitely wasn’t something she wanted to experience, it just happened, and she shared the experience.
In all creative work, there are distinctions between what we want to do, what we can do, and what we “should” do. In general, no one has the right to demand anything from us in any of those categories. Writers, storytellers, artists, can and should create what they want. But what we can’t control is how people receive and respond to our work. Ms. Shriver’s attempt to dismiss the issue of appropriation whole cloth because she faced criticism for her own creative work, was disingenuous.
I appreciated Abdel-Magied’s choice of words in part of her critique. “It is not always OK …” suggests that there are times that it is OK. I agree with that.
For every Tan or Hosseini, there are scores of other authors who are being overlooked because the house already has their fill-in-the-blank-ethnic-group author. This is actually something author friends have been told. I have one friend whose agent and editor championed her book, had it picked up by a major publisher, only to have the project die because no one in marketing could figure out how to market it because the protagonist was a POC. The roadblocks to traditional publishing success are high for everyone, and even harder for POC.
I understand the analogy to writing about poverty, murderers, sickness, etc. And while those things have profound effects on our lives and how we define ourselves, they are, for the most part, things that happen TO us. Color/Race/Identity ARE us (forgive the grammar massacre.) That identity is influenced by how others perceive and treat us from birth.
Grace, I was hoping you’d weigh in, after the thought-provoking discussions we’ve had together.
First of all, you’ve really helped me see Ms. Abdel-Magied’s reaction through new eyes. I, too, have been caught off guard by violently offensive words in what I had considered a safe and welcome place – and you’re right, it actually does make the heart race and the adrenaline pump. I’ve never written about the feeling, but if I did, it might come out more similar to her description than I would have thought. Point taken.
Your last paragraph is particularly powerful (and not a grammar massacre at all!). Thank you for taking the time to share a perspective I could never pretend to fully understand or experience.
Grace, I really appreciate this thoughtful comment. Especially these:
“Writers, storytellers, artists, can and should create what they want. But what we can’t control is how people receive and respond to our work. Ms. Shriver’s attempt to dismiss the issue of appropriation whole cloth because she faced criticism for her own creative work, was disingenuous.”
“I understand the analogy to writing about poverty, murderers, sickness, etc. And while those things have profound effects on our lives and how we define ourselves, they are, for the most part, things that happen TO us. Color/Race/Identity ARE us (forgive the grammar massacre.) That identity is influenced by how others perceive and treat us from birth.”
You pointed out two very important items in these two statements.
In the first, you illuminated motive. Do I bristle at criticism because the criticism is truly unfounded? Or because I don’t like being criticized? Do we come at a subject with humility or arrogance? Is it clear the author is trying to work out her own complex thoughts on a topic by writing a story with characters and cultures unlike hers, and in the process coming to empathize with others? Or is she abusing her power as the god of her written world in order to hop on a hot trend or to make up for some kind of lack in her own experience?
In the second, you bring up the issue of limits. Where is the line? That’s what I think so many people wish they could understand. Why can I as a white woman write from the perspective of a murderer but not from the perspective of a transgender person? It’s because I have the capacity to murder. I can imagine what would push me to that point, what might happen afterward, how it would change me. It’s a thing I could DO. I have the capacity to end up poor. It’s something that could happen TO me.
But unless I spend a lot of concentrated time with transgender friends or family members, so much so that I can truly empathize with them because I have suffered alongside them and they in some way bestow upon me a blessing to write about that world and expose their struggles, I cannot honestly write from their perspective. I can research. I can interview. I can feel for transgender people. But I know that that is not enough. I don’t think this means I can’t have a transgender character in something I write, but I don’t think I could ever feel comfortable or equipped to write a transgender protagonist.
So in my stories, the protagonists have so far all been white women. That’s my perspective. But of course that is not the extent of my world. So I have characters of color, characters of different classes, characters with different sexual identities, characters who are refugees, characters who are adopted, characters who are male! It is not my direct experience, but it is my experience of living with and among them from my own perspective. If I could not do this, every character in my stories would also have to be white middle class women.
I render those characters as faithfully as I can, bolstered by my own friendships, by research, by interviews, and by reading widely. And I check myself by asking people who know far better than I do to read my work and call me on my unintentional stereotypes and mistakes. I try to be respectful and honest and I vet my work.
And that comes back around to humility. Yes, everything is open to us. But we better be damn careful about how we handle it. Not to pay lip service to political correctness (which I believe has sometimes done long-term harm while attempting to do short-term good) but because our desire to write about the human experience should be humane, never taking away from the dignity of others but always seeking to understand and, yes, love those we’ve to this point seen as “other.”
*Slow clap* (Seriously. I’m at work and literally did a slow clap as I read your comment.) Well said, Erin. :-)
Ha! :D
Keith, our culture is too quick to take offense where none is intended. Years ago, when I was a beginning writer, I wrote about the Kindertransport. I am not Jewish but I’ve always been interested in Jewish history. People may criticize me for this, but frankly, why should other people dictate what we can and cannot write and publish? We have to write not just what we know but what we’re interested in and for that reason, I applaud Shriver. She is an amazing writer whose gone into the heads of people other than herself and gives us a window into their soul. I am also grateful for the many British writers who gave voice to Indians when they didn’t have one.
I had the great opportunity to do writing workshops in my children’s small Catholic school with children from various ethnic backgrounds. I hope that in some small way I helped them to find their own voice so that they can tell their stories well. But I would never presume that they should only write about their culture. No, write what you care about, what you love. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I agree wholeheartedly. If a writer does it sensitively and well, he or she can give voice to a minority that otherwise wouldn’t have one. And perhaps that could encourage a minority to stand up and raise their voice.
Vijaya and Suzanna – you both raise the example of this situation at its best: actually helping give voice to a culture or experience that might not otherwise be heard.
But as Grace points out, sometimes one voice can drown out others, taking away – or at least impeding – their chance to be heard.
This is a fascinating subject, and I’m humbled by the thoughtful and impassioned responses people are sharing – thank you!
