Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 101

grim and grimmer

Not to be a Scrooge or anything, but I've been wondering just how many middle grade and young adult novels were published by black authors in Canada this past year.  You know we made a list of MG/YA novels for the US; well, now it's Canada's turn.  While I was visiting Toronto last week, I met with a black scholar who told me that there are less than one million blacks in Canada (compare that to the US where blacks are 13% of the population of 300 million!).  Still, ALL the young readers of Canada deserve stories that reflect the lives of black teens.  So far I've only come up with this one title.  ONE TITLE!  Bah! humbug, Canada…

Between Sisters by Adwoa Badoe (July; Groundwood)

It's that time of year again—folks are putting together their "best of" lists.  Stop by The Happy Nappy Bookseller to get Doret's take on the lily-white list posted on the NPR website; then head over to Reading in Color for the antidote—Ari's got her PoC favorites for this past year, plus a list of her favorite PoC romance YA novels!

It's also time to buy a book by a black author and give it to someone who's not black—and I'm ON IT!  This is the busiest birthday week for me, and it's also Cyber Monday—check out Carleen Brice's list of online booksellers, and don't forget to support your local indie booksellers.  We're planning a holiday book party for Brooklynites—more news about that to come!  But don't wait until our party to visit Daddy's Basement Bookstore—they've got everything you need for the holidays…

black art in Canada

The Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) is one of the few places that comes to mind when I think of beautiful spaces in Toronto.  This photo is of the golden mosaic ceiling of the museum's foyer—which is now closed because a more modern (monstrous) entrance was recently added to a different side of the building.  The ROM currently has two exhibits featuring black artists—part of their "Season of Africa"—and I viewed both with my cousin while I was in Toronto.  I wasn't expecting much—I'm not sure how many black artists have had their work shown in the museum, but I certainly never saw any in the 20 years I lived in Canada.  I'll lead with what I liked: El Anatsui: When I Last Wrote to You about Africa.  This Ghanaian artist makes fabulous, intricate tapestries out of copper wire, bottle caps, and foil from discarded liquor bottles.  You know I love anything that glitters, so these installations really worked for me; I love the idea of taking something of no value and transforming it into something not only valuable but meaningful.  I didn't notice any other black visitors at the museum while we were there (that's what I do in Toronto; I count black people), but a college class was touring the exhibit and it was good to see so many people appreciating African abstract art.  This large piece is called Straying Continents, and made me think about the black diaspora and just how tenuous our connections to one another can be.  In Toronto, most black people identify as either Caribbean or African; it's not like the US where there's a large, dominant group of domestic blacks who set the terms of racial discourse.  I think this might be changing for younger black Canadians who seem to consume a lot of music, films, television, and other narratives from the US.  I expected to see evidence of this in the other black exhibit at the ROM: Position As Desired/Exploring African Canadian Identity: Photographs from the Wedge Collection.  My friend Rosa asked me to get a copy of the exhibit catalog for her, and that's the only reason I put my money down; maybe Rosa has the required distance from Canada to assess the exhibit objectively.  But I was there, and I saw how problematic the curation was—an exhibit *about* positioning placed images of black Canadians at the very BACK of the Gallery of Canada, surrounded by vintage furniture.  Seriously.  When we asked for directions to the exhibition, a tiny white woman said, "Go ALL the way to the back."  And that's where we found I think 3 walls with photographs of black people, and then you turned a corner and there was one more wall (more of an alley, really) that purported to show a survey of black photography in Canada—with 6 images?  The exhibit starts with this striking image (Sign) by Eritrean photographer Dawit L. Petros; on the opposite wall is a beaver pelt and various bits of porcelain.  At first, my cousin and I weren't even sure the two displays were meant to be read together (hence there was no disruption of the original collection, which was the curator's intent).  The text next to the photograph says Petros is playing with a Renaissance image by Dürer…but that image isn't presented so that the viewer can make her own comparison (a strategy used effectively with Kehinde Wiley's portrait in the foyer of the Brooklyn Museum).  I agree with Globe & Mail reviewer R.M. Vaughan:

My only suggestion for improvement is that the ROM remount this show in a bigger space, with more works from the artists and their peers.Nobody would miss a couple of dinosaurs for a month or two.

