Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 14

the truth behind the story

When The Star agreed to publish my essay on Black fantasy fiction in 2019, I was thrilled. After quitting my job and struggling for several years to earn a living as a writer, I was finally making it work. With a few small awards under my belt, a couple of modest book deals, and a whole lot of paid school visits, I had managed to match my comfortable professor’s salary. And after a decade of invisibility, I was also gaining recognition as a children’s author in Canada; my middle grade novel Dragons in a Bag was nominated for the Forest of Reading’s Silver Birch Express Award, and my Penguin Random House publicist booked me on Canadian television shows and CBC Radio programs.

In that first essay, I shared the challenges I faced as a child in Toronto; no Black role models and a school curriculum that erased Black contributions to Canadian history and culture left me with a thoroughly colonized imagination. I also argued—not for the first time—for the collection of data so we could measure diversity in Canadian children’s literature:

The Cooperative Children’s Book Center at the University of Wisconsin-Madison annually tracks race in over three thousand books for young readers; in 2017, only 3 per cent of the books submitted by publishers were created by African Americans. As far as I know, Canadian kid lit scholars don’t track race in publishing — but they should.

I was impressed when, shortly after that essay was published, The Star‘s Books Editor Deborah Dundas took the initiative and began gathering diversity data from Canadian publishers. In 2011, I had attempted my own survey to determine how many Black Canadian authors were creating children’s literature. The results were abysmal: from 2000-2010, an average of 3 Black authors per year had a book for children published in Canada. So when Deborah shared with me the results of her first survey last year, I was stunned—and skeptical. She reached out again to ask if I wanted to comment on the second survey, but I declined. I suspected most of the 51 books with a Black main character were either authored by Whites or by someone like me—a Black author whose book was acquired and published in the US but distributed north of the border by a transnational publisher (in my case, Penguin Random House). My publisher has assured me that my two dragon novels were never submitted to The Star for their survey, but I suspect that my inclusion in other Canadian lists is as much related to the sudden desire to appear inclusive as it is related to the quality of my books. It’s no doubt easier to reach across the border for a Black expat than it is to take a stand against anti-Blackness in Canadian publishing.

I am Canadian; no matter where I live, that fact won’t change and I think it’s fair to call me a Canadian author even if I’ve lived in the US for most of my life at this point. But my forty titles for young readers really aren’t Canadian books. Even at this stage in my career, I face continued rejection from Canadian editors. I had a middle grade novel published in 2019, The Dragon Thief, but including my titles in a survey like this misrepresents what the Canadian publishing industry is actually doing when it comes to equity (ensuring everyone has an equal opportunity to tell their story, their way).

The Star ‘s survey purports to “tell the story” about diversity in Canadian children’s literature. It asks publishers to self-report their titles but without a more granular approach, the survey presents an incomplete and potentially distorted image of diversity and inclusion in Canadian kid lit. In 2019, out of a total of 419 books, 51 had a Black main character; yet when I contacted colleagues in the field (authors, booksellers, scholars) they could only name two Black Canadian authors with a children’s book published in Canada in 2019: Nadia Hohn’s A Like Miss Lou (Owlkids) and Shauntay Grant’s My Hair is Beautiful (Nimbus).

 

The Star survey also makes a point of introducing demographics: “So, in picture books this year, 11.5 per cent of main characters were Black, compared to 3.5 per cent of the population.” This might lead one to conclude that Black children are actually over-represented in Canadian children’s literature and/or that Canadian publishers demonstrate a notable commitment to producing narratives about Blacks. By contrast, the Cooperative Children’s Book Center found that in the US in 2019, the number of books with Black main characters was 441 out of 3,716 or 11.9% of total books (Blacks represent 13% of the US population). But the CCBC doesn’t just look at the total number of books about different racial groups; they also indicate how many of those books are by authors of different races. US disability activist and author Corinne Duyvis coined the term #ownvoices to distinguish between books by cultural/community insiders and those created by outsiders. The latter are more likely to be inaccurate/inauthentic and the privileging of these books limits opportunities for creators from marginalized groups. The CCBC noted that in 2019, less than half of the books about Blacks were created by Blacks (212 out of 452). Additionally, only 5.7% of the total books they received were written and/or illustrated by at least one person who is Black. This crucial data is what’s missing from The Star’s survey. If only 2 of the 419 books for young readers published in Canada were created by Black Canadians, that’s 0.48%. Less than half of one percent—appalling and unacceptable. Maybe I’ve got it wrong—perhaps we missed a number of other titles by Black Canadian kid lit creators. Crowdsourcing that kind of data isn’t ideal; asking publishers to report the details about each title they publish instead of the overall number would make the survey more complete and the story about diversity in Canadian kid lit far more convincing.