I think this issue is obscured by the distortions inherent in big publishing decisions that cause inequities for many voices outside of the main. Surely we’ve all felt jealous when the famous actor/politician/president’s daughter, etc. publishes a book that gets rave reviews and huge advance deals. So when a minority voice is portrayed by a white author, it is natural to assume that the white author is “taking away” resources from the minority voice. But this is not a fair world nor is it a zero sum game. I think Suzanna is right, that it could open the door for more books portraying different cultures. I also believe that in order to protect our freedom of speech First Amendment Rights, ALL views in fiction should be represented, not just those from author culture A on only culture A, and from author culture B only on culture B…There are many, many permutations out there to explore. And for the record: all white authors have a moral duty to try their hardest to not offend the culture they are writing about. This should be obvious, but I’m afraid it’s not.
“And for the record: all white authors have a moral duty to try their hardest to not offend the culture they are writing about. This should be obvious, but I’m afraid it’s not.”
^^^
THIS.
Thank you, Christine!
“If a writer does it sensitively and well, he or she can give voice to a minority that otherwise wouldn’t have one. And perhaps that could encourage a minority to stand up and raise their voice.”
Christine, as well-intentioned as this statement may seem from you, it also implies the assumption that minorities a) don’t already HAVE voices and b) aren’t already raising them. The problem is not that people in marginalized communities aren’t raising their voices, it’s that they are not being amplified and heard. We are not being published by the same big houses, or given the same big marketing budgets when we get the publishing deal. Those of us who are, are seen as more of an exception rather than the rule. The greatest challenges we face is not whether we have stories to tell or the desire to tell them; it’s invisibility and an unwillingness for others to acknowledge we exist simply because they don’t see or hear us. The assumption that we’d be better represented if only we raised our voices places the responsibility for fixing this problem solely on marginalized people, when in fact, those in power in publishing play a much larger role in creating the lack of representation, and therefore need to take equal responsibility in fixing it.
Keith, I had a similar reaction to Ehrenreich’s book, but forgave her. While she didn’t capture the stuckness of poverty you describe so well, she did open the door a little on the stereotypes. Her many readers learned new truths about how hard it is to survive on a minimum-wage salary.
My frustration with her book prompted me to write my memoir of my time on welfare. As you say, my having actually been on welfare and the popularity of her book helped sell my book to a publisher and then to readers. In writing it, I felt so strongly the responsibility of telling other people’s stories as well as my own that I sought out people I wanted to include to ask their permission. I also tried to treat them with respect, even the ones who behaved badly. I tried to explore why they thought they were doing the right thing.
I agree that creating characters is what we do when writing fiction, and we are free to write what we want. But I’m also mindful of Greer McAllister’s recent column about the message our novel sends (https://staging-writerunboxed.kinsta.cloud/2017/05/01/yes-your-novel-has-a-message/). She says, “You have to be careful with your characters: what they say, what they do, how they move through the world.”
To create a character from a different culture or even a different time period, I would feel the need to do a lot of research and—for a different culture—have someone from that culture critique my work. I’d also wrestle with the question of how much research is enough. I could still go wrong, of course. Just as not all welfare mothers are alike and their experiences identical, no culture is completely monolithic.
An experience that brought home to me the difficulty of writing about another culture came in an Italian language class. One assignment was to translate an English poem into Italian. I quickly realised that I didn’t know enough about the cultural context of the Italian language to complete the assignment. I also didn’t know the connotations that have built up around the vocabulary I was learning. An English example would be the word “sturdy” which has come to be a euphemism for overweight or the phrase “been to the mountaintop” which for us carries such a strong association with Martin Luther King, Jr.’s speech and the civil rights movement.
Such subtleties would quickly trip me up in trying to create a character from another culture. I could do it, and may well one day, but I hope it would be with respect and recognition of my ignorance.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Barbara – looks like you turned a very challenging experience into an opportunity to help and enlighten others.
You and several other commenters are highlighting a key concept: to treat people and topics you right about with respect. I think that’s what many people found missing in Shriver’s remarks.
The poetry translation must have been an eye-opening process. In my business writing, I’m having to do more work targeting international audiences, which has made me far more aware of just how Americanized many of my perspectives and figures of speech are. It’s always great to be reminded that there’s a big complex world out there, with many different cultural contexts and experiences coloring people’s perceptions. Thanks again.
Keith-
This is an important topic, thank you for raising it in detail and from all sides.
As a publishing professional of forty years, I have long considered these issues. The heat of the debate, ask me, is because there is a difference between the freedom and opportunity that authors have in writing fiction and the lack of freedom and denial of opportunity that has plagued authorship and people in general.
When a debate is heated, facts get singed. Ms. Yen-Rong writes that, “The publishing industry is chock full of white men.” In fact, it is an industry dominated by women.
Ms. Abdel-Magied writes, “the actual Nigerian woman can’t get published.” Writers of color remain under-represented, very true, but are hardly barred at the gates. The list of published and well-reviewed authors of diverse backgrounds would fill a column many times longer than yours today.
Which is not to say there is no cause for action or that our world, including our publishing world, can’t improve. Most agree and are pushing for that. The writers of color we represent and my LGBT colleagues at my company, aren’t defending any straight white male ramparts. Literature must grow. Publishing must be diverse. Nowadays, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in the industry who feels otherwise.
It wasn’t always so, of course. Early in my career I heard an editorial director of a Southern background say, “Black people don’t buy books.” I didn’t punch him, back then I needed my job, but I didn’t have to. He was proved wrong by reality.
Reality is also the principle that, for me, settles this debate. There is no law, nor should there be one, that says writers cannot imagine stories that go beyond their cultural backgrounds. But stories also derive their power from their authenticity.
By authenticity, I do not mean documentary accuracy. I mean the truth of human experience. Can white guys imagine what it is like to be a black Nigerian woman? Ha. Let them try. A few might pull off something that feels true to other white guys, but will never bring to that character profound authenticity.
We do not need laws governing writing fiction, nor do we need a community police rapping the shins of cultural offenders. Fiction is the ultimate force. We professionals can work to change our industry, but it is fiction itself that is changing the minds and hearts of the world.
Don, your question “Can white guys imagine what it is like to be a black Nigerian woman?” brought to mind an aging, balding Scottish lawyer who gave us Mma Ramotswe, a traditionally built Botswana woman of great cunning and integrity. And opened up to his readers a country struggling between modernization and traditional values.
Perhaps the affront of “cultural appropriation” is that it’s often a shoddy job. When a writer gets it right, readers applaud–and should. It’s an affirmation that, underneath all our cultural differences, we share an underlying humanness that links us all. I find any attempt to empathize with fellow human beings who differ from us in race, sex, creed, country, and weltanschauung to be a cause for hope rather than for shame.
