Linda Rodriguez's Blog, page 5

National Poetry Month in a Dark Time

It's a dark time in the U.S. right now. There's little doubt about that. Every day, news of several new scandals erupts. Possible Russian agents or assets in power in the White House, entire departments of the federal government essentially wiped out, bans against Muslims, the wholesale rounding up and imprisonment of Latinos, attempts to wipe out health care and health insurance as we know it today (seriously, health insurance that doesn't cover hospitalization???), attempts to wipe out all programs that help the poor, the elderly, children, the disabled, the disenfranchisement of ever more American voters--the list goes on and on. 

Just yesterday, an airline lost almost a billion dollars in share value after it beat up a paying passenger because he refused to leave a seat he'd already paid for to make room for spare airline employees. Then, Eric Trump, the inconvenient, inadvertent truth-teller in a family of pathological liars, told a reporter that the President of the United States sent 59 missiles flying into a Syrian airbase because Ivanka, his much-too-beloved daughter, felt sadness over photos of dead children and told him to do something--and, Eric added, this should prove that his dad, the President, is not beholden to Russia. And finally, on this first full day of Passover, Sean Spicer, the presidential press secretary, said Hitler never used chemical weapons--at least, not against his own people--well, against innocent people--no, he meant against his own innocent people in their homes because he took them off to Holocaust Centers to gas them.

And yesterday was a light day in the dark news department, compared to what has happened lately. Oh, I almost forget in the press of the other dumpster fires, also yesterday, we saw for the first time the FISA warrant obtained against Carter Page, foreign policy adviser to Donald Trump's campaign, stating that the FBI had reasons that the FISA court found credible to believe Page was a Russian spy.

When we have possible Russian spies running our government, determined efforts to destroy said democratic government, and a President who wants to become an actual dictator and is rapidly stripping away our rights and protections against that, we live in dark, dark times. In the words of beloved children's book author, Susan Cooper, "The dark is rising." We have never needed National Poetry Month more. So here is a poem for the dark times.


BLESSING FOR THE DARK TIMES
Creator reminds us daily through the fragrant winds, the re-leafing trees, the dark-of-morning bird chorus, the taste of rain on upheld faces, that this world was built in beauty, made for harmony and wholeness.
We must remember it is we humans who break what is shining and whole. It is our species that creates dark times. We must learn to live in tune with creation once more. We must sing balance back into this bountiful earth.
As we work together to mend the broken world—against the forces among our own kind choosing destruction over grace—may we keep in our imaginationsthe ancestral memory of this world as it was created to be.
May we will it into existence again. May we move always toward healing and wholeness. May we never forget the force of willed action and words of power. May we create a blessed light in these dark times in which we find ourselves. May we know deep inside our bones that, no matter how broken, our world is always worth the labor of mending.
© Linda Rodriguez 2017

Final Poem for Native American Heritage Month and Standing Rock

We are ending Native American Heritage Month in a few days, and throughout the entire month, militarized police have been violently attacking the Water Protectors at Standing Rock, leaving hundreds with hypothermia and injuries, especially one elder in cardiac arrest, one young woman with a torn retina, and one young woman with an arm that she may lose, even after several surgeries. This poem is one I wrote about rivers and the concept of river, and perhaps it will offer a different way of looking at these great entities of creation beyond the concept of commodity or barrier to profit. Too often we forget that water is truly life.


WHAT RIVER SAYS
The Cherokee call me Long Man,yun wi gun hi ta,because my body stretches and unravelswith my head in the mountainsand my feet resting in the ocean.I constantly speak words of wisdomto those who can understand me—fewer every day.It takes a quality of attentionfit for magicians or poets.I have much to tell those who expend the time and energy to listen.I have seen so many things.I know the history of rainintimately, leaning on the worldto feel it on my skin and take it inside meto swell my body. Maybe,they should have called me Long Woman.
I remember when the mountains were home only to gods.I knew your ancestors,now tangled in the ground.I swallowed my share and more.I have seen innumerable generationsliving into their deaths.I am acquainted with the bones of earth,ancient as the word of Godand stronger by far.Men have tried forever to change me and chain me,but I still wander where I willwhen I grow tired of being tame.I remain the promise of tomorrow,the hope of new growththat haunts the night with hypnotic murmursand softens the edge between act and dream.
When all hope has fled,come to me.
Published in TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, 2015

A Poem for Native American Heritage Month--Dreaming Fox

I wanted to put another poem up for Native American Heritage Month, and I decided to post this one.

