Going Humbly
By David Corbett | December 11, 2018 |
In the February, 2019 issue of Writer’s Digest, I lead a roundtable discussion on the issue of what it’s like to be a writer of color in the crime genre. The contributors are Danny Gardner, Kellye Garrett, Rachel Howzell Hall, Gar Anthony Haywood, Naomi Hirahara, and Gary Phillips.
How, you might ask, did a mature (read: old) white male get assigned to such a piece?
I’m a contributing editor to the magazine, and so receive the editorial calendar well in advance. When I saw that the theme for the issue in question was Diversity, I decided to pitch an article on the crime/mystery/thriller genre, remembering a piece Rachel had written in 2015 titled “Colored and Invisible,” in which she discussed the experience of being one of only a few black writers at annual mystery conferences.
I felt that was a topic that could easily form the basis of a larger discussion, and asked the other writers, all of whom I knew personally except Kellye, if they wanted to join in. All said yes.
It’s an excellent piece—everyone has fascinating things to say on a variety of topics. But as I read the contributions and took in everyone’s remarks, I couldn’t help but understand on a much deeper level my own curious status in the conversation.
In particular, I couldn’t help but feel a certain inner twinge when the discussion turned to the issue of cultural appropriation. In a way, wasn’t that what I was doing in my role as interloper on a panel about Writers of Color? How long can one hide behind his good intentions?
This had nothing whatsoever to do with how anyone reacted to me. I was treated graciously at every turn. But like I said, these were friends. We’re comfortable with each another.
Even so, as the issue of writing across cultural barriers arose, I realized finally I had a personal stake in the conversation, even though my role as the “question man” prevented me from saying anything.
Several of the contributors noted that they had no problems with people writing outside their own cultural sphere, as long as they did it with genuine respect and a willingness to listen. But they had difficulty when white authors, for example, write about black characters and communities and get lauded for their “grit” and their “ear for dialogue” when in truth their portrayals are often cliched or even demeaning. Worse, African-American writers covering the same terrain either go unrecognized or get criticized for not being “black enough,” i.e., their writing doesn’t maintain the stereotype.
This brought to mind an essay I wrote in conjunction with the publication of my fourth novel, Do They Know I’m Running?, which concerned a Salvadoran-American family suffering a crisis—the uncle who supports the family gets deported, and his nephews devise a scheme to bring him back. What I was hoping to explain in the essay was not only my reasons for wanting to write the novel, but my answer to the question: What gives me the right to do so?
I’ve decided to revisit that essay and share it below, with the hopes it will both continue and expand the conversation in the Writer’s Digest piece. Incidentally, that issue should be available in early January, and I really hope you take the opportunity to read the discussion, as well as its online expanded version, which presents the parts we couldn’t fit in because of word count.
You might also want to read a similar and excellent roundtable discussion that Kellye led for the Los Angeles Review of Books, titled “It’s Up to Us,” featuring Rachel and Gar again as well as Walter Mosley, Kyra Davis, and Barbara Neely, which you can find online here.
And, of course, our own Keith Cronin wrote about this subject here at Writer Unboxed in one of my favorite posts of the past few years, titled, “In Which a White Guy Talks About Cultural Appropriation.”
With all that as long-winded prelude, here goes.
* * * * *
I grew up in central Ohio, a fairly provincial and racially segregated backwater at the time, despite the presence of the statehouse and one of the country’s largest universities, Ohio State. Before I left, this was changing; African Americans were gaining ground politically, economically and socially, the university’s international draw in both students and faculty was quite literally changing the face of the local community, and Columbus was growing into the major, multicultural metropolis it has become.
But I saw firsthand, at times within my own home, the sometimes subtle and other times quite blatant transformation of small-town rectitude and middle-American conformity into racist fear and anger and contempt.
The word “nigger” was a constant drumbeat among the working class white guys I hung out with, so much so that by the time I made my first black friend—his name was Adrian Bennett, we were both fourteen, working together as volunteers at the Center for Science and Industry—I was startled by how “normal,” how like myself, he was.
I felt embarrassed by this reaction then and still do today. Although I was not paralyzed by white guilt I realized I was by no means innocent. I bore the emotional and conceptual baggage of my place and time and no amount of feel-good hipness could cure me completely.