Thanks for commenting, Donald – I was hoping to hear from you, to get the perspective of somebody in the oft-maligned “gatekeeper” role.
That said, from having gotten to know you, I suspect you may have more open-minded and culturally sensitive views than some of your colleagues in the industry. Would you agree?
While I typically think of people who work in the arts skewing liberal, I imagine there is still a lot of bias (conscious or not) in publishing, just by seeing how white male authors dominate the book review sections of major publications.
Still, it’s very encouraging to hear your unflagging belief in the power of fiction. Thanks again.
Keith, that main bias I notice in the industry is that people want to sell books. Why else would left skewing folks open imprints that list heavily to the right?
I know of no intention whatsoever on the part of anyone I have ever met or worked with to exclude different voices or cultural backgrounds. To the contrary.
What I have noticed is that it is easier to market familiar stories to a known audience. Even so, efforts are made, which sometimes pan out (Stella, Kite Runner, Bitter and Sweet) and sometimes do not.
Sorry, but I don’t think I’m unusually open minded for this industry.
A white male friend of mine just published a novel about a Kenyan asylum seeker. He said he was rejected by some US publishers for this very reason– who wants to read a story about a black woman from a white south african man? But when I read it, I felt like I could trust him. He had worked with asylum seekers and had Kenyan friends read the piece and help him, aside from all the research he had done on the asylum process in the UK. Is there a benefit to this story being told by someone who has a voice? A voice for the voiceless so to speak? It’s why I went into journalism, this idea that not everyone can speak, not everyone wants to speak, but we can shine light. When it comes to fiction, are we solely writing for entertainment value? Of course we have to consider it, but aren’t we also, hopefully, writing because we believe in a story, an idea, a slice of humanity we want to place in the world? I can imagine some authors are horrifically insensitive and stereotypical. So what role do we play as writers, readers, agents, gatekeepers, reviewers? What is the responsibility? Do we censor and force each of us to submit bios so that we don’t appropriate any experience? To what level, major plot lines, minor character comments? to say that someone like my friend, who was moved by stories of his students disappearing, to write about this experience, I think it was a story that needed to be told and I think he went about it the right way. I would hate to hear he couldn’t tell this story because of who he is, him or anyone with a story they are burning to tell.
Tara, I bristle at the idea of a writer being told they cannot write a specific story. As others have been commenting, I think treating stories you don’t “own” requires respect and humility, but you’ve identified another ingredient: that it should be a story the writer is burning to tell.
That’s what finally compelled me to finish what became my debut novel. Maybe I didn’t “own” the scenario I described, but it was a story I was burning to tell, and I don’t regret telling it.
Thanks for taking the time to share these insights!
Keith–
“Fair and balanced” has been turned into a laugh line for some of us, but as applied here, that’s what your thoughtful essay is–fair and balanced. It evokes a laundry list of responses in me, but I’ll try to limit myself, and order things as student essayists are urged to do, from most important to least.
1. The issue you take up must focus on the reader as much as on what’s being read. All of us carry around our own backstory, the filter through which we interpret experience itself, and the experience of reading. You illustrate this perfectly by describing your self-consciousness at writing about stroke victims. You salved your conscience by donating some of your royalties to this group. You illustrate it even more passionately when you describe your reaction to Barbara Ehrenreich’s book Nickel and Dimed. You were once really poor, and you resent the idea of someone faking poverty to research a book. You say nothing about the book itself, focusing instead on how the author appropriated poverty for her use.
Except in the most egregiously biased cases, this is how experience works. To the degree people succeed in becoming aware of their built-in filters, they are potentially better able to read with something like objectivity. On April 25, Writer Unboxed published Porter Anderson’s “When Publishing People Can’t Write,” in which Anderson laments the decline in writing standards among those who work in the business. I wrote a comment that made a number of observations. But what caught the eye of those who took me to task was ambiguous wording. Instead of seeing what I’d written as I saw it, my critics seized on a potential reading of my words that offended them. Compounding the confusion, I interpreted the words of one of my critics (someone for whom I have the greatest respect) as an instance of “Ageism.” I’m old, so I saw the phrase “speaks to age” as a reference to me in my dotage. No no, I was told, that’s not what was meant at all. And so forth.
2. In February, I published a novel, the essential theme of which has to do with how clichés–catch phrases and words–take over and control our lives. My protagonist is a young woman journalist, and my antagonist is an undocumented alien from Mexico who, with his legal cousin in running a successful service business for retirees. The plot focuses on the potential for abuse and criminality in what is becoming an un-ignorable “issue of our time,” assisted suicide. The only thing in this novel that I haven’t appropriated is being old. Everything else I imagined.
3. Was I wrong to write this novel? If you believe in the power of the imagination to transcend literal experience, the answer has to be no. That leaves just one question worth asking: is what I wrote worth reading? Ah, NOW you’re talking.
Thanks again, Keith. What you wrote is absolutely worth reading.
Barry, thanks for your kind words, and for such a well-thought-out response.
You’re absolutely write about how our reader’ reactions to our work will be guided and filtered by their own unique experiences and perspectives. Probably one of the biggest challenges for us as writers is to try to write in a way that gives our readers a shared experience, not a divisive one. WAY easier said than done!
The two questions you ask in part 3 of your response truly cut to the core of this conversation: Am I wrong to write this, and is it worth reading? I think these are things we need to ask ourselves – and not everybody will answer those questions the same way.
So…Harriet Beecher Stowe should have just kept her big mouth shut, I suppose?
You know, Scott, that was my initial reaction when I first started seeing this topic come up with regard to novelists: don’t try to tell ME what I can and cannot write!
And Shriver’s speech cites many important books that would never have been written if the authors avoided experiences/cultures other than their own.
But I also have never experienced the level of marginalization many of Shriver’s critics have endured, so I take their responses seriously, and want to absorb and understand them in the quest to become both a better, more sensitive writer, and a better, more sensitive person.
Having the platform protects the writer against being accused of getting it all wrong. I may not be able to represent someone’s experience of being disabled exactly as they would see it, but I have my own reality, and I can portray a character as having something similar to what I know. It gives me credibility – should anyone care.