I’ve always taken for granted that I could see more of the natural world’s plants and animals, even in the city, than most other people I know here, who seem totally oblivious to a pair of golden eagles stunt-flying on the thermals overhead or the waddle of a beaver across a grassy knoll to his creek home. I know I owe this gift to my grandmother and aunt and uncle who taught me when I was young to pay attention to the land around me and its plant and animal inhabitants—and thus vastly enriched the rest of my life.

When the rest of my family erupted in chaos and violence, focusing on the natural world of which I was a part saw me through the pain and desperation. Nothing pulls me out of despair like going to water to see the dawn in and watch the dance of the real world behind the shabby drapery of made-up, pretend, commodified daily existence. 



DREAMING FOX
Early on a Sunday walking past a bank drive-through on a hill above a creek running through the citysurrounded by a narrow band of wild growthI see him and freezebig dog fox stopped at the sight of meone foot still in the airtail of fire just brushing the uphill shrubbery from which he camewe stand and stareunable to move or breathehis eyes staring into mineagainst a backgroundmurmur of morning trafficneither of us supposed to be herenot me at this just-after-dawn-in-summer hournot him in the middle of the citycuriosity more than fearbehind his big eyes I had alwaysthought foxes had small close-together eyesfrom cartoons or wildlife films or somethinglike that but his are set attractivelydistant from each otheran intelligent face staringme down wanting me to turn and run from the predatorhe must have a den nearbywith mate and kits so he will standagainst me foreverif need be he must be afraidhe knows humans are dangerousto his kind especiallyif he lives here in the heart of the city he mustdread the moment he will have to takeme on so many times his sizeand probably with noisy metal weaponsagainst his needle teeth and clawsfeeble in the world of cars motorcycles sirens thrown rocks gunshots in this neighborhood he willdo it nonetheless I watch him set down his footlightly the muscles of his haunches tenseto spring in one final hopeless suicidalattack to damage and drive me off away from the den down among the brushon the banks of the urban creekhidden deep among the willowsI wish I could follow him down thereto see his mate and babies he is right to fear me and attackthat human curiosity impulse to knowto somehow own experience fatalto him if someone less harmless seesand follows he hunkers down on his tail silent no warning growl prepared to launch himself through the air at my throatonly he will not be able to leapthat high from the lower groundwhere he stands he will have to settlefor chewing my waist and legstaking pity on us bothI back away slowly stillholding his vulpine gaze he turns back to the shelter of the woods with only
© Linda Rodriguez 2016

Native American Heritage Month--A Poem for Standing Rock and #NoDAPL

I've been so frigging mad about the news coverage of the Standing Rock protests. The media, for the most part, can't be bothered to go out and actually investigate what's actually going on. No lattes out on the prairie. So they just take the word of the lying sheriff and governor. After NPR's recently, I just blew, and my poor husband had to listen. Finally, I decided to try to tame the anger in form. So, a sestina for Standing Rock.


NO MORE (SESTINA FOR STANDING ROCK)
I have run out of timeand patience with news coverage solazy and biased with a bowalways tothe company owners, powerful and rich,and to what they want said.
It never matters what my people have saidagain and again. Every timegovernment or corporate forces, soviolent and powerful, require us to bowin submission, and we won't, the richdictate what's broadcast—and written, too.
When I try to explain towell-meaning white friends, they've said,“But disorder!” to which I reply each time,“But oppression!” and sowseeds of doubt in their comfort. The boughmust break some time and dump the rich
into the mud with the rest of us. The richtapestry of cultures that we are can't be reduced toonly WASP—Native, Black, Latino saidto be lesser, negligible, inferior. Each timeI hear this, the fire of anger grows within, sohot and fierce. It's time for the ruling class's farewell bow.
So long we've stayed peaceful. Soon, it may be time for bowand lance and rifle, if the richcan't be compelled to lift the boot, toosure of their own power to listen to what we've said.They don't realize it, but they're running out of time.In arrogance, they rip the fabric of the nation we sew
back together in new, shiny shapes, socolorful, strange, stronger, tied with the bright bowof human dignity and richgleam of equality and justice. Tothose who've always had power and saidto the rest of us, “Give us timeto dole out bits of freedom,” we say, “No,” so...
You've run out of time. Now, reap what you sow.We'll no longer bow in submission tothe demands of the white and rich. Hear what we've said.