Canadians like to think of themselves as more progressive and enlightened on matters of race than their neighbors to the south, and have even congratulated themselves on having a progressive publishing industry. In a 2016 School Library Journal essay titled “How Canada Publishes So Many Diverse Books,” Ken Setterington argues that “publishers in Canada are building a worldwide reputation for originality, quality, and diversity in children’s literature.” Yet the article’s dozen accompanying photographs reveal the overwhelming Whiteness of Canadian publishing professionals, proving it’s possible (and for some, perhaps, preferable) to publish “diverse books” without diversifying the publishing community itself. Here in the US, multicultural publisher Lee & Low has taken the lead by conducting two surveys of publishing professionals; the results are grim but nonetheless provide a clear picture of the industry as a whole.

Who has measured Black representation in the Canadian publishing industry? Acknowledging 2020 as “a year when Black Lives Matter and social activism have been front and centre in the media,” Deborah Dundas suggests that the Canadian publishing community “has been forcefully nudged” to address racism in its ranks. She points to the hiring of Sue Kuruvilla as head of Random House Canada as a sign of progress, and that does make me cautiously hopeful. But true equity cannot be achieved until the full story of race and publishing in Canada has been told.

 

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end of an era

For a decade, Edi and I have compiled an annual list of MG and YA books by Black authors. I wasn’t looking forward to posting the list this year and have finally decided to step down. Our list always drew from Edi’s year-long list of BIPOC new releases so it makes sense for her to carry on; you can find her 2020 list and analysis over at the Crazy Quilt Edi blog. Has tracking US publishers’ support of Black authors made a difference? I don’t know. Our lists definitely get a lot of hits throughout the year, and I hope some educators and librarians discovered the many Black kid lit creators who aren’t on Times Square billboards and don’t have publicists booking them on The Today Show. The NY Times just published an article about the appalling lack of diversity in publishing and I just read a piece in The Atlantic about the proposed merger of two corporate publishers—the “Big 5” is now the Big 4. What’s at stake?

As the big houses have become bigger and bigger, their business has become more about making money than art or protest, so that small publishers now provide a far wider variety of literature, politics, history, and journalism, of art making and truth-to-power-speaking, of actual risk taking—and from a far more diverse group of authors —than the commercial conglomerate publishers. And the bigger the big publishers get, I told the DOJ attorneys, the more risk-averse they become. The less willing they are to lose money. Audiences need to be expanded, not necessarily diversified. And then the safer, less boat-rocking, bigger-demographic-satisfying stuff they publish becomes what the marketplace they dominate adapts itself to sell. The risk aversion becomes systemic.

My publisher is the one gobbling up everyone else—will that improve things for a Black author like me? Probably not. If I had to fight for my series and for fair pay before, I’m not likely to be treated any better now that the publisher is even more invested in blockbusters. I’m going to try not to think about the industry as I work on finishing this picture book and revising my two novels over the holidays. It’s been a rough year and I’m ready to bake a little, play my favorite carols, and lose myself in the magic of Christmas.

let it snow

They’re predicting it will snow today. I don’t plan to leave the house but still spent a little time this morning looking at winter boots online. Then I went to my closet and realized I was about to buy a pair of boots that were identical to the pair I already own. I eat when I’m not hungry. I binge watch shows on mute. My right forearm has started to ache from spending too much time in front of the computer and the novel STILL ISN’T DONE. I just got yet another extension and think this will be the last one. But I’m feeling my age, y’all. I gave up all-nighters years ago but I can no longer churn out thousands and thousands of words every day. Fifteen hundred words seems to be my limit and some nights I turn in having written only seven or eight hundred. It all counts, it all moves the story forward. But last night I revisited Dragons in a Bag and realized I might have some inconsistencies in Book #3. I can leave that for the copy editors to catch, but it’s still troubling. I want to write efficiently but at this point, I can barely see the forest for the trees. I can focus on a paragraph, maybe a chapter, but I’ve lost all sense of the overarching narrative. I need a break! We’re hoping to have this book edited by Xmas, which is just a few weeks away…so no more dithering. I’ve been getting more steps in and I’m still doing my daily stretches and weights; SO thankful for this treadmill and my two local friends who invite me out for long walks. My Zooms are finally slowing down. Last week’s NCTE ten-person panel was a success and I jumped from that to an amazing raptor talk hosted by the Evanston Public Library; I’m also taking an African American theater class there this week. I baked some tasty cornbread for Thanksgiving and shared it with my friends. Scholastic posted these wonderful free resources on their blog since Dragons in a Bag is their Book Club Book of the Week, and I think I’m allowed to announce that The Dragon Thief has been adopted for the Scholastic Book Fair. Fans of the series seem to get younger and younger, which is sweet but something else I need to keep in mind as I write Book #3. For now, I just need to FINISH. So off to work I go…