No one else is writing what I’m writing – from the inside or from the outside. So this aspect of what I write may be all anyone ever reads. That keeps me honest – true to the character.
The story, I like to say, was vouchsafed to me as a whole. I have no idea what I will write when the trilogy is finished, but there isn’t enough time in the life I have remaining to write all the subjects in which I feel a unique perspective.
I do think that if a writer appropriates some other culture’s stories, that writer should go many extra miles to tell truth, not stereotype. Many don’t bother.
Thanks for chiming in Alicia. You brought up a couple of points that really resonated with me:
“No one else is writing what I’m writing – from the inside or from the outside.”
That’s an important thing to remind ourselves of, particularly when sometimes it seems that every story has already been told. We have the ability to make our story unique just by being ourselves.
“I do think that if a writer appropriates some other culture’s stories, that writer should go many extra miles to tell truth, not stereotype. Many don’t bother.”
I agree, and that when people begin to feel offended – and appropriated. As several others have commented, much care and respect are needed when describing cultures or experiences not our own.
Let’s flip from the subject to the audience in the argument here: if only an author from culture A can tell a story from culture A, does the implied lack of cross-cultural understanding not also imply that only an author from culture B can tell the story to culture B? Or does the lack of cross-cultural understanding vanish as soon as the money starts flowing from B to A?
I doubt ability to communicate a culture is the issue here, otherwise anthropology would have fallen into complete disrepute long ago. The underlying arguments have nothing to do with the ability of an author, but are rather about segregating fiction to create markets that only culture Z authors are allowed to exploit. Yeah, it’s greed and envy, not authorial integrity, that’s driving this, as with so much else of so-called “social justice.”
I don’t know, Flip. I’ve thought a lot about your response, and I can’t quite buy into it all being about “greed and envy.”
I mean, it’s not like racial/cultural issues only exist in publishing, and everything is hunky-dory (however the heck you spell that) with the rest of the world. We kill each other over religion, skin color, nationality etc. every day. So to think those cultural problems don’t seep into the publishing biz seems a bit hard to swallow.
Thanks for taking the time to comment!
I’ve attempted to enter this conversation before and ended up bloodied and bruised. I guess my bottom line is that it all depends on how it’s presented. I’ve read many books written by men from the POV of a woman and been amazed at how spot-on they were. On the other hand, there are books like the one I read by a male author and in the sex scene his big description was, “..and she came and came.” Uh huh. Not a clue, dude. As someone who grew up in the deep south (Louisiana) I often see portrayals of southerners in film and on the page as being pious, empty-headed, churchgoing hypocrites, that are laughable, sometimes irritating, quite often offensive, but it seldom makes me angry. (But maybe that’s my genteel roots.) My “favorite” in film are actors from across the pond trying to eek out genuine southern accents, when I’m sure there are boatloads of eager American actors with real southern accents. Is that appropriation of the American Southern culture? I think it’s just money talking–better to hire a headliner with a lousy fake accent than a lesser known quantity from Alabama, Louisiana or Georgia. The downside to the increasingly broad definition of cultural appropriation is that I find myself second guessing everything I write. Am I culturally appropriating by including a gay character? I’ve never been a gay man. Never will be, but now I worry that I may be portraying him wrong or worse offending someone. One of my character’s parents died when was 14. Never been there either, but am I appropriating genuine grief? While some may argue that it was something that happened TO her, I would argue that it defines who she is, so it IS her. Lionel Shriver is one of my favorite authors, but while I agree with her message, her presentation was way off key. Okay, so let the pummeling begin.
Thanks for commenting, Densie – here’s hoping you remain pummel-free.
It’s funny – when I first read Shriver’s speech, I just liked how frank she was, calling things the way she saw them. I guess her words appealed to me in much the same the way she cites Trump’s words as appealing to his supporters – a very scary analogy.
But as I continue to examine both her speech and this topic, the more I feel she was too heavy-handed and combative – a judgment I’m leaning towards because of how deeply she offended some of her audience, and how little her combative words did to help solve the problem against which she was railing.
Then again, she’s clearly a great writer, and who the hell am I to tell her what words to use?
Definitely a complex issue. It’s gratifying to see how respectfully it’s being discussed here!
Great post.
I’m not sure I think in such high terms as cultural appropriation when I start creating characters, but I do know that fear of making a wrong step often holds me back from crafting as diverse and realistic a universe as I’d like.
I write paranormal romance (set “here and now”) and I find I weave a lot of my worries and stress about getting things “right” culturally into the various supernatural beings in my stories. Werewolves and elves as code for diversity, maybe.
I’m glad for this conversation. So many moving parts. So many stories worthy of being told and worthy of listening to. At heart, I like a good story–sometimes that story remains in the “pages” of the book I’m reading and sometimes it’s bolstered by the “meta-data” attached to the story (i.e.: who wrote it and why).
(I couldn’t finish Nickeled and Dimed. Stopped reading halfway through. I just couldn’t get over the falseness of the premise.)
Thanks for commenting, Keely.
Funny, no matter what genre we write in, fear of making a wrong step can hold ANY of us back!
There is much to unpack here. I’m very glad you were brave enough to do so in this space.
I do have issues with some of your conclusions as well as those in the comments here.
To the esteemed Donald Maas (Ms. Yen-Rong writes that, “The publishing industry is chock full of white men.” In fact, it is an industry dominated by women. ), I would defend Ms. Yen-Rong by saying that the industry EMPLOYS white women who IRONICALLY choose to PRIVILEGE white male authors. This is indeed, getting better, but as in the case of much of our progress on a social front a slow one to correct. It is part of the narrative white middle class women enjoy as beneficiaries of both the feminist movement AND the older patriarchy. They are the princesses and damsels in distress that the patriarchy privileges. (And also the reason so many voted for Trump.)
I thoroughly enjoyed Barbara Ehrenreich’s books. I could not condemn her as you did, because I understood her audience to be (see paragraph above) double-dipping middle class white women in an exercise to give them some empathy. She chose professions that bear the brunt (unintended or otherwise) of not only economic but social disparity.
As to writing fiction (and the purported thrust of both this piece as well as Lionel Shrivers speech), I encourage people to explore and write about the “other,” but understand the distinction of exploring a character and speaking for a community or culture. That is the crux of the issue, and one you did not make an effective stab at.