© Linda Rodriguez 2016

A Poem for Standing Rock and #NoDAPL

I've been so frigging mad about the news coverage of the Standing Rock protests. The media, for the most part, can't be bothered to go out and actually investigate what's actually going on. No lattes out on the prairie. So they just take the word of the lying sheriff and governor. After NPR's recently, I just blew, and my poor husband had to listen. Finally, I decided to try to tame the anger in form. So, a sestina for Standing Rock.

NO MORE (SESTINA FOR STANDING ROCK)
I have run out of timeand patience with news coverage solazy and biased with a bowalways tothe company owners, powerful and rich,and to what they want said.
It never matters what my people have saidagain and again. Every timegovernment or corporate forces, soviolent and powerful, require us to bowin submission, and we won't, the richdictate what's broadcast—and written, too.
When I try to explain towell-meaning white friends, they've said,“But disorder!” to which I reply each time,“But oppression!” and sowseeds of doubt in their comfort. The boughmust break some time and dump the rich
into the mud with the rest of us. The richtapestry of cultures that we are can't be reduced toonly WASP—Native, Black, Latino saidto be lesser, negligible, inferior. Each timeI hear this, the fire of anger grows within, sohot and fierce. It's time for the ruling class's farewell bow.
So long we've stayed peaceful. Soon, it may be time for bowand lance and rifle, if the richcan't be compelled to lift the boot, toosure of their own power to listen to what we've said.They don't realize it, but they're running out of time.In arrogance, they rip the fabric of the nation we sew
back together in new, shiny shapes, socolorful, strange, stronger, tied with the bright bowof human dignity and richgleam of equality and justice. Tothose who've always had power and saidto the rest of us, “Give us timeto dole out bits of freedom,” we say, “No,” so...
You've run out of time. Now, reap what you sow.We'll no longer bow in submission tothe demands of the white and rich. Hear what we've said.

© Linda Rodriguez 2016

Enough Already, 2016!

I have had it. I'm fed up with this year. We won't even talk about all the talented, loved figures who've died this year. There are always deaths like that, but this year, we were hit hard in this arena. Aside from the Angel of Death hovering over our favorite writers, actors, musicians, and other artists, this year has been downright ugly and mean—one could even say, nasty.
The election has thrown its grotesque, sinister shadow over the entire year, dredging up thousands of people who are happy to do and say—nay, shout—things that insult and demean whole swathes of the citizenry—immigrants, women, Latinos, Blacks, Muslims, Natives, people with disabilities, LGBTQIA people, teachers, veterans, journalists, and just about every other segment of society you can think of that isn't privileged White male. We've had one candidate running who's made no secret of his admiration for ruthless dictators and intention to become one himself and another candidate who's faced accusation and investigation after accusation and investigation, only to be repeatedly found innocent but tarred with the constant scandals, and we've had a national media who've falsely focused on those faux scandals while giving the would-be dictator a pass and billions of dollars of free publicity.
Every day, we think we've seen a new low in this election, surely the lowest it could ever go, only to have a newer, lower low replace the old one in the next day or so. We've watched Nazis, white nationalists, and the Ku Klux Klan roll out from under the rocks beneath which they'd had to hide for decades and parade openly with swastikas and Confederate flags in the would-be dictator's rallies, unashamedly retweeted by him and his campaign. The election has become a sickness infecting the entire country.
Then, there are the extrajudicial executions of people of color by modern, militarized police, the same police that our would-be dictator intends to use as shock troops to impose his will on the country, rounding up millions of people “from the first hour of [his] presidency,” the same police who enthusiastically endorse this man who openly brags about breaking laws and disregarding our constitution.
Add to all this, the standoff at Standing Rock, where Native nations from all over the United States have gathered to protect the Missouri River and their own sacred lands from destruction by a rapacious corporation. I have friends and relatives with the Oceti Sakowin Water Protectors, who are being attacked by dogs, pepper-sprayed, maced, teargassed, beaten, shot at, dragged from ceremonies and sweat lodges, strip-searched in public view, and caged, naked, in dog kennels by militarized police from seven different states—sort of a preview of what many of us in this country could expect at the hands of the would-be dictator if we're foolish enough to give him that power over us. When young students must throw themselves physically on top of elders to protect their more fragile bodies and bones from beatings with billy clubs and batons by men in law enforcement uniforms and combat gear, it seems the final straw in an ugly, hateful year.
The election will be over in a couple of days, and I hope and pray that the majority of voters in this land prove themselves to be sane and decent. But that will not do anything about the many others who have proved not to be either. As a country, we'll still have to deal with them, especially since they talk loudly about riots and violence if their dictator doesn't get the chance to rule us all. We'll still be dealing with militarized police who act like an occupying army in their own country. (I've had combat vets tell me they never rolled out in Afghanistan or even Fallujah in all the equipment these guys are using against their own citizens.) My relations will still be standing firm and peacefully as they're attacked, humiliated, and caged out in North Dakota. I want all of this nightmare to be over with the election, but I know it won't be. 2016, hateful year that it's been, seems determined to carry on its ugliness and hate into 2017.
Against this, I try to impose the facts that my husband and I are happier than we've ever been in our own private life, even as the public world seems more dangerous to us and more frightening, that I've come through a dark, physically threatening personal ordeal and am heading back to normal, that I have so many wonderful friends of all colors, races, ethnicities, classes, religions, and all other backgrounds who believe in the same love and tolerance that I do, that I do believe—in the long run—goodness, love, truth, and justice eventually triumph over hate and bigotry (though I fear that sometimes the long run is awfully long), that there are an awful lot of us working to bring decency and equality back into our public sphere.
2016, you've made it downright hard to remember these good truths, but I keep reasserting them against your miserable meanness. I can hardly wait to see your backside, nasty year. Good riddance, even though we won't be rid of most of your pestilent detritus. But it won't be the first time in this country's history that we've had a big moral cleanup job to face after a horrible paroxysm, i.e., mass deportations of citizens of Mexican descent in the 1930s, the camps for Japanese-Americans in the 1940s, the McCarthyism of the 1950s, the violent segregationists of the 1960s, and more before and after those. Every so often, the worst this country contains comes out publicly. Then, the good, decent folks, who usually spend their time quietly minding their own business, have to come out and clean house—and then work hard to mop up the resulting mess. But we always do. I remind myself of that.