In a way racism is not unlike alcoholism. The tendency cannot be escaped, merely controlled, and the control requires insight, honesty and discipline. Put differently, it requires one to become more fully human. And like an alcoholic, I very much wish I did not have the thoughts and feelings and impulses I still sometimes observe within myself. I wish I was colorblind, race-blind. Instead, I have tried to become insightful and conscientious, I’ve learned to question and control my impulses, I’ve learned to listen and observe.
Much has changed. I now live in a very mixed community in a California neighborhood so diverse I once reflected, during our yearly Nationwide Night Out get-together, that I and my neighbors looked like we’d been transplanted from a Jonathan Demme movie—whites, blacks, Asians, Latinos, Filipinos, all intermingling effortlessly with genuine warmth and fondness. We look out for each other and involve ourselves in each other’s lives.
It was the experience of living here, together with my working beside late wife on several emotionally charged probate cases involving African-American families, that prompted me to write about them and my hometown in my second novel, Done for a Dime.
In particular, without having grown close to many of the people involved in those cases—my wife, who passed away in 2001, could often be more of a professional big sister than a lawyer—I never would have attempted to write about African-American characters as I did.
Befriending someone in a time of high stress, seeing them through one of the worst episodes in their lives, witnessing firsthand the effect on their families, seeking not only to understand but help—and being held accountable for that help—offers a unique perspective on the human experience. Not just that of others, but of oneself.
Now and then I felt those old racist thoughts and feelings rise up, only to burst like acidic bubbles as they encountered the truth of what I now saw on an intimate basis in these people who were becoming our friends. I felt diseased, and yet life had given me a chance to heal.
As I wrote my novel, fictionalizing what I had experienced, I tried to honor the people I knew and did my best to portray them honestly. But after listening to the roundtable contributors for our Writer’s Digest piece, I couldn’t help but wonder—did I? Or am I fooling myself?
Regardless, the question arose again when my writer’s eye turned toward Central America.
It’s the 21st Century. “Post-Racial America.” All is well, no?
When I first came to California in the mid-seventies, I worked briefly at a Los Angeles restaurant with a largely Mexican staff. I was supervised by a waiter named Ramon, who asked me to help him learn French, in return for his help in teaching me Spanish. But Ramon was not merely generous and curious. He was also proud, world-wise and reserved. He knew that I, as an Anglo, might easily replace him as head waiter if the Caucasian owners saw fit or if customers groused.
The other Mexican waiters also treated me with a mix of helpfulness and detachment; one actually picked a fight with me in the dressing room. And though none of the other waiters who were there came to my defense, none of them jumped in to help my adversary either. The fight was no clash of civilizations, it was between him and me, nothing more, and we could fend for ourselves.
What is strange to me in reflection of these incidents is how different in character my feelings were at the time than the racism I’d known growing up. There were clearly tensions between us—and those tensions were the result of our being of different color and class and culture—but there was also an awareness of each other as human. I’d known no Latinos in central Ohio; the Great Brown Threat had yet to register on our radar. I had not been indoctrinated in community-wide resentment and fear. Latin Americans were not the Other, to be loathed and mistrusted, controlled and repelled. Not yet, anyway.
But I remain very much attuned to tone. I have a pretty good radar for bigotry, due to my own struggles with it. It’s for that reason that I’ve grown increasingly disturbed at the poisonous distortions that too often overwhelm the immigration debate. I detect in the shrillness that old familiar fear and guilt and anger, with its gloss of righteous indignation and “common sense” and its rhetoric of protection—defense of our borders, our laws, our culture, our way of life. I hear echoes. They are not pleasant ones.
One of the most frequent things one hears is the epithet “illegal immigrant,” with the underlying insinuation that the undocumented are intrinsically criminals, since their very existence in this country is testimony to their violating our immigration statutes. And criminals deserve no compassion, no respect, no “amnesty.”
I see the situation somewhat differently. When my wife was dying of cancer, she was once in such extreme pain that, as I drove her to the emergency room, I ran two stop signs and a red light, driving over 80 miles per hour in 25-mile-per-hour zones. She later thanked me, even though what I did was clearly against the law. And I would do it again.
