Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 24

find the good

I walked into Center City today. On the way back I told my Lyft driver that I grew up taking the bus and always felt ashamed because my friends were driving their own cars or being driven by their parents. That shame has never gone away; I’m fine taking the subway but am still reluctant to take the bus as an adult. The past couple of weeks have been intense! Moving from Brooklyn to Philadelphia was very stressful, but I’m here now and I’m settling in pretty well. As I was packing I found an old bill from my therapist; I haven’t seen her since 2003, I think, and we only saw each other for about a year and a half; we tried to keep going with phone sessions, but that didn’t work and then I graduated from NYU and didn’t have health insurance….it was a long time ago yet I still recall the profound advice she once gave me: “The defenses that served you as a child may not serve you as an adult.” I realized late last week that I was depressed; I’ve lived with depression since I was a teen but my anxiety demands most of my attention and so sometimes it takes longer for me to realize when I’m feeling blue. The move was so stressful and after my plan to rent a car and drive down alone fell through, I finally asked for help from a friend—that’s not easy for me because I learned growing up not to rely on anyone else. To this day, there are things I won’t do or even try if I don’t think I can manage on my own. Because I’ve learned the hard way that people will let you down or just ghost when you need them. The end of summer is probably my toughest time of year when it comes to depression because I always see parents taking their kids to college and that didn’t happen for me. My folks just checked out and so my grandfather asked my uncle to drive me to the Ontario/Quebec border, and we waited there for my sister and her fiance to arrive from Montreal. We transferred everything from one car to another and I arrived at university several hours later with almost everything I needed—except my parents. And I’ve never forgotten that feeling, even though I still feel lasting gratitude that my sister—to whom I wasn’t close—showed up when I needed her and tried to give me the advice and support our parents couldn’t or wouldn’t provide.

I’ve moved so many times since that fall of 1990, and I almost always begin my new life by painting my new apartment. I got to Philly on a Wednesday and by that evening I’d located the nearest hardware store and walked over the next day to buy my first can of paint. My furniture arrived on Friday, and a week later I’d bought four more gallons of paint before I decided to take a break. There are some problems with the apartment and I’m not sure it makes sense to invest any more time or energy in making it beautiful if those problems can’t be fixed. I do NOT want to move again! I love the neighborhood and the building itself is full of friendly people, both residents and staff. But I need peace in my home. So what do I do? This morning, when the freight elevator woke me at 6am, I got up, finished painting the bathroom, and wrote a draft email to the property manager. Then I had breakfast, worked on my office (which is a mess), and decided to walk from 47th to the Target store at 19th St. When I got home, the concierge remarked, “So I hear you’re a children’s book author.” Turns out she stocks little “book nooks” around the community and is a volunteer literacy tutor at the school across the street! This morning I applied to be fingerprinted so I can work in Philly schools—starting with the elementary school next door. It has been fairly easy to get connected so far: I’ve joined the library and the local credit union, and will probably join the local food co-op, too; I found a farmers market in a nearby park, and figured out a good running route through a historic cemetery. And I’ve only been in Philly ten days! As a child/teen I believed I could make things better if I just worked hard enough. As an adult, I’ve learned that some things are beyond my control and sometimes you have to walk away. Other times, you’ve got to reach out and ask for help…which still isn’t easy for me. But on that first day at university, I was okay—my parents weren’t there but my sister was, and I made friends who eventually shared their own tales of family dysfunction, and our decorated dorm room became the most popular on the floor. What’s that advice Mr. Rogers gave to kids years ago? “Look for the helpers.” Because they’re always there—you just have to look around, and humble yourself a bit, and (for me) overcome your fear of being rejected. Lots of things are going well here in Philly so I’m going to try to stay positive and look for solutions to the problems that have come up. And I’ll be careful not to let my impulse to DO overwhelm my awareness of how I feel.

trust your experience

That’s what James Baldwin said, and I try to follow his sage advice. When I’m asked to talk about self-publishing, I have no problem drawing from my own experience; my latest thoughts are on Jane Friedman’s website:

When I self-publish, I’m showing what types of stories are getting rejected by traditional publishers. I’m affirming the value of the stories that matter to me and my community. Books are commodities but stories have more than commercial value in many cultures. When the traditional publishing industry says, “Your stories don’t matter to us,” it’s an act of resistance to walk away and make the book yourself. It’s also therapeutic and empowering! You don’t know what you can create on your own until you give yourself permission to experiment. That’s why I self-publish.