2016, you've done your worst, and it's been pretty bad, but we decent folks of the U.S. are coming after you finally. We've had enough, and we're bringing our brooms, mops, and disinfectants with us. Your time has finally come.

A Poem for National Breast Cancer Month--TO THE NURSE WHO TOLD ME TO GRIEVE FOR MY BREAST

Yesterday was my birthday, a time for reflection. I realized that National Breast Cancer Month had almost passed without me posting anything for it. In a way, that's a very good sign, a sign that my life is getting back to normal. After a battle with breast cancer that made me focus on that disease, I'm now too busy to pay it a lot of attention, except when I go in for my periodic appointments with my oncologist and my semi-yearly visit to the chemo clinic. 

Yet, I don't want to forget or ignore this month. It's important to recognize the struggle I've made and that countless other women are making every day. This year, as a way of giving back to the cancer clinic that gave me such excellent care, I'm giving a writing workshop for breast cancer survivors later this week. As usual, writing helped me through the ordeal, and I hope to give these women tools to help them make it through, as well.

To all the survivors out there, I salute you. To all the nurses and doctors and therapists who work with breast cancer patients, I thank you. And to all the caregivers out there, those spouses, lovers, parents, siblings, children, friends, who've cooked and cleaned and driven to radiation and chemo treatments and held us while we cried after diagnoses, surgeries, and pathology reports, I am in awe of your strength, courage, and love, and I know a lot fewer of us would make it through if it weren't for you.


TO THE NURSE WHO TOLD ME TO GRIEVE FOR MY BREAST
I sit here unable to understand.My breasts have been good to me,I’ll admit to that—lots of sexual pleasurethrough the years,large cup size when it matteredto the world around me,never any problem with infection,mastitis, fibrosis, cysts.
When I had babies,my breasts overflowed.No problem nursing—I pumped breast milkfor La Leche to deliverto neonatal preemies.Men and women who were born too soonand struggled to livemay be alive todayin part because of my breasts.
It’s not like we’re talkinga hand, an eye, a leg.It’s just a breast,mostly a big inconvenience,always in the way and vulnerable.Not something I can’t do without.Losing it won’t cripple me.
(Published in Black Renaissance Noire, 2015)

A War Against Women in a Rape Culture (with poem)

At the debate tonight, I saw Donald Trump make light of his leaked video admissions of being guilty of serial sexual assault. I saw him get away with it and have read the comments of many men who say, "It's no big deal." To them, apparently, it's not, but to millions of women, it's a terrible, terrifying reality that we have had to deal with since we were girls.

We know that, any time we are around men, we are at risk of being assaulted. Nowhere is safe. We've been assaulted in churches and schools, on buses and trains, at home and our friends' and relatives' homes--everywhere. We also know that this society doesn't take these assaults--or us--seriously.