That's not my only suggestion, but the exhibit doesn't really work in that space and when limited to that size.  But then I'm an angry black woman, and I tend to view anything related to black folks in Canada through a lens distorted by disappointment.  The little that's offered simply isn't good enough.  A while ago I posted a list of MG/YA novels by black authors in the US; well, now I'm going to make a list of MG/YA novels by black authors in Canada.  I bet I won't get to 3.  Notisha said she went to Canada's big chain bookstore and asked the clerk for black books and got a blank stare.  Oh, Canada…

the woman I have become

That's the title of a powerful film given to me by Notisha Massaquoi, Executive Director of Women's Health in Women's Hands—the *only* health center in all of Canada to focus on the particular needs of women of color.  The Woman I Have Become (directed by Alison Duke) follows several African and Caribbean women in Toronto who are HIV-positive; I hope you'll look for it in your community and/or encourage others to talk about the impact HIV/AIDS is having on black women, their partners, and their families.  I'm just back from Toronto and this visit gave me so much to think about…I spent my first morning meeting with Notisha; she gave me a tour of her beautiful clinic and introduced me to members of her staff, including Wangari Tharao (who heads the African Black Diaspora Global Network, and is featured in the film).  Notisha introduced me as an author, and after Wangari and I discussed the alarming statistics for black women and AIDS she said, "You should write a story about this."  And I said, "I have!"  That middle grade novel is called An Angel for Mariqua; my agent is sending it out right now, but I felt such an urge to self-publish it in that moment so that it could be available immediately.  I wrote the book in 2000, I think, and the spread of AIDS and HIV in our community has only accelerated since then.  Not talking (or writing) about it doesn't make it go away.  Notisha and I went for coffee afterward and talked about the struggles facing black artists in Canada.  I'll write more about that tomorrow; right now I'm still sniffling from watching the film, and can't reasonably start whining about my petty problems when so many women are fighting this disease every day.  One woman, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide, insisted on speaking publicly about her status so that she could defeat the stigma associated with HIV/AIDS and continue the work of those whose voices were claimed by the disease.  I hoped my novel could do the same…but it's been ten years.  Time to take action, I think…

NOLA pix

Thanks to 7th grade teacher extraordinaire, Mr. Eric Johnson, for sending me these wonderful photos of my visit to Dr. King Charter School in New Orleans.  I'm heading to Toronto soon, and hope you all enjoy the holiday!

NCTE

Many thanks to everyone who attended our panel at NCTE yesterday!  I thought I'd make things easy by listing some of the blog posts that people asked about:

Something Like an Open Letter to the Children's Publishing Industry

2010 MG/YA Novels by Black Authors in the US

My stats for the Canadian children's publishing industry

You can also download Gbemi's handouts on reading & writing faith, spirituality, and social action with children and teens by visiting her website; the downloads are listed under the heading "News."

Thanks also to Lyn Miller-Lachmann for organizing such a great panel, and for bringing us together in Orlando.  I'm not sure I'd ever try to do NCTE in ONE DAY ever again, but train-plane-and cabbing it with Neesha Meminger and Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich made the long trip worthwhile.  We also got to meet Debby Dahl Edwardson—did you know that her daughter is the model for the beautiful cover of Blessing's Bead?  Debby rightly pointed out that multiculturalism isn't always visible, but it's still THERE and ought to be reflected in the books we provide for our youth.