I also read Shriver’s speech last fall and many other quite wonderful responses. What struck me was that she was appealing to her place of privilege to not only write inappropriately, thoughtlessly, and insultingly regarding her subject matter, but then she was also calling upon her privileged position as a patriarchy protected princess to not receive any criticism for doing so.
The handful of household names we recognize as exceptions to the white male rule of thumb are to be commended. However, they are not the only voices of their respective cultures. To land those coveted spots, one needs to appeal to the tastes and prejudices of the publishing class. Who they do not sign is our collective cultural loss. The subalterns of each culture should be cultivated for all our benefit.
I pass as a middle class white woman. I identify as “three quarters hillbilly,” because I see that culture so poorly represented and exploited…and more recently scapegoated.
As with most hillbillies, my blood quantum would also reveal a fair amount of Black and Native DNA. That blood quantum does NOT give me the right to portray those cultures due to some form of cellular memory. Nor does my degree in anthropology.
What it does give me is insight into this subject matter.
It is, indeed, complicated. I do hope it provokes some deep thought from the audience. There is no clear right and wrong or bright dividing line. I find the most interesting ideas spring from that tension.
Here’s to our collective and continued growth on this subject. Cheers!
Wow, that’s a really interesting response, Lori – thank you!
This in particular is an EXCELLENT point:
“…understand the distinction of exploring a character and speaking for a community or culture.”
SO true, and articulated much better than I could have. And it’s when authors do the latter that those communities or cultures feel they’ve been appropriated.
And this is a great perspective, which I agree wholeheartedly:
“There is no clear right and wrong or bright dividing line. I find the most interesting ideas spring from that tension.”
Well said. Thanks again!
A lot of good comments in this thread that I don’t feel a need to repeat, but I would like to underscore your “understand the distinction of exploring a character and speaking for a community or culture.”
Shriver is a social commentator and satirist whose novels are driven in varying degrees by character. Some of us are much more focused on telling an individual story.
My second novel dealt with homelessness in a rural western community. For nearly a decade I have been a volunteer serving people who are poor and marginalized, and I’m still learning new things. I’ve encountered many stories and character types and as many people who reject the identity of being homeless as those who embrace it. “Homeless” is important to recognize as label applied by people of privilege that denies another’s humanity.
With experience, humility, respect, empathy and self-knowledge, a writer may be compelled take on the story of another. This is very different than trolling unfamiliar waters.
Amen to this, Charlie:
“With experience, humility, respect, empathy and self-knowledge, a writer may be compelled take on the story of another. ”
My compliments to those making comments. I wish the population in general, and politicians in particular, could discuss a sensitive issue so thoughtfully.
Agreed, Fredric (good to see you, by the way).
The level of thought and respect going into these comments is truly inspiring.
I think where Shriver’s speech, and many white writers go wrong is the tone of entitlement. I am a writer and therefore I can write whatever I want. And then we forget that yes, we can, but it is not without consequence.
Just because we *can* write something, doesn’t mean we *should*.
General human experience is different than identity-based experiences. I appreciate Grace’s clear distinction: “… things that happen TO us. Color/Race/Identity ARE us (forgive the grammar massacre.) That identity is influenced by how others perceive and treat us from birth.” This is key.
Our stories should have characters that reflect the world around us, but I have difficulties when writers – white especially – fall into the trap of saying “we are giving a voice to those who haven’t had one”. This is white savior speak. In fact, when we choose to write a story from the POV of a Japanese American in an internment (concentration) camp, we are not giving Japanese Americans a voice – indeed we are doing the exact opposite, we are taking that voice away.
Some experiences are so deeply connected to identity that I think, in truth, only those in the marginalized populations should write from here on out. But, if we writers in the dominant mainstream DO choose to write them, then we had better be well prepared for the criticism.
Because, additionally, the entitlement piece comes in when we cannot accept the criticism that we’ve gotten something wrong. I’ve seen numerous instances of authors reacting too quickly – too defensively – and waving the “it’s fiction!” flag as though this is a panacea. More encouraging are the authors who listen and say, I’m sorry I got it wrong. I will fix what I can and also do better in the future.
When you write of how furious you are with Nickel and Dimed – this is what you – we – need to hold onto when we choose whether or not to write that identity-based story from the “other” POV. Shriver is incorrect in her view of what you quoted: “the last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us” because once those words are published, they no longer belong to us, but our readers.
Janet, thanks for a brave and eloquent response. And you’ve highlighted an area where I’m still on the fence: the whole “giving a voice” thing. On one hand, I agree the phrase starts to set off warning bells as being what you so accurately called “white savior speak.”
But when you say that writing from the POV of a Japanese American in an internment camp is taking that voice away, why do you feel that? How does this actually prevent somebody with that actual experience from being heard? Do you feel, like commenter Grace Wynter, that it essentially crowds the other person from having a shot at publication? Or do you feel that it marginalizes the experience itself, because the author never had it?
Can you clarify/elaborate? Thanks for being part of this fascinating discussion!
It’s a little of both. It definitely crowds out (no matter how much white agents and editors feel like it doesn’t – it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame when it comes to that) authors from marginalized populations… and in this way, it serves as a facet of cultural appropriation. A white author is benefitting from a POC’s experience.
I’ll jump in here, because this raises for me the most persuasive argument I’ve heard.
If privileged, especially name-brand writers speak for someone else’s culture or defining experience, they don’t necessarily prevent other voices from writing and getting published in today’s market.
But, let’s face it, how many privileged white readers are going to read two or three novels about Nigerian woman immigrants? And will those readers buy work by the unknown writer or the familiar name?
In that sense, the privileged voice crowds out the more authentic one.
Thanks, Charlie, and thanks again, Janet.
Good points from both of you.
Thank you for your interest in this topic and for being open to a spectrum of viewpoints, including those from within underrepresented or misrepresented communities.
I’m responding to this comment:
“…they don’t necessarily prevent other voices from writing and getting published in today’s market.”
They don’t necessarily, but they do more often than some folks might think. More often than is talked about publicly.
My homebase is children’s-YA literature. I’ve been in the business for twenty years as a mentor and teacher to writers across the full spectrum of identity elements.
Which means that, over the years, many have come to me to discuss their submissions. It’s not unusual for them to share feedback correspondence.
I’ve read over a dozen rejection letters that enthusiastically praised the writing and then said something of the effect of “unfortunately, we have just acquired an Angel Island/Japanese internment/Trail of Tears/slavery book by XYZ…”
Sometimes, say, “Asian boy” is enough to block.