I have a poem that I've written about this. I don't read it a lot when I give public poetry readings because it's long and because it's such a grim subject, but whenever I do read it, I always have many women from the audience come up to me afterward, sometimes in tears, to tell me that it struck home, that something similar had happened to them.

Here is that poem.

P.O.W.
I
Before I fall into the past,I drive to the library,thumb open a bookabout the death of a childin Greenwich Village andplungebackintimeto trash-filled rooms smellingof milk, urine, beer and blood,doors locked and curtains drawnagainst the world,dirty baby brother caged in a playpen,mother nursing broken nose,split lip, overflowing ashtray,and father filling the room to the ceiling,shouting drunken songs and threatsbefore whom I tremble and dance,wobbly diversion, to keep awaythe sound of fist against face,bone against wall.
The book never showsthe other little brothers and sister hidingaround corners and under covers,but I know they are thereand dance faster,sing the songs that give him pleasure,pay the price for their sleeplater, his hand pinching flat nipples,thrusting between schoolgirl thighs,as dangerous to please as to angerthe giant who holds the keysto our family prison. Motherhas no way to keep him from me,but I can do it for her and them.
Locked by these pagesbehind enemy lines againwhere I plan futile sabotageand murder every night,nine-year-old underground,I read the end.Suddenly defiant, attacked,slammed into a wall,sliding into coma, deathafter the allies arrive,too late, in clean uniforms so like his ownto shake their heads at the smell and mess—the end I almost believe,the end that chance keeps at baylong enough for me to grow and flee,my nightmare alive on the page.
Freed too late,I close the book,two hours vanished,stand and try to walkto the front door on uncertain legsas if nothing were wrong.No one must know.I look at those around mewithout seeming to,an old skill,making sure no one can tell.Panic pushes me to the carwhere the back window reflectsa woman, the unbruised kind.
In the space of three quick breathsI recognize myself,slam back into adult body and life,drive home repeating a mantra,“Ben will never hurt me--All men are not violent,”reminding myself to believe the first,to hope for the last.

II
Years later, my little sister will sleep,pregnant, knife under her pillow,two stepdaughters huddledat the foot of her bed,in case her husbandbreaks through the dooragain. Finally,she escapeswith just the baby.
My daughter calls collectfrom a pay phone on a New Hampshire street.She’ll stay in a shelter for battered women,be thrown against the wallreturning to packfor the trip back to Missouri,a week before her second anniversary.With her father and brother,the trip home will take three days,and she will call for me again.
Ana and Kay, who sat in my classes,Vicky, who exchanged toddlers with me once a week,Pat and Karen, who shared my work,and two Nancys I have known,among others too many to count,hide marks on their bodies and memories,while at the campus women’s centerwhere I plan programs for women studentson professional advancementand how to have it all,the phone rings every week with calls we forwardto safe houses and shelters.
In my adult life, I’ve suffered no manto touch me in anger,but I sleep light.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

Writing About Other Cultures--Talk Given at SinC Into Great Writing 2016 in New Orleans (long)

I'm just recently back from Bouchercon 2016 in New Orleans, and the day before B'con began, Sisters in Crime presented its SinC Into Great Writing workshop, as usual. This year as part of SinC's emphasis on diversity that began with their Report for Change, it was "Doing Diversity Right." Walter Mosley gave a masterful keynote speech, and was followed by four presentations by Frankie Bailey (dialogue), Cindy Brown (characters), Greg Herren (plot), and mine about setting or culture. After all of us finished, we made a panel for Q&A with Terri Bischoff, acquisitions editor for Midnight Ink, representing publishing.

I promised several people to post my entire talk when I made it back home, so here it is, along with the resource list I handed out at the conference.