I plan to expand on this idea when I write my keynote for the Writer’s Digest IndieLAB conference next month. I want to emphasize how empowering it can be to be an indie author—especially in a moment when so many false and/or depressing narratives dominate the news. I’m limiting the amount of time I spend on Facebook, but I also think twice before posting accounts and/or recordings of police violence against Black people. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it’s triggering to witness and relive that kind of brutality. The problem, however, is that my sensitivity around the representation of Black people made me blind to another kind of misrepresentation that’s outside of my personal experience. Yesterday I saw a video about a Black teen who connected with a White autistic teen who was watching him stock the shelves at a store in Louisiana. They ended up completing the task together, and the autistic teen’s father filmed the entire thing. That alone should have given me pause, but instead I focused on the Black boy wondering, with tears in his eyes, why people seemed so surprised/moved by such a simple act. It’s so rare that Black boys are shown as kind and considerate; WE know our brothers and sons are like that, but the dominant image of Black boys and men is the exact opposite. Fortunately, disability advocate Ashia Ray generously took the time to point out my blind spot. She gave me permission to share her comment so I added it to the post on my personal Facebook page and added a content warning (CW) for ableism and labor exploitation.

I agree with SO MUCH of what you post and the end notes to Benny [Doesn’t Like to Be Hugged] made me cry to see an allistic author consult an autistic person when writing a book about us.

But this makes me very sad and uncomfortable.

Allistic people get a LOT of praise of being even slightly decent people to disabled folks. They videotape it and post it on the internet and in the videos, we’re viewed as objects, infantilized, and again, expected to be elated when someone says a kind word or invites us to prom of whatever.

This – plus the fact that many of us are working for sub-minimum wage through government contracts where employers view our unpaid labor as a generosity – it feeds into he idea that our labor and worth as human beings is inherently worth nothing unless it serves as an inspiration for others.

Videos like this a harmful to us – particularly while many disability rights advocates are fighting for labor laws that take advantage of stereotypes that we just love working so much it’s a kindness to let us do it for free.

I hope you won’t delete this post, but are willing to address how problematic this feels and add a trigger warning to disabled people who have been used for inspiration porn and who have been exploited for free labor.

Ashia also shared a link to this article about the exploitation of disabled workers—please take the time to read it and reconsider how/if you share videos about disabled people on social media. Then check out her website Raising Luminaries, which has the best logo ever and features an incredible variety of truly inclusive books for kids.

out with the old…

Last week I gave away eight bags of books and I’m taking the last bag to the Free Black Women’s Library tomorrow. Yesterday I recycled three old pairs of eyeglasses and today I took my two old laptops to Apple. I checked with the Sanitation Dept last night and if my Super fills out a form, they’ll come pick up my TV from 1995. Fifteen years ago Laura gave me a nightstand she found by the side of the road; yesterday I stained it to hide the damage caused by my humidifier—I didn’t quite follow the directions but it still looks pretty good. I want to buy a new rug for the living room but can’t bring myself to throw out the rattan one I’ve had for ten years…there’s got to be a way to mend the bits that are worn down. The fake leather is flaking off my ottoman; I’m thinking a staple gun and some gold-tinted African fabric should do the trick. I want a fresh start and that means unloading a lot of stuff that I don’t need anymore. But I don’t want to fill my new apartment with things I don’t really need. Strategic shopping and a little DIY—that should give me the kind of updates that will make my new home feel fresh and familiar. And with the money I save on new furnishings, I can pay for illustrations for a new picture book! I’ve got sixteen manuscripts and no takers so…

I just updated my list of spring presentations; I don’t put them all on my CV, but I do try to keep track of every paid and unpaid book talk or panel or writing workshop I conduct. I’ve already got a few NYC gigs booked for the fall—including a November 1 event for fifth graders at the BPL! I’ll also be traveling—last week I was invited to give one of two keynotes at the Writer’s Digest IndieLAB conference in Cincinnati. The program looks fantastic so if you’re an indie author or thinking of becoming one, join us! Turns out many of my radical librarian friends will be in Cincy that weekend for another conference so I’ll also get to join them for a pizza party…

We got our second starred review for DRAGONS IN A BAG from School Library Journal! I really appreciate how this reviewer teased out the overlapping themes in the story:

Historically, most chapter books featuring magical tales of witches and dragons center the experiences of white protagonists and characters; Elliott offers something much needed in the genre: a black protagonist in an urban setting. Elliott skillfully introduces themes about creating positive change, examines issues of othering and the fear of differences, and touches upon the complexities of family, gentrification, and segregation. VERDICT A promising start to a new series, this fantasy should find a home in all libraries.