And here, we’re talking only about letters from those in acquisitons who are willing to be candid about that reason.
Moreover, a number of writers working from lived experience are rejected because their authentic insights don’t ring true to mainstream preconceptions. (This also can impact reviews, awards and other dynamics that, in turn, affect sales and future acquisitions.)
For example, I am a tribally enrolled Native woman with a law degree. I had an editor tell me it wasn’t realistic to portray a Native woman lawyer. Because we didn’t exist. She was felt absolutely secure in what she didn’t know that she didn’t know.
To be clear: I’m not against writing across identity elements. I’ve blurbed and promoted other authors who’ve successfully done so. I’ve taught workshops on how to do this well. I’ve written five trade-published protagonists across race.
My right to do so is unthreatened.
Whether I personally choose to do so in a given context depends on the specific project and, in part, its potential to drown out a voice more fully centered in that perspective. In that process of consideration, my default mode is listening.
Cynthia – thank you for sharing such an interesting perspective.
Wow, THIS was a pretty major reality bomb:
“I had an editor tell me it wasn’t realistic to portray a Native woman lawyer. Because we didn’t exist.”
How do you even begin to respond to a statement like that? Wow.
Here’s a related question for you. Do you think writers from underrepresented cultures are having their publication opportunities limited based on their actual race/culture, or do you think it’s more about them choosing to write about culture-specific characters and experiences? Put less klunkily, would you as a native woman have a harder time than a white person selling, say, a legal thriller about a white lawyer? Or is it when the characters and subject matter are tied to an “other” culture that the problem arises?
I hope you see this and have the time to respond. But if not, thanks for such thoughtful insights.
Thank you for your kind response.
>>would you as a native woman have a harder time than a white person selling, say, a legal thriller about a white lawyer? Or is it when the characters and subject matter are tied to an “other” culture that the problem arises?
Alas, I’m well established and blessed/cursed by existing sales figures.
That said, my last Native-protagonist title was published in 2002. I’ve published 11 national trade books since.
I loved writing them. I’m a creative with a myriad of interests. That’s one reason I love kid lit. The genre-format-age market flexibility.
But to stay in business, I had to shift gears away from Native writing to reboot.
It went well. I made bestseller lists (NYT, PW) by writing non-Indian books, which also received more mainstream critical acclaim.
Because of the name-recognition I was able to build by writing non-Indian characters and stories, I was able to sell my upcoming Native YA novel (fall 2018).
In a nutshell, it’s the culturally grounded author + related topic that’s the challenge. Because, unfortunately, it couples the perception of a niche interest with a presumption of relative incompetence.
It’s easier for my students from marginalized communities to write across identity–especially to write the majority–because they’re so saturated by that experience.
I typically suggest to, say, a white writer planning to write a Native character to begin by reading 100 books by Native authors. They sometimes find that daunting, but it’s a wonderful opportunity.
When I suggest to a Native writer with an interest in white protagonists that they read 100 books by and about white folks, basically, they shrug. Say, “Already done that. Now what?”
Wow, these are great insights, Cynthia. Thanks for sharing all this!
Among your excellent points, Cynthia, this one stood out for me: “Moreover, a number of writers working from lived experience are rejected because their authentic insights don’t ring true to mainstream preconceptions.” I encountered this problem as well when trying to find a publisher for my memoir of being on welfare. Luckily those who hear me speak or actually read the book have proven more likely to revise their preconceptions. Good luck with your forthcoming YA novel!
Thank you, Barbara.
The lack of socio-economic diversity and related awareness within the industry is an important representation factor.
It hasn’t received as much attention as other identity elements, but hopefully your memoir will help make a difference.
You’ve brought up interesting points. I take issue with your characterization of “Nickel and Dimed.” The author stayed true to her task of living with no one to fall back on and having nothing. There was no arrogance that I sensed. She experienced poverty as closely as someone who isn’t poor could do, in my opinion. I understood the difficulty of improving your situation in those circumstances.
You’ve brought up interesting points. I take issue with your characterization of “Nickel and Dimed.” The author stayed true to her task of living with no one to fall back on and having nothing. Thee was no arrogance that I sensed. She experienced poverty as closely as someone who isn’t poor could do, in my opinion. I understood the difficulty of improving your situation in those circumstances.
Thanks, Cathy – your opinion of the book puts you in the majority. It was a huge seller, and has an average rating of four stars on Amazon, with more than 1,800 reviews.
That said, when I was developing this post, it was interesting to read some of the one-star reviews (no, none were written by me). Many of them had the same issues with the book that I had.
It can be argued that she helped shed some light on the plight of poor, unskilled workers. Me, I still think she was just slumming.
Keith,
In addition to writing MG fiction, I’ve worked in the diversity-awareness research & education world for several decades, and I deeply appreciate this post and all the responses.
I am not a fan of Lionel Shriver’s “in your face” approach to stimulating discussion of this complex topic. While she garnered some support and survived the angry grenades thrown in her direction, what bothered me most was my perception–purely mine, as I don’t know Shriver–she didn’t have to see up close, even acknowledge (with the sensitivity some say she demonstrates in her writing), the pain she caused many who have already endured years/lifetimes of perceived slights, marginalization, or outright discrimination from the majority culture in the West.
Diversity issues, to include cultural appropriation, are complex because respect and understanding are complex. Cheap shots–and I put Shriver’s sombrero speech in that category–are seldom helpful and change few hearts or minds.
What IS helpful is a conversation like the one you’ve started today; respectful exchanges that include divergent and respectful views. This can help all authors . . . and readers.
Thanks for taking the time to think through these issues in a way that I believe is healing.
Thanks for using this forum to share your thoughts.
Thanks for affording respect to your respondents.
And thanks to all those authors who shared their opinions.
Here’s to more conversation and fewer bombs.
Thanks for weighing in, Charlotte.
“Here’s to more conversation and fewer bombs.”
Amen to that!
I’ll admit to bracing myself for an explosion or two when tackling this topic. So far, so good…
Cultural appropriation will exist as long as there are writers who want to cash in on the literary trend du jour. Should stories about Somali refugees crossing the Mediterranean into Europe become popular, hordes of writers who care nothing about Somali refugees will write books about them, full of cliches, stereotypes — all the bells and whistles — hoping to see their work in print and their names on royalty checks. The writing, not coincidentally, will most likely be crappy, because self-centered writing typically is.