Writing About Other Cultures
This piece of our workshop is called Writing about Setting, but in my view, setting implies environment, background, and culture. It's much more than simply a case of painting backdrops of landscape or buildings for each scene, more than picking out a fewexotic and colorful places and fascinating ceremonies to make strange and beautiful set-pieces of spectacle. So we'll be looking at how you learn how to write about the whole thing—environment, background, and culture, most of which is covered by the term culture.
On the resource handout, you'll find the best book possible on writing the Other, as academics call anyone who's not of your own gender, class, race, religion, ethnicity, culture, or ability status. This book is small and inexpensive, and it was written for science fiction/fantasy writers, but almost everything in it is equally applicable to crime fiction. It contains hands-on exercises and all kinds of helpful goodies. It covers character and culture. I can't recommend it enough.
You'll also find two blogs written by children's literature librarians that hold writers' and publishers' feet to the fire on writing about other cultures—because it's so important to write about the Other in kid's lit, but even more important to do it right. Read them, holding your writer's indignation in suspension. They're pretty unrelenting on those who didn't do that important work, especially if those writers double down on their mistakes once they're pointed out. After reading a while, though, you'll see that they also praise those who do the hard work to get it right and those who got something wrong, were called on it, and agreed to correct it in the next printing/edition.
I included these two blogs, so you'll see what you're facing when you try to write other cultures. These are the extremes because of the perceived importance in developing self-esteem and shaping world-views of children's books, but you will face folks doing a similar kind of judging on adult books, just usually not as important or well-publicized (librarians all over the country pay attention to these kid-lit blogs).
I believe strongly that it's important for writers to honestly portray cultures other than the mainstream, and the next blog listed is one I wrote after the Charleston Mother Emanuel Church massacre, talking about how dishonest and lazy portrayals of Black people had played a role in reinforcing the bigotry that caused that shooting, how these bad portrayals happens to other peoples and cultures, as well, and how vital it is that they stop. Writers must learn to portray cultures other than the mainstream. An artist must paint a true portrait of the world, not whitewash it.
The internet is awash in blog posts and articles on how to write about other cultures. Some of them are excellent, some mediocre, and some downright wrong. (Hint: while empathy and imagination are vital, they alone will not help you write authentically about a culture you've not experienced.) I've combed through most of these (new ones pop up almost daily) and listed the best ones.
As you can see, I strongly encourage you to write the Other. But at the same time, I don't want you to be blindsided by criticism you weren't expecting and decide you'll never make that attempt again. I want you to go into the arena aware of the dangers and armed against them.
For there are dangers in writing about a culture that's not your own, and those dangers are especially fierce if you're a middle-class-or-above, white, heterosexual, able-bodied writer.
First of all, simply by writing about that Other, you may well be keeping a member of that culture from being able to publish their book set authentically in their own culture. It's not your fault, but publishing is a very white, often dumb business. A publisher who publishes your book about XYZ culture will then say to everyone else who submits, “We have our XYZ book already.” And other publishers will often say, “That publisher does XYZ books, so we can't.” The mindset of mainstream publishing is that the world needs an infinity of books about the world of middle-class or rich heterosexual able-bodied white people, but the number of books it can handle about people of color, of varying genders, of the “lower” classes, of varying physical and mental abilities is extremely limited. And because of this limited experience and worldview, a publisher is much more likely to buy a book by a white, able-bodied, middle-class, heterosexual writer about XYZ culture instead of a book by someone from XYZ culture—simply because they will share the same assumptions and perspectives, and it will feel less foreign and uncomfortable to the publisher.
Tony Hillerman is usually set up as an example of a good way to write about another culture—I've said so myself. Hillerman loved Navajo culture and people and had many Navajo friends—he really worked hard to get the culture right. But how many Navajo novels have been published by Navajo people since Hillerman's books? There are lots of fine Navajo writers, many of them friends of mine, but usually they only get published as poets or literary short fiction writers, because there are so many little literary magazines for those genres, and not many readers or any money or recognition. The niche for trade or commercial fiction about Navajo people has been filled by Hillerman, as far as publishing is concerned. I don't think he'd be happy about that, if he were still alive, but it's still the case. So the people who get angry about someone from the mainstream writing about their culture and keeping their own voices from being heard have a real point. There's your first danger: People may be angry with you, even if you get things right, because they see your book as preventing a person of that culture from writing and publishing—and they may not be entirely wrong.
Tony Hillerman is a good example of the second big danger, as well. As I said, he worked hard to get Navajo culture right. He had many Navajo friends and ran things past them and went to them for information and answers to questions he developed. Big hint—this is what you should do when writing about the Other—check it with someone you've developed a relationship with who belongs to that culture. Hillerman's problem was that most of his friends were fairly assimilated and didn't still follow the most traditional teachings, so they told him about religious things that were supposed to be kept secret, and Hillerman put them into his books, telling the world. In traditional Navajo religious beliefs that tampered dangerously with powerful essences and may have allowed them access to the world. Also, because his friends were no longer still highly traditional, their understanding of some of these more religious things was a little off. None of this was Hillerman's fault, and the Navajo Nation awarded him Friend of the Navajo Nation status, but a number of traditional Navajo were very unhappy with him and still are.