The “crime” attributed to undocumented immigrants in crossing the border is analogous—and much less dangerous to everyone but themselves. They do what they must for the sake of the well-being of their loved ones. If this is the moral outrage anti-immigration zealots make it out to be, show me the innocent.
Who Do I Think I Am?
Outrage is a luxury. Writers write, and I felt a particular need to contribute something, to bark back at the distorting invective. I felt it particularly important that Anglos chime in on the side of Latinos out of a sense of justice and simple decency. Silence was not an option.
But I’m a novelist, not a pundit. And what right does an American mutt like me, a white male from the very heart of Middle America, have to depict in fiction the life of a Latino family?
I came to Latino culture first through fiction—Borges, Amado, Cortazar—but I gained my greatest appreciation of it through music, perhaps its most accessible art form.
Also, being partially of Irish descent, my imagination leans instinctively to the underdog, especially one standing in the shadow of imperial power.
Last, being raised Catholic, I felt a special fascination with the manner that religion took hold in the southerly Americas, both Gothic and primitive, awake to suffering, fiercely immediate.
From where I sat, Latino culture in general and its music in particular possessed a vibrancy, a passion, a sense of both the tragic and the joyous I found mesmerizing. Santana could blister your soul. And Santana led me to Tito Puente, who led me to Ray Barretto, who led me to Poncho Sanchez and on and on: Willie Bobo to Eric Bobo to Los Lobos to Celso Piña to Control Machete to Julieta Venegas to Ana Gabriel to Pescozada . . . The chain hasn’t stopped in thirty years. I pray to God it never does.
Admiring a culture, though, doesn’t grant me a right to depict it in my own work. Artists steal from each other at will, musicians especially, it’s almost lazy not to. But can fiction writers get away with it?
All artists are outsiders to the extent they observe more than they participate, but everyone joins in to some degree, just as we all reflect. Rather, the crucial question seems to be at what point does observation fail us, i.e., when do we begin to imagine, and why?
Again, I would not have attempted to write across this particular cultural boundary if I didn’t have intimate friendships to guide me. Before I began writing about Central America, I had begun a romantic relationship with a Salvadoran woman named Ana who introduced me to her family, her friends, her larger social circle, and her beleaguered, beautiful country. We lived together for a time. I helped her and her children come to California.
In creating my characters and scenes, I blended what I’d learned from Ana and her family, as well as from new friends and others I came to know in the larger Latino community, with what I imagined, mixing what I knew with what I felt the story required.
Taking that additional step, that leap of imagination, is an act of presumption, yes, but it is also, or should be, an act of love. If not, then we can rightfully be challenged concerning our purpose, and questioned on the grounds of cultural appropriation.
In a way we imagine each other every day. So simple an act as reading a facial expression, whether that of a stranger or an old friend, requires innumerable acts of interpretation we make unconsciously—”interpretation” being the guise imagination assumes to appear more reliable.
And as we imagine others, so they imagine us. But is this act of imaginative interpretation intrinsically flawed? Are we to believe we never really know the difference, cannot know the difference, between when we’re loved and when we’re misunderstood—or worse, getting used?
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—worse, 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. The inner life of the artist is no less inscrutable than the soul of the vato.
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 or appropriation. And if we are honest with ourselves, we know the difference.
* * * * *
So—what are your own beliefs or experiences concerning writing across racial, cultural, gender, or other boundaries? Who gets to do so, who gets to decide, and why?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
Thank you for this post. It’s very timely for me, since my WIP involves the interaction between an African American family and a Caucasian family during the 1968-1989. I realize this will be controversial regardless of how I deal with it, but it’s a story I feel compelled to tell. Racism was alive and kicking in the Reagan-era South, and I am concerned that by portraying the situation truthfully, I risk offending my readers. But I am hoping that my genuine love for the characters will come through in my words.
Hi, Anne-Marie:
The great test of a story like yours is if you can love the hateful racist characters as well–and should you?
I personally resist calling people racist because I think when you so easily pigeon-hole people you objectify them and that itself is the same impulse that creates racism, sexism, homophobia, and so on. The need to dehumanize the other is driven by a need to control one’s one feelings about them.