I also found out that MOTHER OF THE SEA has been selected as the August read for the State of Black Science Fiction book club! I have more exciting news about that title but can’t share yet…stay tuned!

heal thyself

Lately I’ve been reflecting on the debt I owe so many Black women scholars. I stepped away from academia several years ago and have no regrets, but your training doesn’t leave you and it’s been energizing to find current scholarship that aligns with my kid lit writer’s goals. Graduate school feels like a lifetime ago and yet the scholars I discovered during that time have shaped the way I view the world. In fact, as I was reading Ghost Boys last month, I found myself trying to recall a quote by an esteemed Black woman scholar; only two words remained in my memory—“agonistic engagement”—so I searched my hard drive and up popped the first chapter of my dissertation, “’If Rigor Is Our Dream’: The Re-Membering of Violence by Black Women Writers of the Harlem Renaissance.” Those two words are part of a passage from Hortense Spillers‘ seminal 1987 essay “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book,” which served as the theoretical backbone of my project. When I applied to graduate school in 1995, I only knew that I was interested in Black women’s quilts and Billie Holiday. One year later, I was at NYU taking a course on the Harlem Renaissance and my research focus had narrowed considerably. I knew Black women had been lynched but finding names and records proved challenging. Spillers helped me understand the erasure of Black women lynch victims from the historical record:

Indeed, across the spate of discourse that I examined for this writing, the acts of enslavement and responses to it comprise a more or less agonistic engagement of confrontational hostilities among males. The visual and historical evidence betrays the dominant discourse on the matter as incomplete, but counter-evidence is inadequate as well: the sexual violation of captive females and their own express rage against their oppressors did not constitute events that captains and their crews rushed to record in letters to their sponsoring companies, or sons on board in letters home to their New England mamas (73).

When a phenomenon like slavery—or lynching, or police violence—is framed as a struggle between men, the role of women gets obscured. In the above passage, Spillers implicates White women; they are involved and yet they are ignorant, they keep the home fires burning while the men in their lives enslave, assault, and exploit Africans. White male enslavers shield their delicate wives, sisters, and mothers from the truth, and this self-interested impulse to deceive/protect White women has been used to justify terrorizing Black people for centuries. Jessie Daniel Ames stood up to lynchers in the 1930s, but it’s important to remember that many White women supported mob violence, instigated and participated in lynchings, and even joined the Ku Klux Klan. To this day, when a White woman calls for help, White men respond with force—which is why #PermitPatty and #bbqBecky aren’t just funny memes. White women calling the police on Black people—even children—over a perceived threat can have deadly consequences.

Studying lynching for ten years changed me as a writer, and in some ways prepared me for this difficult moment in US history. Very little surprises me, though I’m often disappointed by the way some on the left respond to this latest surge of White supremacist violence. In a recent RaceBaitR essay, Zaire Bidgel laments the fact that it’s “so rare that Black people are given space to fully express their pain. There is always a label applied to it. It’s too loud, too violent, too painful, too much.” Most Black people realize that “our healing is solely our responsibility,” and yet there is continuous pressure in a White supremacist society to put the needs of the dominant group first (see the recent calls for “civility”). But Bidgel rightly asks, “How can we, as Black people, heal with white needs at the center of our thoughts and processes? How can we truly support ourselves and emotional wellbeing while serving the needs of those who continue to actively oppress and enact violence against us?”

The answer, of course, is that we can’t. The theorizing of Nancy Armstrong and Leonard Tennenhouse helped me to consider not just the representation of violence but also the violence of representation. As I’ve written elsewhere, the kid lit community likes to think of itself as a group of progressive adults who prioritize the needs of children and teens. Yet #DiversityJedi scholars have demonstrated that good intentions aren’t enough when writing about traumatic historical events. The choices made by writers, illustrators, and publishing professionals can produce books that are inaccurate, offensive, and even harmful to young readers. For Bidgel,

Pre-empting Black healing for the comfort or needs of whiteness is violence. We have lost so much of ourselves, our families, our communities, in (often forced) support of whiteness, regardless of if we see or acknowledge it. Interrupting expressions of Black pain and healing to think of the needs of white people, who have a direct hand in the pain we’ve been dealt is dehumanizing. It serves as a reminder that white needs must always be considered.