As a part of this second danger, one thing you must remember about doing research on other cultures in books, libraries, on the internet, is that much of it is wrong, accidentally or willfully. Accidentally, because journalists, anthropologists, other scholars, and explorers may have misinterpreted what they saw or heard or because—and this was common—their informants deliberately misinformed them to protect their people or to protect their own source of whatever the white man was providing them. Consequently, even primary sources from past times can be contaminated if they are “as told to” or are translated. Willfully, because a lot of that research was done by people, usually white men, who had an agenda that placed wealthy white male Europeans at the pinnacle of creation and everyone and everything else downhill from that, which led to eugenics and a lot of other horrid, stupid things. So there's your second caveat: You can do your research and still get it wrong in some way.
Still, as I pointed out, Hillerman was named Friend of the Navajo Nation by the culture about which he wrote, and even though there are some naysayers, he's counted successful at his attempts to portray Navajo characters and culture in some depth. If you can manage that, you'll have done very well, indeed.
How do we go about the process then? The beginning is always research—keeping in mind the caveats above about mistakes and agendas in the work of scholars. You can learn some basic history, etc., from these, but remember they're written from another culture's viewpoint and therefore are tales with unreliable narrators.
Look in particular for any primary sources you can find, work written by members of the culture as memoir, other nonfiction, or even fiction or poetry. There are magazines, often online, that focus on the writing of women, LGBTQIA people, Latinos, Natives, Asian Americans, African Americans, Muslims, working-class and poor people, and people with disabilities. In these, you'll not only find primary literary work you can read and learn from, but you'll often find references to books written by people of this Other culture.
Next, you must find and meet people of this Other culture. Do that basic research first, though, so you have some foundation. Nothing is more insulting to anyone than to say, essentially, “I know nothing about you and your culture, and I couldn't be bothered to do even the most minimal research on it, so please do it all for me and make me an expert overnight.”
If you already know some people from this community, now is the time to follow up on those relationships and deepen them. If you're someone who lives in a segregated community—and this is the case for most people now, congregating in suburbs and neighborhoods that are filled with people just like themselves—and you don't have any friends or acquaintances from work or an earlier time in your life who belong to this Other culture, this is the trickiest part—you will have to make friends. And people from marginalized communities can be quite wary of strangers who come in to their areas wanting to exploit them for some reason and then drop them. They've usually been there before. If you don't have any acquaintances in that community, ask among your friends and their friends and see if someone you do know has any. If they do, they can arrange an introduction for you. This can be extremely helpful.
Take your informant to lunch or dinner. Treat this person with respect. When researching another culture or anything—say, life as a policeman or the way City Hall works behind the scenes—please remember that common courtesy and respect are your best friends. If you've been recommended by a friend of theirs and you treat them well, they should relax in your presence. It's like making friends with anyone else new. You want to spend plenty of time getting to know each other with a huge emphasis on real listening on your part. (All the while you're listening, you're learning.) If you can show that you're really interested in them and what they have to say, that you're receptive and truly paying attention to them and truly listening, they will be much more likely to help you. Tell them what you're trying to write and that you want to give an honest portrayal, and ask if they'd be willing to answer some questions for you. You can take a list of specific questions with you, but you may well want to reserve your first meeting for getting to know and trust each other and set a second meeting to go over the questions.
It's a matter of building a relationship. If that's simply not something you can see yourself doing—many writers are extreme introverts—it's also possible to find paid “diversity readers” online, who will read your work to point out flawed areas and problem portrayals. Some of them are excellent writers from those communities, and their help is worth the money paid. Some of them are self-styled diversity experts who may not actually be of the cultures they purport to know. As with anything on the internet, you must do your own research on people before hiring them to make sure they're actually what they present themselves to be. Ask for references.
Once you've finished your first draft, you will want to have a reading by someone from the culture you're trying to bring alive on the page. And if that someone points out a problem with representation that needs to be fixed, don't argue with them. Go fix it. Even if it's a lot of extra work.
In the front or back matter of your book (wherever you put your acknowledgments page), acknowledge the help you received from the people you consulted on the cultural environment, and see to it that they each get a free book.
And remember, you can do it all right and still have someone upset that you published the book because there will be less room for a writer from that community now—and they won't be wrong. Do whatever you can to help writers from that culture to reach success—signal boost, give blurbs, mentor, recommend, whatever you can do. And continue to do this. Your book may be out there in the marketplace for a long time. Make sure you're helping people from that community be heard for at least as long. Aside from being the right thing to do, it's good karma.