Rather, I try to think of the individual’s behavior as racist, sexist, etc. This can sometimes feel like an excessive extension of understanding given how wholeheartedly certain individuals embrace the ugly sense of empowerment their own objectifying behavior seems to give them, but it’s not about them, it’s about me and how I want to live my life. I want to grant people the dignity of the ability for insight and change. If they forsake the opportunity, that’s on them.
But as writers, we shouldn’t try to depict such individuals without trying to fathom why they need to turn other human beings into totems, the better to project their fear and hatred onto them.
Because that’s the bottom line when we’re writing across racial, sexual, cultural, ethnic, or religious boundaries. We’re talking about the fear, suspicion, and hate that drive us apart, as well as the spirit of understanding, curiosity, and love that is our only hope of bringing us together. Your love for your characters is a good start. Be mindful of not loving them too much.
Thanks so much for commenting, and best of luck with the story. You’re so very right, racism didn’t die in that era or any time in recent history. It didn’t even diminish. If anything, it seems to have gained new life.
“Sad.”
My agency represents genre authors of many diverse backgrounds, countries, cultures, races and sexual identities. I’ve lost track of how many.
One thing I’ve leaned is that there is only one way to break barriers and broaden our literature, and that is for us privileged white guys and women to simply try. We may misstep, misspeak or just get it wrong but we must try. Listen. Read.
That sounds passive, maybe, but part of the challenge is. Stop talking. Just listen. Read. However, part of the challenge is also to engage. That means talking and in particular sharing what we have got, the secrets we have learned, the methods of storytelling, publishing and career management.
The industry, despite what it seems, is extremely willing and open. Extremely. The door is wide. The gate is a welcome.
The challenge to new voices, in turn, is the same as it has always been for white authors: not to fall into the easy traps, tropes and stereotypes that cheapen genre writing. Rather, to speak stories uniquely one’s own.
I have no guilt about the work that I do. I am not appropriating anybody, but encouraging all to tell me the stories that My English major didn’t give me and that are regurgitated over and over. Take me somewhere new.
I get the point about appropriation. There is much to redress. Defensiveness won’t get us there, though, only dialogue will. Listening is good but we’ll only move ahead by talking too. That is why you should never hesitate to lead a round table, David. Or to write out of your cultural zone.
That is at least trying.
Listen.
Read.
And ask questions.
Repeat.
Good morning, Don:
I think that genre, due to its being a popular art form, has the potential to be more open to diverse voices as long as there is a market for them. One of the tragedies of the current scene is the fact that literary fiction, which is where you would expect openness to be a signature virtue, is instead the central arena for the harshest suppression of voices.
I think part of that is due to the very few opportunities for publication that literary fiction affords. It’s so much more of a zero-sum game there – if Writer A gets published it means so many others do not. That means for every white writer who gets to tell their tale about an ethnic family, who knows how many writers of that ethnicity don’t get published?
Genre is much less constrained in this regard. Your sales do not automatically impinge on mine. But there is a very serious caveat here when it comes to Writers of Color, as I learned listening to my panel. There is very much a sense of “Now we have one of those,” a box is checked, and other writers of that ethnicity are deemed more than is needed. This is a far more common experience in the genre than I think is generally recognized, and it damages the careers of far too many excellent writers. We entertain far more middling white authors, one who easily could be thought of as “One more of…” than we do Writers of Color.
I also agree wholeheartedly that we need to try to write about the cultural, ethnic, sexual, religious borderlands, because that is not just our history but it’s sure as hell our future. And to do that well one must listen—if there was a single unifying sentiment among the members of the round-table, that was it. Try but listen. Take it to heart – and don’t be defensive – when people of the group you’re trying to portray let you know you’ve missed the mark here or there.
I would add this: Misunderstanding is the norm, not the exception. Expect to get things wrong, and take responsibility when you do. It’s not about nailing it. It’s about learning – about oneself as well as others, about expanding our awareness of each other.
And here’s where I think you and I differ a bit. I think if you read the second half of my piece, you’ll see I’m not quite so confident about charging into arenas outside my sphere of experience. The name of the piece is “Going Humbly” for a reason.