Which brings me back to Ghost Boys. Bidgel isn’t writing about books for young readers but their analysis of race dynamics in the nonprofit arena immediately made me think of another White-dominated space: the publishing industry. In an interview on WNYC, Jewell Parker Rhodes explained that she chose to include the character Sarah in order to humanize her father—a White police officer on trial for killing a Black boy named Jerome. Bullied at school, Jerome accepts a toy gun from a new friend and experiences a rare moment of freedom while pretending to be a cop. Then someone calls 911, the dispatcher leaves out important details when notifying the police, and the outcome mirrors the 2014 killing of Tamir Rice in a Cleveland playground: two White officers arrive, one immediately shoots Jerome in the back. They fail to provide life-saving procedures, are slow to call an ambulance and as a result, Jerome dies.

The courtroom scenes in the book are hard-hitting, but when it comes to Jerome’s interaction with Sarah, there are some surprising silences. When Jerome realizes only his murderer’s daughter can see him he asks, “‘Why can’t it be Kim who sees me? Why this stupid girl?’” (53). A second Chicago “ghost boy” arrives to answer Jerome’s question; Emmett Till, fourteen-year-old victim of an infamous 1955 lynching in Mississippi, urges Jerome to devote his afterlife to helping Sarah instead of his grieving sister Kim:

“Believe this, Jerome. It matters that Sarah can see you.”

“And I’m supposed to help her?”

“Got anything better to do?”

“Got me. Absolutely nothing.” (103)

The fact that Jerome’s family can’t see him makes helping them impossible and makes the White girl his priority. With Emmett’s guidance, Jerome begins to see Sarah as a victim much like himself: “She wants quiet, too. Protestors picket outside her house. Sarah keeps her window closed. Her world is upended. I get that. Sarah’s almost as messed up as me” (106). Except, of course, Sarah hasn’t had her life violently, prematurely, and unjustly terminated by a racist cop. Initially Jerome expresses justifiable anger and resentment towards Sarah, though his conditioning interferes:

Stop crying, I want to shout. Instead I mutter, “Your bed is nice. Pretty.” Being nice is automatic. How stupid to be nice. I always tried. What did it get me?

I’m getting angrier and angrier. I explode. My hand connects. Peter Pan flies across the room. The book hits the wall, drops to the floor…

Sarah’s eyes are different now. Frightened again. Nervous.

Ghost boy shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. Not fair, I think. I holler: “Why do I need a white girl looking after me?”

“You’re right. But maybe you’re supposed to do something for Sarah?”

“Naw, naw. That’s sick. Her dad kills me and I’m supposed to help? Who are you anyway?”

“Emmett. Emmett Till.”…

“You’re the Chicago boy? Murdered like me?”

“1955. Down South.’” (96-97)

Unlike other novels where Black authors introduce White characters by having their Black protagonists attend predominantly White schools, Rhodes chooses to have her ghost boys float into Sarah’s bedroom. This, to me, is a shocking and potentially subversive decision given that Black men and boys historically have been cast as rapists desperate for contact with “pure” White women (allegedly because Black women were not “true” women, which made them unappealing to Black men and vulnerable to being raped by White men). Anti-lynching crusader and journalist Ida B. Wells proved that most lynchings were not about rape at all, but the sexual assault of White women was “beyond the pale” and made Black males deserving of the most brutal torture and death. Having Jerome compliment Sarah on her nice, pretty bed before lashing out violently brought to mind scenes from DW Griffith’s 1916 film Birth of a Nation:

“A curtain flutters. I see the girl. Like magic, I float inside, into the second floor and a pink bedroom.

The girl stumbles, falls against her dresser. She wants to scream, I can tell. But she doesn’t” (63).

The subversive potential of this scene is lost, however, since the child reader has not been informed—and likely would not know—about White women’s specific role in the lynching dynamic. Jerome has had “the talk” with his father: “How many times had I heard: ‘Be careful of police’; ‘Be careful of white people…’ Everybody in the neighborhood knew it. Pop told me as soon as I could read” (69-70). Jerome also learns about Black history from his father: “Slavery was awful. Afterwards, Pop said the KKK began lynching” (147). When he is shot, Jerome’s grandmother repeatedly references Emmett Till yet no one seems to have told this Black boy specifically to stay away from White girls. So Jerome has no idea that—were he still alive—entering Sarah’s frilly pink bedroom could have cost him his life in another era (and see the recent case of a White cop falsely arresting his daughter’s Black boyfriend). As a result, Jerome feels no anxiety about their encounter. Instead, his interactions with this White girl have a strangely romantic undertone; when he’s near Sarah, Jerome smells lilacs and when she looks up at him, “Her eyes are real; they have depth; they’re ice blue, sparkling with tears” (181). At first, Jerome admits, “If she wasn’t a girl, I’d think about hitting her” (64) but soon he’s apologizing for being “mean” and Jerome wishes he could hug and be hugged by Sarah (110).