 

let hope blaze

I don’t want to talk about the election and definitely didn’t plan to write a poem about it. But then I went for a walk with Cozbi on Friday and she named the condition of the golden maple trees: blight. Turns out these “tar spots” are the result of a fungus that doesn’t kill the tree. The next day I heard hollering in the street and that’s how I found out that Biden had won. I walked to the farmer’s market and ecstatic folks  were out in their cars, honking as they drove through Evanston in impromptu caravans. I know I can be Debbie Downer sometimes and this moment definitely reminds me of the day after President Obama won in 2008. I asked my students, “We now have a Black president. What else about the US has changed?” Saturday felt familiar…so much joy and relief, never mind the 70 million voters who tried to re-elect Trump. But I’m not here to say, “I told you so.” Instead I’m trying to allow myself (and others) these fleeting moments of joy.

Let Hope Blaze

let hope blaze

like the brassiest leaves

fanned gold and resplendent

against the blue sky

 

let my eye linger

only on beauty

and not on the blight

that mars each

saffron star

 

today

I can ignore

the lessons life’s

taught me

 

for now

I can choose

not to dwell

on the rot

 

in silence

I will honor

the glory of autumn

knowing that sometimes

the axe is the cure

© Zetta Elliott

heartfelt

It’s the end of October and as of this morning, I only have 23K words written. It’s not bad, but this week I didn’t hit my thousand word per day goal, and because it was my birthday on Monday, I cut myself some slack. Our architecture boat tour on Sunday was chilly but wonderful, and the next day I spent hours opening cards and gifts and thanking my incredibly generous friends. Tea, chocolate, flowers, dragons—and a stunning piece of original artwork. It snowed all morning, I had cake for breakfast, deep dish for lunch, ran a few errands, and still managed to write a thousand words before going to bed. The rest of the week wasn’t as productive but I discovered a historic rooming house for Black women in Bronzeville that I wrote into my novel, and today I’m going to Semicolon Books, a Black woman-owned bookstore for which I received a gift card. They run a book donation program for CPS students, so I’m taking a bag of books and then will wander around Bronzeville to see Elam House (right), The Forum, and the former home of Ida B. Wells. It’s Halloween and the city is bracing for the election on Tuesday; I hear the mayor is setting up roadblocks to help keep the peace, so I figured I would go downtown today and then stay in Evanston for the next week or so till things hopefully quiet down. We’re facing new restrictions here in IL as infection rates surge. I think the election won’t be decided for weeks to come and I think we’ll be living under quarantine for at least another year. So it’s important to pace ourselves, prepare for the worst, and work together to create the best possible outcome. Earlier this month I had the chance to speak with Matthew Winner on The Children’s Book Podcast, and he concluded his interview by asking me what message I would send along to the kids he would see in his library the next day: “Be gentle with yourself and with each other.” There are so many things beyond our control right now, but if you’re able—please VOTE and practice kindness this week. I found out the day after my birthday that my green card renewal application has been approved. My citizenship application is still pending so I can’t vote this year. That means I’m counting on the people in my community to choose a future that includes immigrants like me. As Arundhati Roy reminds us: “Another world is not only possible, she is on her way.”