I don’t think it’s a sign of “liberal guilt” to realize there are places I might not belong, and even if I’m welcome I should be mindful I may not understand all I see and hear.
And what’s so wrong with guilt anyway? I fall very much within the Camus camp here, and recognize in myself the inherently guilty status of his “judge-penitent” hero Clamence in THE FALL. We’re all guilty, it’s part of being human. The best we can hope for is to judge and be judged honestly, and to make what sincere amends we can.
I also think that’s the best attitude to have when trying to understand anyone—as I said, misunderstanding is the norm. I will get it wrong. But without that step I will never learn, and if I get beat up a little for my miscues, so be it. The point is to expand the general level of understanding, about ourselves as well as others, not to be told, “Hey, for a white dude you’re okay.”
I hope you and your family have a wonderful holiday season. Catch you in the new year, and thanks for all you bring to this arena. I’m a much better writer and human being for it.
I have not seen from publishers the “ticked box” effect, have never once had a diverse voice turned down because “we have one of those”. Similar stories, yes, but not authors.
Maybe my experience is different and it may be that genre is more open, but in fields like YA it seems right now that we can hardly sell anything other than a diverse (don’t love that term) voice.
As to walking humbly, you keep looking for ways we disagree but I’m not sure we do. I say humbly, yes, but walk.
More at the time of our next beer!
The “ticked box” experience was definitely something I heard from the writers who survived the optimistic 1990s turning into the less-than-optimistic 2000s for writers of color, and it’s something that very much concerns the younger writers–that the current “trend” toward diversity is merely that, and the enthusiasm for multiple voices will all too quickly wane. Perhaps that’s not true from where you sit, but as you noted, it’s important to listen, and that’s what I heard when I did.
As for our difference, I’d just say my call to the ramparts was not quite as full-throated as yours. I’m not saying either one of us is right, just that I noted a slight difference in tone. Distinction without a difference, perhaps.
A difference in tone is serious and calls for two beers, at least. Game on.
I can embrace your brand of therapy, doctor.
David, your essay was an early Christmas gift and look forward to reading the Round Table. I, for one, am very, very grateful that white people chose to write about their travels and experiences with other cultures. This is how I learned about other places when I was growing up in India. It was also eye-opening to see how others viewed us. We’d laugh about it because of the many misconceptions; there was no shortage of literature from Indian authors. And when I moved to the US, I had a bit of fun with my classmates because they’d believe any silly story–like riding an elephant to school.
I think it’s terrible that people are policing who should write what. I discovered early on, I’m not American enough, neither am I Indian enough. If I were relegated to only writing about not fitting in, it’d be boring. It’s not about writing what you know, but writing what interests you, and sometimes it *is* the other. As long as you study, there’s no reason why you can’t write what you care about.
One thing I really enjoy is doing workshops at schools. My kids went to a very small parochial school for their middle school years and it was ethnically very diverse. I loved sharing the handful of books where they could see themselves in the characters, but more importantly, they realized that they have stories that nobody else has, that they have a voice, and it’s worth listening to. I hope that more publishers will pick up stories that reflect the true diversity this nation is.
Merry Christmas!
Hi, Vijaya:
That’s a fascinating point about reading so many errors in the books about India by outsiders. I wonder if knowing there were so many excellent Indian writers to turn to for a more accurate picture helped mitigate the insult?
I think one of the problems we have here in America is that minority voices have been marginalized or even silenced, so only majority views about them have seen the light of day. Changing that has been a major step here.
I also love your point about being a member of two cultures, and therefore being to an extent an outsider in each. But what a marvelous point of view to write from! One of my favorite quotes about writing is this one from Julian Barnes: “The writer must be universal in sympathy and an outcast by nature: only then can he see clearly.”
The very merriest of Christmases to you as well.
Don, this post was excellent as well as all the comments. As a white woman writing a YA novel about a white girl who discovers her African American ancestor, I’ve been told several times that editors/publishers might not want to hear from me. But I’m reading, interviewing. and most of all–trying to walk humbly. I’m aware of our differences–but also of our sameness as human beings. And actually, that’s the message I’m trying to communicate. I’ll be reviewing this post many times. Thanks for your insights.