Jerome effectively becomes Sarah’s protector, urging her not to watch the video of his death: “I don’t know why I’m saying this. Crazy, part of me doesn’t want to see Sarah hurt” (107). When Sarah asks a White Jewish librarian at her school to see the image of Emmett Till in his open casket, Jerome turns away: “I don’t want to see. Dead is dead. Doesn’t matter what dead looks like” (117). It does matter, of course, which is why Mamie Till Mobley insisted that the world see what Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam had done to her son. But it is Sarah who insists on viewing the disturbing image and by the end of the novel, she has become radicalized. Jerome convinces her to reconcile with her father who, by the end of the trial, “looks beat down” (121). Jerome only witnesses his own family’s suffering but he actively works to reunite the White family: “Sarah isn’t speaking to her dad. I don’t know why but it bothers me. Bad” (177). Having rejected his own legitimate Black rage, Jerome becomes the role model Sarah needs:

“I hate him. Don’t you?”

Do I?

Ma, Pop, Grandma taught me it’s wrong to hate. “No, I don’t hate your dad. You shouldn’t either.”

“He killed you.”

“He made a mistake.”

“He’s racist.”

“He made a mistake. A bad one.” Real bad.

Just like it was bad for Mike, Eddie, Snap to bully me. Bully Carlos.” (179)

At Jerome’s urging, Sarah focuses on her father’s redeeming qualities and asks him to help her launch a website dedicated to raising awareness of Black boys killed by police. Officer Moore agrees, and Jerome concludes that “Sarah’s going to be fine. She’s a white girl but she’s not ‘white girl.’ She’s Sarah. Me and all the other boys on her computer screen have names. Jerome Rogers. Tamir Rice. Laquan McDonald. Trayvon Martin. Michael Brown. Jordan Edwards. We’re people. Black kids” (184). Jerome concludes that “Sarah’s dad and Emmett’s killers, lived life wrong” (182-3) and finds his place within the “crew” of ghost boys: “I understand now. Everything isn’t all about me” (147). For Sarah, the future looks bright; Jerome sees her “grown, writing books, protesting for change. Teaching people how to see other people. Teaching her kids (imagine, Sarah, a mom!) to learn, not judge” (183).

By contrast, Jerome’s sister Kim grieves and memorializes her brother privately with Carlos and Jerome’s former bullies as her new brothers/protectors. Perhaps in time Kim will follow in the footsteps of so many Black women and girls who turn their grief and righteous Black rage into : Samaria Rice, Tamir Rice’s mother, just opened a youth center in her son’s name; Lezley McSpadden, mother of Michael Brown, is running for political office in Ferguson. In the award-winning novel Piecing Me Together, Renée Watson’s teenage protagonist Jade responds to the trauma of another Black girl being brutalized by police by mobilizing her friends and community members.

I don’t know how many daughters of White cops accused of shooting Black people have become anti-racist activists. I suspect Rhodes’ depiction of Sarah Moore is purely aspirational, and art can show us what’s possible alongside what is real. But I do wonder why Rhodes chose to include Emmett Till in this narrative if she was unwilling to fully unpack the painful history of lynching. The author takes time to explain the alleged whistle that prompted Till’s murder, but doesn’t explain why an accusation made by a White woman against a Black boy led to such a horrific act of violence. In the afterword, Rhodes explains her aim in writing Ghost Boys: “Through discussion, awareness, and societal and civic action, I hope our youth will be able to dismantle personal and systemic racism” (206). Yet in the list of resources provided at the back of the book, one finds a link to Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech but nothing on lynching.