I had a migraine on the plane ride to and from New Orleans—worst travel scenario ever.  But yesterday's trip was just fine and when we got back to JFK, Gbemi and I decided to take the subway back to Brooklyn.  As we stood shivering on the train platform, I told Gbemi about my last trip to Toronto this past spring; I returned to NYC feeling disgruntled, and when I got to the platform I heard a bird singing and turned to find a red-winged blackbird just a couple of feet away.  And then I sighed and thought to myself, "It's ok.  I'm home now."  Last night there weren't any birds singing on the platform, but I still had a heart-sigh moment.  On the train, an older man was asking for change to help pay for his mental health medication; moments later, he got off the train at our station and started singing at the top of his lungs.  Gbemi and I moved down the platform and came face to face with a giant rat!  It jumped, I shrieked, and then it ran off in the opposite direction.  A young woman farther down the platform jumped up onto the wooden bench and stayed there until the train arrived.  Seeing the wooden bench, I asked Gbemi if she'd heard about the discovery of bedbugs in a Brooklyn train station; the reporter's advice? Don't sit on benches in the subway.  The train arrived; I took it one stop, said goodbye to Gbemi, and then transferred to the shuttle.  To reach the shuttle, you have to climb about a zillion stairs to first reach the street level, then the bridge level, then the upper level of the station.  So I'm huffing my way upstairs and just as I reach the street level, I hear heaving bass and these familiar words:

Until the philosophy which holds one race superior

And another

Inferior

Is finally

And permanently

Discredited

And abandoned -

Everywhere is war…

And I sang along, smiling while huffing because I quoted this verse in Judah's Tale—most people know the Bob Marley song, but he's actually quoting H.I.M. Haile Selassie I's address to the United Nations.  I finally reached the upper level and while waiting for the train to arrive, tried to ignore the brother beside me who was doing his best imitation of every Stylistics song ever written.  And you know, I love the Stylistics but not everyone can hit those high notes…the train arrived, I chose a seat far away from Mr. Falsetto, but he stopped singing to greet another brother who proceeded to explain to his captive audience that his voice gave out on him over the weekend yet he was going to perform for us now.  And as he sang the first few notes I thought, "Oh no—don't do Stevie!  Don't do it—especially if your voice isn't strong…"  But he made his way through a modified version of "My Cherie Amour," replacing the original lyrics so that the song was a tribute to Brooklyn…he couldn't quite hit the high notes, but I gave him credit for effort and originality…as I walked home, I smiled and thought: this is the craziness that is Brooklyn.  Home sweet home…

new guide

I remember when I started writing my first novel back in the '90s—I had no idea how to get published and so I bought a copy of Writers Market.  And when I started writing for children, I bought the Children's Writer and Illustrator Market.  But earlier this year I was asked to contribute to a new book: The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published—and *this* is the guide you want for the 21st century (you can read a chapter here).  I haven't read it all the way through, but really like the way all the information is organized and how the authors incorporated the voices and experiences of many other writers.  I'm in the chapter titled,"Publish Thyself," if you're interested…

I only know about 2 people with eReaders, but I want to say THANK YOU to the digital readers who have pushed Wish way up the Kindle sales chart—right now we're #324 out of 600,000 Kindle titles!

I'm going to try to write another 500 words tonight and 500 more tomorrow—then it's off to Orlando for our panel at the NCTE convention.  I'm looking forward to seeing Lyn Miller-Lachmann, Neesha Meminger, Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, and to meeting Debby Dahl Edwardson for the first time!  I'll have copies of Wish to give away, so do stop by to hear our panel or just to say hello!