David,
Powerful post here. Thank you.
In reading it, I was reminded of my Latin American writer friend who enlightened me in the precise nanosecond that he said, “I don’t dream in white.”
Yes, outrage is a privilege, we artists are outsiders, and what a gift both are. We both can use them – and well, with wisdom – if we so choose.
Thanks, Melanie. You reminded me of something Luis Alberto Urrea said once. He was very much a borderland child, crossing between San Diego and Tijuana every week to visit relatives. And part of his heritage is Irish, so he’s very much a “guero.” He remarked that he thinks in English but dreams in Spanish. (He also said during the same talk that he’s the Latino author people invite to speak because he won’t scare anyone.) He’s a friend of mine, and very much an inspiration in my attempts to write across the Anglo-Latino divide. And yeah, he keeps me humble.
I kept highlighting and copying phrases to interact with here in the comments, but then the next one would be even better. In the end, this is what I’m left with: “we never possess the truth, we approach it.” And we must approach it, actively, humbly, honestly, and with love. This is a great essay, David. And I love Don’s additional thoughts in the comments. Thank you, Old White Men. Don’t ever believe that for more voices to be heard you must be altogether silent. There’s room for everyone at the table.
Thank you, Erin. That’s very kind, and deeply appreciated.
Thanks for another thought-provoking post, David.
My views on this complex topic continue to evolve. One thing that I’ll admit has been bugging me is the way this is playing out in the film industry. Recently we’ve seen more than one major actor basically being shamed into backing out of a role they had agreed to play, succumbing to pressure/backlash from people accusing them of cultural appropriation.
This leaves me torn. I mean, isn’t acting all about pretending to be somebody – or something – that you are not? But now we’re enforcing rules about what you can pretend to be?
Where do you draw the line? Is it okay to pretend you have superpowers, but not to pretend you’re transgender? Okay to pretend to be of a different gender, but not of a different nationality? If you think this is a stretch, consider the recent (but quarter-of-a-century-too-late) backlash about Linda Hunt winning the 1984 Best Supporting Actress Oscar for playing an Asian. Oddly, none of the backlash seems to focus on the fact that she was also playing a MAN, and doing so well enough to win a freaking Oscar.
I don’t know. There are no easy answers. So I guess the only thing to do is keep asking the hard questions, and use our hearts, minds and sensibilities to make the best possible decisions as artists. And count on the fact that inevitably, somebody is going to disagree with your choice.
I look forward to reading the WD roundtable piece!
Hey Keithalino:
“So I guess the only thing to do is keep asking the hard questions, and use our hearts, minds and sensibilities to make the best possible decisions as artists. And count on the fact that inevitably, somebody is going to disagree with your choice.”
Pretty much.
I think the WD round-table is excellent, and I learned a lot. I’d also check out the LAROB round-table Kellye Garrett led. They get to stretch out a little more there than they did in the WD piece due to word count restrictions, and I think you get to know each of the authors really well. And it’s funny!
Thanks for starting this conversation last year. Have an utterly grand holiday.
Thanks, David, for a thoughtful take on a topic that is often sidestepped or ignored by we old white dudes. Even for those of us who grapple with it in our work and in our lives, it’s all too easy to scroll by whistling when the topic of race is grappled with online. I’ve certainly been guilty of it. And I’ll admit to justifying my strolling on with a cross between self-satisfaction over my own enlightenment and the premise that the work will speak for itself. No need to risk tripping on a hastily drawn sword for a skirmish my like-minded colleagues seem to have in hand—that sort of thing.