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice recently opened in Alabama. Ashley Akunna contends that police brutality is the evolution of lynching. Three senators just introduced a bill because lynching still isn’t a federal hate crime. Last week the Emmett Till case was reopened by the Justice Department, and Carolyn Bryant has admitted that her accusations against Emmett—whistling, flirting, grabbing—were false. So it’s a good time to tell the truth about lynching. But can that be done in a middle grade novel? Some will no doubt argue that the subject matter is too grim and/or too mature for young readers, yet anti-bias expert Louise Derman-Sparks reminds us that “it is developmentally appropriate for children to deal with ‘controversial issues’ such as prejudice and fairness,” and “learning to engage in critical thinking about what is true about people’s actions is fundamental to becoming a citizen of a democratic country.” Can this particular truth surface in a publishing industry and kid lit community dominated by White women? Is that why these “Becky books” diminish Black rage and White culpability (Blacks are always “just as bad” as Whites)? I don’t want these books banned or stripped of their awards and starred reviews. If I were still a professor, I would teach these books; like all novels, they have strengths and limitations. What I’m most interested in is the pattern, and I think readers should ask why Black girls are being marginalized and/or erased from these narratives about police brutality. Why are Black authors choosing instead to put White girls at the center of their stories? Hopefully we’ll see more Jades and fewer Beckys in future novels about anti-Black violence.

 

ALA 2018

Whew! #ALA2018 was a one-day whirl. I got home yesterday afternoon, had a late lunch, and then fell asleep on the couch for more than 12 hours! I had to wake at or before dawn on both days, so I did lose a little sleep—but it was worth it. The CSK Awards breakfast, which started at 7am on Sunday, was full of moving speeches and moments of real fellowship. I had great conversations with Alia Jones, Miss Fabularian, and CSK Illustrator Award winner Ekua Holmes (pictured above with fellow winner Renee Watson) about problems in publishing and within our own Black kid lit community. Thanks to Edith Campbell we had a reserved #DiversityJedi table and so I got to meet new allies and connect with longtime friends.

Edi and I went to the exhibits hall afterward; I stopped by the Random House booth but didn’t find DRAGONS IN A BAG on display anywhere. It *was* on their postcard and I saw people with ARCs, so hopefully that means it was out at some point during the convention. We scooped up books and met more friends and colleagues before venturing into the humidity to find a place to eat. Then it was time for our panel! I think Edi said 25 people had registered but we had a FULL house with folks standing and sitting on the floor. Edi moderated an excellent conversation about brilliance, magic, and Black girls before we wrapped up and shared our accompanying book list.

I finally met my agent Jennifer Laughran later that evening (for yet another sumptuous meal) and then woke early the next day to catch my flight back to NYC. SO grateful to my dear friend Karen Ott who showed me the city in a way only a local can—and got me to and from the airport, which saved me a pretty penny (conferences can be SO expensive, especially when it’s too hot & humid to walk anywhere).

Working on clearing my inbox now and need to get to the park for a run. Then it’s back to work! Conferences—the good ones, at least—always leave my brain buzzing…

trust is earned

It’s been two weeks but I’m still thinking about my experience at the SWaG conference. The auditorium where I delivered my keynote—“SAY HER NAME: Respect, Resistance, and the Representation of Black Girls”—was more of an amphitheater. I stood at ground level and ringed above and around me were about 75 educators; behind me was the screen with photos of Kimberlé Crenshaw, legal scholar and executive director of the African American Policy Forum (which launched the in 2015), and the three founders of the Black Lives Matter movement: Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi. Midway through my talk I introduced quotes from members of the Black Girls’ Literacies Collective (BGLC), but I couldn’t use all the material I culled from the special issue of the NCTE journal English Education. I finished reading Ghost Boys last week and thought I would frame my discussion of the MG novel with a few pearls from three of the five members of the BGLC.

So—what are these scholars talking about when they suggest there’s something distinctive about Black girls’ relationship to literacy? In “Centering Black Girls’ Literacies: a Review of Literature on the Multiple Ways of Knowing of Black Girls,” Gholnecsar E. Muhammad and Marcelle Haddix explain it this way:

First…Black girls can know; simply stated, they have a voice. Black girls are generators and producers of knowledge, but this knowledge has been historically silenced by a dominant, White patriarchal discourse. Second…Black girls exhibit philosophies and practices that are distinguished from those of other groups. Third, Black girls represent two marginalized groups based on race and gender; however, this location cannot be simplified or generalized. The study of and with Black girls is complex…an intersectional lens is required to understand the literacy experiences of Black girls. (304)

Why should we care about how Black girls understand, engage with, and produce narratives? According to Muhammed and Haddix, “if we reimagine an English education where Black girls matter, all children would benefit from a curricular and pedagogical infrastructure that values humanity” (329). This quote immediately brought to mind a line from the Combahee River Collective’s 1977 “Statement:” “If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression.”