The Children’s Book Podcast with Matthew Winner

gleam

It has been almost a year since my Aunt D’thea was killed in a car accident and my relatives in Canada have been going through her possessions as they prepare her house for sale. A lot of things were thrown out or given away; my cousin saved a few mementos and offered some items to me—prefacing her offer with an acknowledgement that I am actively “anti-stuff.” It has taken years for us to reach that understanding; I’ve moved three times in as many years and each time I unloaded gifts that were given with love but without consideration of my particular preference. My mother agreed to make a donation in my name years ago and that meant a lot to me; my friends respect my wishes and only give things that I can consume or that will expire (chocolate or flowers or tea). Other folks do what they want to do and I act accordingly (Goodwill, regifting, or garbage). Gift-giving is complicated. I’ll always remember my father insisting that a funeral wasn’t about the deceased—it was for those left behind and so *they* got to decide how they wanted to mourn. I think that’s absurd, especially if someone makes arrangements before they die; their final wishes should be honored. For some folks, the same principle applies to gifts—it’s not really about what the recipient wants or needs or requests. Giving a gift is an opportunity to put the giver’s needs first. Over the weekend I had to find seven receptacles for an online theater workshop; I had six bowls but needed one more and so emptied out a small beaded basket in which I store jewelry that I never wear. In it I found a badly tarnished brooch that another aunt gave me almost twenty years ago. I was heading to Africa for the first time and she wanted me to have a reminder of home; I wore it proudly while I was there and in the years that followed, but at some point it wound up in my little basket along with the many silver bangles I once loved but no longer wear. Why did I hold onto this brooch when I gladly got rid of so many other gifts? Maybe because it’s small or because I love my aunt (though I’ve happily parted with gifts from other beloved relatives). Perhaps it’s because that failed trip to Djibouti left me feeling so disconnected; my father had just died and I gave up my Brooklyn apartment to teach at a new university that turned out to be nonexistent. Adrift, I flew back to Toronto, moved in with my mother for six months, and wrote a memoir about loss. I cleaned the little brooch and pinned it to my coat yesterday; my aunt’s thoughtful gift continues to operate according to her original intention—it reminds me that I come from a particular place and people. My birthday’s coming up and my uncle sent the loveliest letter that contained a photograph of my older sister as a toddler, a picture of my great-grandparents’ barn, and a shot of them using the tools needed to cut and measure the beams back in 1910. He also included a tribute to my grandmother that I wrote for her 90th birthday celebration. I recycled part of it for my writer’s statement but the rest I had completely forgotten about…it still rings true, though, and I’m so glad I was able to put into words just how much she meant to me. How did my tribute wind up with my uncle? Perhaps he, too, was tasked with going through her things after she passed and felt it was worth saving. Someday I’ll have to think more about the way gifts circulate and land back in the giver’s lap…

“Everyday Use” from HOP TO IT: Poems to Get You Moving

"Everyday Use" by Zetta Elliott from Pomelo Books on Vimeo.

play date

Today didn’t go as planned. After another spectacular day in Chicago, I thought I would spend today writing and instead I was curled up in bed with a hot water bottle. I’m almost at the end of Season 6 of Schitts Creek and that means I’ve only written a couple hundred words when I was supposed to write at least a thousand. But tomorrow’s another day and it was still a pretty great week. We closed on the film deal and I did write over three thousand words on Wednesday; I did some solid research for the novel, shared my ideas for the book’s cover with my editor, and I signed up for *three* online theater workshops! Last weekend my friend told me about the memorial her kindergarten students created for Breonna Taylor. Yesterday while in Chicago I found the memorial and saw their sweet messages. It had been vandalized but the tributes were still legible, the sun was shining, other children were playing nearby and came over to share their favorites with me; one gathered up a bouquet of artificial flowers and another pointed to a drawing of a gerbil. Do they understand what police brutality is? I was a masked woman with a camera and yet they totally forgot about the need to social distance and/or not talk to strangers…and even as I tried to step back every time they drew close, it was hard. I’ve missed being around kids and it was refreshing to see them being so carefree in spite of the state of the world. The memorial was set up at the base of a monument to the first president of Czechoslovakia, represented as a helmeted knight on a horse. I was paying attention to every detail because I’m trying to see the city as Jaxon might—a nine-year-old boy from Brooklyn visiting Chicago for the first time. The Gothic buildings on the University of Chicago campus would probably look like castles to him…he might be amazed to learn that the Ferris wheel made its debut at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. I strolled through the serene Garden of the Phoenix and imagined Jax walking the same paths with a baby phoenix in his pocket. Should I mention the Breonna Taylor memorial in my novel? So far I’ve included the fact that the Japanese pavilion adjacent to the garden was burned by bigots following WWII. Can I mention anti-Japanese prejudice without also talking about the incarceration of Japanese Americans during the war? Can I talk about the history of fires in Chicago—the Great Fire of 1871, the Red Summer of 1919, uprisings in the 1960s and 2020—without mentioning the devastation wrought by the atomic bomb? For now, I’m letting myself put everything in, knowing that some references won’t make the final cut. It’s about striking the right balance…just enough magic and just enough reality. There’s *so* much history in the city, and a friend hipped me to this self-guided tour book that highlights the contributions of Chicago’s Black women. Today I signed up for an architecture boat tour on the day before my birthday (two weeks away!) and I almost bought a ticket to the holiday light show at the Museum of Science and Industry. Monday is Canadian Thanksgiving so I’m moving into holiday mode. This coming week is packed with online gigs but it helps to know I have days set aside that are dedicated to exploring the city. Writing Brooklyn into my books wasn’t hard because I lived there for two decades, but I’m new to Chicago. A few day trips won’t make me an expert on the South Side but I hope Chicago kids will still appreciate seeing their city featured in Book #3.

If you’re free on Tuesday, join us for our session at the Boston Book Festival; on Thursday I’ll be part of a panel on “In Between Reads” for School Library Journal‘s Day of Dialog. I’m recording a few other talks that will be available later this month. And somehow I will find a way to write a thousand words a day!