A few weeks ago, a trip to the dentist got me thinking about lingering racism and lost opportunities, and I can see that it ties in beautifully with your essay and with Coltrane’s advice to go humbly. My dentist and I are exactly the same age. And I must admit, he’s one of the few people I regularly interact with who pretty clearly dwells on the opposite side of the current political divide (I have to ask him to turn off Fox News when I’m in the chair—with which he complies without hesitation or grudge). We got to talking about our school days, in the late 60s and 70s. We attended rival high schools in the same congressional district. My school system, in Kalamazoo, was at the forefront of the busing integration experiment. My first “bused” class was the fifth grade. His schools, in St. Joseph, MI, fervently fought busing and—it seems—mostly succeeded. The Twin Cities of Michigan, St. Joe/Benton Harbor, have been one of the most segregated metro areas in the country—St. Joe one of the original “white flight” communities that sprang up during an era of blacks migrating from the south for then ample jobs in northern factories (in this case, primarily Whirlpool and its subsidiaries). There’s literally a river that divides them (the St. Joseph). I recall how odd it seemed when our integrated high school sports teams and spectators played against the seeming abnormality of St. Joe’s all-white, and Benton Harbor’s all-black, teams and supporters.
Anyway, the topic of busing arose during the conversation with my dentist, and I was startled by his vehemence over it. He recalled the names of politicians and the local judges who supported busing in the 70s, and with an obvious lingering spite. He was literally prodding my mouth with sharp metal instruments as he fumed over it. And I sat there, unable to reply, thinking about how much I appreciated the integration efforts, all of the life-lessons and friendships I gained because of it. I recall so many student leaders—both white and black, mostly athletes, who were so popular in school—approaching the situation with humility and grace. One of them became a dear friend, so I got an up-close view of the courage it took. I recall how those leaders again and again defused conflicts and often broke up fights by intervening physically. I recall how often they showed us how to turn the other cheek. These folks led by example (which made that aspect of the movie We Are The Titans ring true for me).
So when my dentist finally finished his prodding, and as I stood to leave, I felt compelled to blurt out how grateful I am to have gone to our integrated schools, and how much I felt I’d gained. He listened and shook my hand as I left. And though he kept himself from rolling his eyes as I spoke, his eye-roll lurked there, just under the surface as he listened.
Kalamazoo’s attempt to desegregate its schools can’t be considered a success on a historical level. Shrinking enrollment of white students and a declining graduation rate are its legacy. Which makes me angry. And here’s a guy (my dentist) who’s still angry over even making the attempt. As I say, I am grateful to have lived it. And yet, it makes me wonder. Is part of my halcyon memory of the era due to my having lived it as a white kid? And did the original proponents finally just give up?
It feels like the American societal inclination of the eighties till now, to stroll on by whistling (something I admitted to doing online at the top), has led to lost opportunities, and a reversal of progress made. We could use a lot more of the willingness, and the courage, to go humbly toward it. I suppose it’s time I embraced the lessons I learned more from those student leaders I admired in school. Both in my work and in my day-to-day life. (Sorry, this comment feels a little light in how the topic applies to the craft of writing, but it has much to do with who I am as a human, and therefore as a writer.)
Hey, Vaughn:
It appears our youths were spent not all that far from each other. Not just in miles.
Your story reminded me of Flannery O’Connor’s “The Barber,” and made me wonder what would be the more difficult racist diatribe to endure, one where the speaker’s holding dental instruments or clippers and shears.
I think your story points out one of the key difficulties, and the line that divides the two camps — the one that believes we enrich one another and the other who likes his world just the way it is thank you.
I commend your standing up to the invisible eye-roll and saying something. I also think we all did indeed “whistle past the injustice” a bit too freely. We’re re-learning a hard lesson the Founders meant to teach us: a functioning republic requires constant engagement. It can be exhausting and infuriating — I’m on a long hiatus from my hometown’s politics at the moment — but the alternative is retreat into isolation.
Thanks for the wonderful comment, and for bringing the conversation to the personal level. It really does start there.
Hello David. In your excellent essay today, as in your fiction, you do not shirk the hard places. Your post invites the rest of us to do the same.
Like you, I started life in the middle west. But unlike you, I’ve stayed here, in Michigan, not Ohio. Probably, though, there are many similarities. My experience of people who weren’t white and middle or upper-middle class was confined to a schoolboy’s simple curiosity. I wondered what life must be like for the black housekeepers I saw walking to and from the bus stop at the end of the block.
I have reason to hope I have gone on to do better. Jobs in meat-packing and auto plants deserve much of the credit, along with college, service in The Peace Corps, and of course books. But to be honest, the sense of not deserving to think I actually understand the reality of other lives has only become more pronounced. Knowledge is power, but as Byron said, knowledge is also sorrow.