Above all, know that what you're doing in trying to diversify your writing is absolutely important. Many of the problems we have with racism, sexism, homophobia, able-ism, classism, and all kinds of xenophobia stem from the damaging stereotypes that are continually presented about other cultures and the people living in them. You are changing the world for the better when you change that.

Resources For Writing About Other Cultures
Best book around about it—Writing the Other by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0065MZ26O/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

Blogs/online articles
http://readingwhilewhite.blogspot.com/– a blog about good and bad representation in children's books
https://americanindiansinchildrensliterature.blogspot.com/– a blog about good and bad representation in children's books
http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com/2015/06/how-did-writers-directors-and-media.html– a blog post I wrote about the need for accurate representation by writers, etc., and what terrible effects the lack of it produces
http://gaudior.livejournal.com/303308.html
https://www.buzzfeed.com/danieljoseolder/fundamentals-of-writing-the-other?utm_term=.xb0qQXvko#.udV8QAO6g
http://www.irosf.com/q/zine/article/10087
http://matociquala.livejournal.com/1544111.html
http://www.malindalo.com/2014/04/should-white-people-write-about-people-of-color/
http://www.rukhsanakhan.com/articles/voiceappropriation.html

Tecumseh's Dream, Part II

Tecumseh was the great Shawnee leader of the early 19th century, who had grown up in a time of constant warfare and continuing displacement of Indigenous nations from their lands by violent white settlers. He had a vision of uniting as many Native tribes as possible to stand against the flood of white settlers and save the traditional lands of the Shawnee and other nations. He had to convince other nations to join his confederation of nations, and we still have his prescient words to Pushmataha of the Choctaws when he worked to convince them to join, words that resonate with the history between his time and ours—and even with the actions of a pipeline corporation in North Dakota just last weekend.
"Where today are the Pequot? Where are the Narragansett, the Mochican, the Pocanet, and other powerful tribes of our people? They have vanished before the avarice and oppression of the white man... Sleep not longer, O Choctaws and Chickasaws... Will not the bones of our dead be plowed up, and their graves turned into plowed fields?"
Tecumseh was a man ahead of his time. He came close to achieving his dream, however. He united several of the northern tribes, including the Delaware, Potawatomie, Kickapoo, and Osage, but had little luck with the Southern tribes, except for a band of the Creek Nation that came to be called the Red Sticks. Had his brother, Tenskwatawa (also known as the Prophet) who was no warrior, not led a failed sneak attack on the American soldiers, and had Tecumseh not been drawn into the War of 1812 to be betrayed by the cowardly British general he was forced to fight with, I've often wondered if Tecumseh might not have been able to lead a united band of Indigenous nations to force the settlers back beyond the Appalachians and change the entire history of Native America.
Recent events have left me thinking of Tecumseh and his dream of uniting the tribes in dealing with the settlers. Since April, a movement that began with the Standing Rock Sioux tribe offering peaceful but determined opposition to a potentially dangerous pipeline has increasingly drawn members of over a hundred other tribes and the formal endorsement and physical and financial support of over two hundred other tribes. The understanding of the sacredness and importance of water to all of us has led them to become Water Protectors, standing up to a powerful corporation and saying, “We will not allow you to endanger our water and the water on which millions of others depend, as well.”
The two camps of Water Protectors at the Cannonball River, Sacred Stone Camp and Red Warrior Camp, now contain over 5,000 people who have come from tribes all over the United States and Canada to join the Standing Rock Sioux in opposing the Dakota Access Pipeline. Recently, this situation had gone to court, and the court had said it would rule the next week. The Standing Rock Sioux delivered materials to the court, identifying an important burial site and other sacred lands lying in the proposed path of the pipeline, another reason its construction should be halted. The corporation sent out workmen over the Labor Day weekend to destroy those sites, in order to make them irrelevant to the case. When the protectors tried to stop them, private security employees assaulted them with pepper spray and attack dogs. The workers and security agents left, probably because of a news program and its video cameras, which recorded what they did, but the site was torn up and destroyed. As Tecumseh said so long ago, “Will not the bones of our dead be plowed up, and their graves turned into plowed fields?"
Still, the federal government has called a temporary halt to construction on the Dakota Access Pipeline. The fight is hardly over. The protectors are not leaving the camps. They are preparing for winter on the prairie. The gathering of tribes that they have built, however, is unprecedented, and I can't help thinking when I see so many relatives from so many different sovereign Indigenous nations gathered together, the flags of the more than 200 nations supporting this action waving above them, that, finally, Tecumseh's dream is coming true.