thank you, Katrina

Sometimes it's hard moving between worlds.  It was good for me to come back from NOLA and go straight back into the classroom; I was able to stay in that "zone" for a little while, but today I'm back to my own reality.  I think it might be time to head back into the academy; this kidlit thing isn't really working out and it's starting to get me down.  I'm not going to stop writing, but I think I need to try a new approach—maybe try operating from within the academy instead of the blogosphere.  But this post is about my visit to New Orleans.  I don't think I have a whole lot more to say, but I feel like I need to admit something.  Yesterday in East Harlem one child asked me how I felt when I found out Bird was going to be published.  And I told him how Hurricane Katrina motivated me to start sending my stories out again; Katrina hit in August 2005, and I had been living in Baton Rouge for only about 3 weeks…I'd just started a new job at LSU and I already knew I wouldn't be staying long.  Then the hurricane threw everything into disarray, and I was filled with so much rage and I had to do *something* to take my power back.  So I went through all my manuscripts and sent out everything that was ready–picture book stories, academic essays, plays.  And a few months later, I found out I'd won the New Voices Honor Award; after that I got into an MFA program, I got accepted to a summer artists' residency, I got a job offer in the northeast, and my first play was named as a finalist at a Chicago theater.  It was Hurricane Katrina that lit that fire inside of me—the rage she inspired drove me to look for a way out, and that's exactly what I found.  When I think about my time in Louisiana, I still get mad.  It's an irrational kind of rage—aimless, really, because I'm just mad at everything and everyone.  I hear the phrase "way of life" and have to bite my tongue.  So I didn't go to New Orleans out of any sense of nostalgia; there's nothing romantic about the city for me, and I didn't expect to do any touristy things during my time off.  I don't eat seafood, and I don't drink; I do like jazz, but I never connected the particular songs or artists I love with New Orleans.  When I lived in Baton Rouge back in 2005, I remember a prominent black poet telling me that New Orleans was "the only truly great American city"—the only one to produce anything of value (she meant jazz).  And I thought to myself, "What about New York?  What about hip hop?"  But then I thought, hip hop doesn't need NYC any more than jazz still needs New Orleans.  I didn't say that, of course, because she was homeless due to the flooding and I was an outsider—not a Yankee, maybe, but a northerner nonetheless.  I'm always wary of exceptionalism, whether it's New Orleans, or Haiti, or the USA.  Anyway, all this is to say that I didn't expect to "have fun" while I was in New Orleans.  But I did—my host, Karen Ott, took me to the House of Blues one night and to Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse the next; Bob French and the Original Tuxedo Jazz Band blew me away and their vocalist, Yolanda Windsay, put Beyonce to shame with her rendition of Etta James' "At Last."  I ate a lot of good food, including the BEST school lunch EVER—white beans and rice!  But I don't wake up thinking about the food or the jazz.  I wake up seeing the faces of the kids in the 7th grade—and the boy in the 6th grade who said he saw a mirror when he looked at the first page of Bird: "Because I'm a black boy and I like to draw, too."  I see the girl in the front row who didn't want to read her poem aloud, but asked me to read it privately.  And it was clear that she got teased a lot, no doubt by the pretty blue-eyed girl in the row behind her who was acting like a typical mean girl.  Yet she herself had written a touching tribute to her beloved teacher the day before.  All you can do in two days is listen and learn, observe and try to inspire.  I read my favorite chapter from Wish, and when I put the book down, a boy in the back row said, "Keep reading!"  So we read another chapter together.  The boy who'd been pushing my buttons all afternoon wrote one of the most powerful poems I've heard in a while.  Who's your addressee?  Some kids spoke to bullies, some spoke to those outside their community.  All had their own ambition, plans for the future, their own sense of themselves.  And they were not willing to let something like Hurricane Katrina define them.  Foremost in their minds was the one-year anniversary of the loss of one of their teachers.  Most of them met President Obama when he visited their school, and they've got signed books from JK Rowling.  I'm no celebrity, but I hope I made an impact.  And I hope I now think of those kids when I think about New Orleans.  It's time to let that anger go.