For over a decade, I spent winters on a Naples, Florida golf course. It was kept beautiful by Mexican workers, many of whom were old like me. But they would never retire in comfort, or for that matter be likely to retire at all. Or get a raise. That reality had a lot to do with leading to write my novel Godsend.
I have no strong sense of confidence that I truly got things right in that story. At the time, though, however selfish or wrong it was in terms of cultural appropriation, I had to do it. But I hope that same selfishness served my conscience, by keeping me more mindful of the obligation to do my best.
As you make clear in your essay, writers who see what they do in moral and ethical terms face many minefields. But that’s the job, that’s the work. Treating it any other way would be to trivialize what we do, as well as ourselves.
Thank you, Barry. You’re right, there are no easy exits from history, and the first step in moving ahead is to commit oneself to honestly doing one’s best, however those opportunities arise. Blinders are for the weak and the scared, and those qualities never make for good writing.
Racism and sexism and xenophobia are bad enough, but everyone can look down on the disabled.
I write in that space, but not in the same way you might expect. No disability porn – no easy inspiration.
How hard is it for people, when dealing with chronic illnesses, to be human? Normal? To have the same wants and aspirations as the able?
Universal themes.
I like what you said about all artists being observers, David. And I think we need to be given license to do our job. However, we must be accountable.
My reader is justified in asking, why did you write that story from a man’s point-of-view?
Hopefully, my answer will be something along the lines of to build a bridge to better understanding. And in order to meet this goal, I must do research–listen closely to those who will help me see through a man’s eyes.
Your article is thought-provoking and it will take me a
while to fully digest it.
Hi, Leanne:
I can think of no higher purpose than “to build a bridge to better understanding.” This is what Steinbeck had to say about it:
“In every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and nearly always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other. ”
Sorry to disturb your digestion. :-)
“I bore the emotional and conceptual baggage of my place and time and no amount of feel-good hipness could cure me completely.”
Wow, David, this is amazing on so many levels. I too was raised in a place and time where all I knew of black people were negative comments about changing neighborhoods. When I sat down recently and read in one day Ta Nehisi Coates WE WERE EIGHT YEARS IN POWER, I was back in southside Chicago learning about red-lining and feeling the power of misunderstanding. I too now live in California, and love the mix of cultures. But I also wish I could go back and befriend those I did not reach out to in college, in high school.. My best self began to form when I worked at Bloom High School in Chicago Heights, an amazing gathering of the children of Italians, blacks and whites who had recently left the south for better jobs. My years there helped to change me, as did my next career nursing at Mercy Hospital in downtown Chicago. But even now I know it’s an ongoing process. Your comparison to saving your wife from pain is so relevant to helping people cross the border to save their children from starvation and often death. As a writer and user of social media, I do what I can to honor empathy and praise those who reach out. My husband now retired, spends his days helping the unemployed and the homeless find jobs, while I seek to write literature that opens the minds of my readers. THANKS AGAIN for this. .
You and your husband sound like an impressive team, Beth.
I was touched by this: “I also wish I could go back and befriend those I did not reach out to in college, in high school.” It’s amazing how much time I spend thinking along the lines of, “If I’d only understood then what I understand now.” But that’s not the way it works, and the best we can hope for is to learn and grow as we go along, and reach out to help others as our understanding matures. Have a lovely holiday, and thanks for chiming in.
Wow! What a powerful essay. I thought the best of it was “In a way racism is not unlike alcoholism. The tendency cannot be escaped, merely controlled, and the control requires insight, honesty and discipline.” But then I read on and realized there are gems throughout.
Dealing with racial and cultural lines, whether in our work or in real life, is tough. I think one key for me to move away from my racist attitudes was learning to respect people for who they are. I was involved in several programs through a church that matched an affluent suburban church with a poor inner-city church. I met people of such kindness and faith and openness in that inner-city church, that some of the wall I’d built around this white body and soul started to crumble.
I was glad I had that experience before I started writing my Seasons Mystery Series that has two women homicide detectives, one white and one black, in Dallas. Hopefully, I have handled the racial and cultural issues with respect and understanding.