In contrast, an author who does care about Somali refugees and who wants to tell a story about the universal truths of their story — fear, homelessness, rejection, dreams for the future — will not allow himself or herself to fall back on lazy shortcuts out of that same respect and compassion. The writing will at least be sincere and authentic (even beautiful, in the hands of a talented writer) because it is at the service of the subject and the readers. In both cases, the writer’s own identity may be a contributing factor, but is not the ultimate motivation for writing the book.
This whole discussion reminds me of the Gospel of John, Chapter 10, in which Jesus compares the false and true shepherd: the first is a “thief and a robber” who comes to “steal and destroy”; the other “calls his sheep by name,” and “they follow him, for they know his voice.” To quote another passage: “Wisdom is justified by her children” (Luke 7:35).
Keith, I don’t recommend the sombrero for you—it’s too hard to drive with that thing on. Your post today and the comments reflect once again on the thoughtful, exploratory nature of the WU family—fine work, and many thanks to the commenters who approached a touchy topic with grace and candor (and thanks for opening up new channels in my mind that weren’t there before).
A novel I wrote a few years ago has three main characters: a white office worker, early thirties, his boss, a woman about his age, and a black, homeless man, Jacob Reid, approaching fifty. All are thrown together by the S.F. earthquake in the late eighties. The model for Jacob was indeed a homeless guy I saw pretty much every day for a year and a half because he panhandled near the building on Market Street where I worked. I spoke to him occasionally, and greeted him more, but didn’t really know him.
The reader is in a close-third POV with Jacob because he has many observations about his environment, how to market himself as a panhandler (he thinks of the passersby as “clients”), how other homeless people behave, and because he’s a reader, how writers do what they do. But mostly he thinks about his family—most searingly, about his now college-age daughter—lost to his alcoholism, though it’s been seven years since he’s had a drink.
I didn’t know the homeless guy, but I knew this character, Jacob; I knew how he would react to the extremities of how he was living, and knew the code he carried himself by. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but his heart still hadn’t hardened, despite where he was on the social ladder. He’s black not directly because the guy I modeled him after was black, but because his race serves the story—there are various racially tinged episodes that move the narrative.
I don’t think that’s cultural appropriation, but I don’t know. I just know what worked for the story. And the guy who turns out to be the best friend of Hayden, the first-person white office worker is his gay housemate, who ends of up dying of AIDs. Hayden only realizes toward the end that the gay guy is his best friend. The gay character has some flamboyant aspects, but not in an empty stereotypical way.
Is that cultural appropriation? Again, I don’t know. I lived for a couple of years with two gay housemates in San Francisco and took some of their expressions into my character. It’s what writers do.
I’m going on too long here—I won’t even get into my romping around in the mind of my female character. But I always hope to express the specific longings and actions of individuals in my work, not structuring characters by types or learned behavior. I probably get it wrong fairly often, but writing in the minds of people different from yourself is one of the ways we try to understand each other.
Thanks for your good work here!
Tom, I’m grateful for your input. It sounds like you’re being very respectful to the cultures of the characters you’ve developed – which probably comes from the respect with which you treated the people who helped inspire those characters.
Many people unintentionally (or not) lead very sheltered lives. I’m thankful for the diversity I’ve experienced during my journey, and it sounds like you are, too. That’s why I always encourage people to travel, to get outside their comfort zones and learn that there are other ways to live – some better, some worse.
I can’t claim to be so altruistic as to say I’ve done that on purpose. Instead, by choosing the life of an artist, it happened TO me, as a by-product of the professional/artistic path I was pursuing. But I was deeply enriched because of it, and am forever thankful for the experiences I’ve had – good and bad.
All that being said, I’m still a middle-aged white guy who is (for now, at least) economically comfortable. So I need to constantly challenge and evaluate the lens through which I view the world.
Sounds like that’s something you do, too. So I’ll bet you’re in good shape in terms of appropriating versus simply sharing insights and experiences you’ve had. Thanks for contributing to this amazing conversation!
Hi, Keith:
Sorry it took so long for me to get to this, but I wanted to read it when I could really devote some time — and I’m glad I did, because I’ve really enjoyed and been meaningfully informed by all the comments.
I’ve written across cultures, but never about a character who wasn’t based at least partly on someone I’d met and known reasonably well — and been emotionally moved by. I wouldn’t have even thought about writing about African-Americans if I hadn’t worked with my lawyer wife for many African-American clients, helping them with serious legal issues, meeting their families, and becoming not just fellow combatants in the legal trenches but friends
Similarly, I dated a Salvadoran woman for a time, visited her and her family in El Salvador, and got to know many of her friends and relatives well.
Did any of that give me “rights” with regard to telling their stories?
I had to write an essay to accompany my fourth novel, which concerned immigration and focused on a Salvadoran-American family. The title of the piece was “Go Humbly,” and you can find it online — a version of it was published by Narrative Magazine. The reason for that title will become obvious below.
Many of the commenters here have emphasized the need for humility, and I obviously agree. But I think more is required.
First, one has to be scathingly honest with and about oneself. In the essay, I admitted that given my background–being raised in a white suburb of Columbus, Ohio, and having my first conversation with an African-American only at age fourteen–I couldn’t help but be prejudiced. My mind had been formed by racist impressions — some subtle, some blatant. And I likened racism to alcoholism — it’s something one never really gets over, but has to learn to recognize and control through insight, empathy, and vigilant awareness.
The other insight in the essay relevant to this discussion concerned the need not just of humility or honesty, but love. This was how I put it in the essay:
“John Coltrane once remarked that when there is something we do not understand we must go humbly to it. That humility is the test of our honesty. Our art will demonstrate not just our understanding—our “sensitivity,” or lack thereof—but how honest we allowed ourselves to be, not just about our subject matter, but ourselves.
If we sense sloppiness or laziness or sentimentality, or even a bigoted indifference disguised as a well-meaning advocacy, we can justifiably criticize the result, regardless of who the artist is or what the work portrays. This is a question not just of execution, however, but of motive, and all such inquiries are slippery. We can hardly accuse an artist of botching something he doesn’t understand by attributing to him motives we cannot possibly know.