In “Why Black Girls’ Literacies Matter: New Literacies for a New Era,” Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz argues that “restructuring the way we engage with Black girls in our classrooms, and maintaining accountability—as teachers and as members of school communities—is essential for their success” (294). Although Sealey-Ruiz is primarily addressing English educators, her recommendations have broader applications; as an author who writes for kids and teens, I certainly think of myself as a member of school communities, and feel I should also be held accountable for my professional practices. Just as English education can become “a site of possibility and disruption,” so can the production, assessment, and distribution of books for young readers. The kid lit community has the capacity to serve as a “space for resistance and for the educational excellence of Black girls” (295). Sealey-Ruiz contends that “we have the power to change the way Black girls are talked about” by “investigating their reality” and carefully considering the texts used in the classroom (295).

Blacks girls know from an early age just how they’re talked about in our society. Sealey-Ruiz opens her essay with a statement composed by four Black female high school students from the Bronx; the young women note that online, Black girls are routinely objectified and shamefully reduced to “their mere parts” (291). Haddix and Muhammad cite another study where “researchers found that eight Black adolescent girls (ages 12-17) felt that the media portrays Black girls as being judged by their hair; seen as angry, loud, and violent; and sexualized” (321). So what happens when this misrepresentation of Black girls is perpetuated instead of being refuted by Black authors?

Sealey-Ruiz cites a Facebook post by education researcher Monique Lane who contends that the lack of outrage around, and mobilization against, violence targeting Black girls in schools “encourages young Black girls to trust no one. It reminds us that we cannot count on other folks to have our backs. Not our peers. And sadly, not even our teachers” (292). Lane was writing in response to the 2015 assault against a Black female student at Spring Valley High School. But it made me wonder how Black girls perceive members of the kid lit community. Do they believe we have Black girls’ backs? When it comes to books for young readers, who can be trusted to put the interests of Black girls first when Black women make up just 0.01% of YA authors in the US and the publishing industry is dominated by White women?

WASHINGTON, DC – MARCH 24: Eleven-year-old Naomi Wadler addresses the March for Our Lives rally on March 24, 2018 in Washington, DC. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, including students, teachers and parents gathered in Washington for the anti-gun violence rally organized by survivors of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting on February 14 that left 17 dead. More than 800 related events are taking place around the world to call for legislative action to address school safety and gun violence. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

Trust is earned. When considering Black girls’ relationship to stories, Sealey-Ruiz reminds us that “attention to their humanity is vital” (291). The African American Policy Forum is helmed by a Black woman. The Black Lives Matter movement was founded by three Black women. At the March for Our Lives, 11-year-old Naomi Wadler demonstrated #BlackGirlBrilliance when she gave an impassioned speech about violence against Black women and girls. Why are these powerful Black female activists not represented in novels for young readers that address police violence against the Black community? And why isn’t this erasure apparent and/or important to so many editors, reviewers, and readers?

I’ve got dozens of quotes from Ghost Boys that I’d like to explore, but ALA is this weekend so my review will have to wait. Right now I’m thinking perhaps what’s needed are some guidelines to help readers assess the representation of Black girls in books for young readers. In “Imagining New Hopescapes: Expanding Black Girls’ Windows and Mirrors,” SR Toliver reflects on Rudine Sims Bishop’s metaphor and points out the favored narratives that limit our ability to recognize the fullness of Black girlhood:

…the mirrors of Black girlhood are narrowed because they exclude Black girls from across the African Diaspora, confine Black girls to certain geographical regions, and limit the representation of older adolescents to stories centered around harsh, urban existences. The findings also suggest that the windows into Black girlhood are opaque because the exclusion of multiple representations of Black girlhood creates a slender opening through which to view the intricate and complex experiences of Black girls.

For our panel on Sunday we’ve put together a list of sixty books that demonstrate and celebrate the ingenuity, creativity, courage, and excellence of Black girls and women. But sixty books—or even a thousand—can’t fully represent the varied experiences of Black girls. I think it’s time we turned more Black girls into writers—published authors—so they can tell their stories themselves…

 

SWaG 2018!