hum

I want to write about my experience in New Orleans, but I don't feel ready yet.  I woke up this morning realizing that I owe my host teacher an apology; there were a couple of moments when I lost my patience with a few of the boys in the class.  And it felt like there were a *lot* of boys in the class!  Then this morning I went up to East Harlem and met with a 6th-grade class that's been studying Bird; the fabulous teacher, who's one of the best managers I've ever seen, spent at least half of the 90 minutes dealing with three boys who just couldn't get it together.  Two wanted to write, but couldn't focus; one just refused to do anything except distract the other students in his group.  Then there were the girls, working quietly and cooperatively, and there were all the *other* boys in the class who needed a little guidance but were otherwise just fine.  When the class ended I asked the teacher how she found the patience to work with those particular boys; she clearly had strategies—pair the loud one with a quieter child and let their opposite temperaments balance each other out; isolate the one who's easily distracted and have him sit at a desk by himself; try to figure out the child's emotional state so she can figure out why he's refusing to work.  But ultimately, she just refuses to give up; she meets them head on day after day after day.  And the 7th grade teacher in New Orleans was just the same—no yelling, no slamming kids into lockers as I've seen other male teachers do.  Just a quiet, steady vigilance.  I'm sorry to keep going on about boys; I used to be so invested in educating girls, and now I find I'm constantly wondering what to do about boys!  They aren't all the same, so one solution won't work; yet all the kids are in one classroom, in one school…and as obnoxious as their behavior can sometimes be, their stories and poems are amazing!!  After my workshop ended this morning, one of the more challenging boys came up and gave me a silly band—you can see it's a hummingbird…and his story outline looked amazing: a boy who wants to learn how to dance meets Michael Jackson; "The Glove" will show readers the importance of passing on knowledge.  There was one boy in New Orleans—smaller than the others, but louder, too—and he clearly had some trouble with gangs and drug dealers in his neighborhood, but when we did our "You Don't Even Know Me" poems, he blew us all away…he knows he's more than the "type" others perceive; he's super smart, and yet if he can't respond to authority and the structure of school, where's he going to end up? (there's a photo of him with President Obama on the school website).  I wish I could go back.  I miss working with students over time and being able to track their development.  And I wonder if my writing about boys truly reflects their complexity—the diversity among boys.  I told the kids in East Harlem about what's next on my list of things to write—a story about two boys, one 11 and one 14—who initially come together because the younger one's a top student and is assigned to tutor the older boy (who got "left back").  When the younger boy is attacked by the creatures that live beneath Prospect Park, the older boy becomes his protector…ok, I'll try to do a proper post about New Orleans tomorrow.  Everyone at the school was so kind, and the food…the jazz!  There's lots to tell.

awe

I've got some catching up to do…but will try to use "awe" as a central theme/ recurring experience of the past few days.  Saturday was the Brooklyn Museum Book Fair and once again, it was an intense, fantastic experience.  I arrived 15 minutes late and the pavilion was already packed with families…and that was my first moment of awe: how do parents do it?  how do you wake at dawn (because that's when kids get up, even on the weekend), feed your kids, take them to swimming/soccer/art class, get them lunch, and THEN spend up to 4 hours at a book festival?  I was exhausted and I was SITTING the whole time!  Each child was collecting stamps from authors, so the kids were circulating, the parents were keeping up, browsing books, buying books, pushing strollers, and chatting with us.  I had the good fortune of being paired with Emily Goodman, horticulturist and author of Plant Secrets.  She gave me some helpful tips for my Xmas storybook, and also brought crayons so the children could draw pictures of plants.  In this age of digital everything, it was amazing to watch children's faces light up at the sight of new crayons and white paper…then they drew so intently, with such detail.  One child, Zora, came back 3 times just to draw more pictures!  Kids amaze me.  I'm in New Orleans right now, courtesy of PEN American Center—thank you, thank you Fatima Shaik and everyone else at PEN who made this possible.  The MLK Academy is in the lower Ninth Ward, and on the way home today my fabulous hostess, Karen Ott, drove me down the street where Brad Pitt's Make It Right project is building eco-friendly homes for (and with) residents.  The Ninth Ward is a patchwork quilt—lots of different colors, textures, and homes in various conditions.  I haven't taken any photos because I don't want to act like a tourist in someone else's neighborhood.  This community has been through enough.  The kids are *great*—will have to write about them tomorrow; today we did writing workshops based on Bird, and tomorrow we'll move on to Wish.  These kids are survivors…but they're also kids—regular kids.  I want to make sure I remember that.  Last night my hostess took me to the House of Blues—tonight we're going out again; I'm trying not to be my usual homebody self.  It's New Orleans!  But I don't feel like a tourist.  I feel lucky…in so many ways.

night & day