But the craving for authenticity is as strong as ever. Everybody wants the real dope, even the person who wouldn’t recognize it if it sat on his head. But the authentic is an illusion, we never possess the truth, we approach it—not just with our eyes but our imaginations. And, if we are wise like Coltrane, we do so humbly. We do so in a spirit of love, not empowerment. And if we are honest with ourselves, we know the difference.”
Wonderful post. I’m glad I finally had the time not just to read it, but reflect on it meaningfully. I expect that reflection to continue. Thanks for that.
Thank you, David. That means a lot, coming from somebody I admire so much.
It’s funny that you mention Coltrane. I appreciated his philosophy before I appreciated his music. I stumbled onto a biography of him as a teen, and was captivated by his thirst for knowledge and growth, even though at the time his music didn’t really resonate with me (it went over the head of the white-bread teenager I was trying to grow out of being).
I’m blessed that my life as an artist (often a starving one) brought me in contact with so many cultures that were different from my own. But I strive to make sure the familiarity I’ve developed with them never turns into entitlement, because even though I may think I *understand* another culture, I cannot forget that I have never LIVED within it. Does that make sense?
Thank you so much for adding to the emotional depth of this incredible conversation.
Keith, and all of you,
This is a remarkable discussion, one where it is difficult to avoid the themes that have been well established here. But I’ll try.
I come at this (art and communication) less from the sociological perspective than the personal one, backwards as it turns out. I affirmed early that I was white and ordinary and for the longest time struggled with this passion of wanting to speak, believing I didn’t deserve to. Nothing looked terribly wrong and I had some advantages. Neither homeless, nor Gatsby. Boring and pathetic to think I could speak to others.
Scouring my experience though, I fell on something, call it an inner identity. I was beaten physically (and beaten down) by a long line of family above me. No, I don’t write about that. The damaged white boy. That’s been done, too. What I take from it is the sense of alienation and isolation that the beaten person comes to believe about him/herself. Over time, I realized that is, in part, an almost universal experience. We all suffer in one way or another and usually in many ways simultaneously.
Fast forward many songs and now novels later, I choose stories that I just have to tell (the passion theme) and try not worry about who my subconscious chooses to tell them. The fact that my characters have identities is less important to the story than their humanity and their arcs are. Identities relate to easily grasped differences–appearance, speech, activities—and, yes, we go to war over them all the time. (Star Belly Sneeches-syndrome.) They are by nature surface.
But humanity makes us so alike. When I chose in my WIP to have an American Indian man and a Japanese man collide with a mixed-race female circus performer, it’s not about their surfaces. It’s the pain and insight they bring. (True, insight is tempered by identity.)
But if the characters’ identity is their most important aspect, our story risks being stuck on surfaces and ideas. It might diminish the range of reaching our readers’ humanity and the discussions we and they dare to have.
Hello all,
I’m brand new to WU, and this is my first post. At the risk of being ‘pummeled and bruised’ I wanted to jump in because the topic is so thought-provoking. The comments have been terrific.
In the above post, tom Pope said, “But humanity makes us so alike.”
To me, that says it all. We talk about appropriation, authenticity, which to my mind is measured by the reader’s access to a larger truth. Writing that offers an emotionally satisfying experience does so not because the reader knows the author has lived the particular circumstance or lifestyle or culture, but because the reader can connect with the human experience on which the story is built.
To some degree we’ve all known fear, lack of control over our lives, rejection, devaluation. If I’ve told the story well enough, with an authentic voice achieved through all the tools writers employ, then readers won’t care if it’s real or imagined. They’ll go with the protagonist wherever she leads them. They’ll have that emotionally satisfying experience precisely because the story evokes empathy, deeper understanding of someone else’s world, however limited by our filters.
I once bought a purse with a tag that said, “Genuine leather,” a red flag for fake. But I really liked the purse. It was well-made, even with fake leather, and I enjoyed it for years.
Some really great points have been brought up here. I wanted to add one specifically that I could speak to, from experience. Keith, you asked, “While it was daring of American author (and white guy) Arthur Golden to write the best-seller “Memoirs of a Geisha,” don’t you think that if an actual Japanese (and – here’s a crazy idea – female) geisha approached an agent with a book pitch about the life of a geisha, the agent would at least request a look at the manuscript?”
My response is simply that, you would think, wouldn’t you? ;) BUT…
I can’t tell you the amount of editors who, when we pitched them CHASING THE SUN, said they struggled to think there’d be an audience for it. My book is about a Peruvian family going through the horrors of a kidnapping. I AM a Peruvian whose family went through the horrors of a kidnapping. But somehow this experience and perspective weren’t enough; I was told that they wished the book either at some point took place in the US or included characters from the US (which I learned quickly, is code for, can we include white people in your book so that white people can feel included as they read it?). The problem is this: the industry is less worried about authenticity than they are about making a “mainstream audience” (which they mistakenly view as being mainly white, when the mainstream is in fact, DIVERSE) feel included. Which is why a writer like Ann Patchett can write a book like Bel Canto, which is all about a fictional South American country that very clearly is Peru, and be praised for broadening her horizons, while a writer who is Peruvian American is told there may not be an audience for a book set in Peru. (And let me just say, I am a huge fan of Patchett’s, and Bel Canto is one of my favorite books, but those facts can co-exist along with the fact that I recognize her privilege). I can’t tell you how many fellow writers of color have told me they went through similar experiences trying to get published. Us writing about our experience is deemed “niche.” A white person writing about it is seen as someone tapping into “universal experiences.” How can we then, not to assume that what’s really being praised as the “universal experience” is not the characters and their world, but the world seen through the lens of a white writer? It’s not just in publishing, either, it’s simply reflective of a view that seems to perceive the white, US experience as universal. Consider why we call anyone from another country who comes to the US to work and live an “immigrant” while those in the US who move to work in say, China, are called “expats.” That exceptionalism makes many writers and United Statesians feel as if the world is their oyster—how DARE someone not speak English when I’m a tourist in their country? How DARE someone tell me what culture I can and cannot write about? It’s that sense of entitlement, in both Shriver’s speech and the attitudes of so many writers who lack humility, that I take deep, deep issue with.
On the issue of platform I would say that the more books about these groups of people A are made and sold the more the door opens to More books about them BEING made INCLUDING books being made by people A. The reverse, however is seldom true.