Yesterday was *such* a great day! Weeks ago I got a text from Jaqueline Woodson asking me if I’d be interested in giving a keynote for the NYC Dept. of Education’s conference on Sexuality, Women, and Gender (SWaG). I thought for a moment before texting back, “Thanks for thinking of me but I’m not sure I’m qualified to”—and then I stopped myself. I put the phone down and thought a while longer. Was I qualified? Ten years ago when I was a junior professor teaching a course on Black feminism(s) at a women’s college, I would have said, “Sure!” But I’ve been out of the academy and out of the classroom for quite a while. I regularly have to Google things that my younger friends post on Facebook because I don’t know what the acronyms mean. But this conference was for NYC teachers; they weren’t experts, they were expecting to learn more about SWaG. Would it help if I stood up and said, “I know some things but I’m still learning, too?” So I erased the half-composed text and sent another: “Thanks for thinking of me! Please do give them my contact information.” Then when I heard from Kimberly Shannon and Jared Fox, I hedged again and gave them the name of my friend, Maya Gonzalez, who has published extensively on gender and sexuality. Maya’s battling two plagiarists right now, so I felt it was important that she be recognized as the groundbreaking gender justice advocate she is and has always been. Then I talked to Kimberly Shannon, Gender Equity Coordinator at the DOE’s Office of Counseling Support Programs, and she told me they were going to have *two* keynotes, with mine focusing on girls of color (the other speaker was Janson Wu, executive director of GLAD). At that point my confidence came back and I started getting really excited about all the possibilities…almost two years ago I downloaded the July 2016 NCTE special issue on Black Girls’ Literacies (BGL), but I didn’t READ it until Edith Campbell brought BGL into our upcoming ALA panel on Black girls, magic, and brilliance. I started taking notes and making up slides; I found this awesome photo of Audre Lorde, Barbara Smith, Cherrie Moraga, and Beverly Smith. I knew I had too much material for a forty-minute talk so I cut and condensed and thought I’d put only the essentials into my notes. Then I arrived at LaGuardia HS, got a warm welcome from Jared and Kim, and caught the tail end of Janson’s talk. Set up was easy since they’d already loaded my slideshow onto the computer; I was given my mic to clip on and I was ready to go! I didn’t stray too far from the podium even though I had a remote to advance the slides. But I love the photo Kim took during my talk: as I get closer to the audience, watching over me are my younger selves, happy and confident. And that’s exactly how I felt by the time I finished my keynote. Not sticking to my notes meant I freestyled and went over my allotted time, but the conference attendees didn’t mind and encouraged me to keep going. Afterwards folks thanked me for my presentation and today I received an invitation from a principal whose staff “raved” about my contribution to the SWaG conference. It really was a phenomenal line-up—so many informative sessions for educators to attend. I headed back to Brooklyn and ran into a friend I hadn’t seen since the ’90s when we worked at the Sista II Sista Freedom School. Then I got a pint of ice cream and hit the couch! But couldn’t really rest because I was still energized by the conference. Look at the awesome tote bag (above) that they designed; I posted that pic on Facebook and so many friends wanted one of their own. It was such a privilege to be a part of SWaG 2018! And I still have plenty of notes that didn’t make it into the presentation, so I might use them in an essay. I’m very grateful for the women scholars and IPOC activists—the original #DiversityJedi!—upon whose work I stand!

escape (to) the country

Getting around London is easy, but saying goodbye to a dear friend is not. I’m so glad I was able to visit Mary last weekend. When I learned two weeks ago that she had terminal pancreatic cancer, I immediately checked online for flights. Then I realized she might want privacy at this difficult moment in her life, so I sent a card asking if I could see her. No longer living in London, Mary now lives with her daughter in Cranleigh, a beautiful village in Surrey. I’ve watched countless episodes of Escape to the Country and in a way I got my own sort of escape—I got to leave the US behind for a few days and not think about all the horrific things the current president is saying and doing. Unlike in Canada, UK news doesn’t lead with reports about Trump, and what a relief that was. Other than spending over two hours in line to clear Customs at Heathrow, my weekend getaway was lovely. The delay at Customs made visiting the British Museum impossible; it was chilly on Friday morning so I got a cup of cocoa instead and then took the train to Stratford to meet my friend Adrienne. She took me to lunch and we discussed gentrification, the royal wedding, and the Windrush scandal. Then I took the Tube to Waterloo Station and got a commuter train to Guildford followed by a bus to Cranleigh. By that point my phone had just enough juice left to guide me to Mary’s front door. I left my cord at home and so couldn’t recharge, which was good. We had a quiet weekend. On Friday night we caught up and then watched the royal wedding from the beginning; that might have been too much because Mary slept most of the day on Saturday. That didn’t bother me; I tried to make myself useful and spent some time writing and reading. Mary’s friend Christine managed her medication and called the visiting nurse when we felt it was necessary. Mary’s eyes still sparkle when she smiles and she thanked me for coming. She also apologized several times over the weekend, which no sick person should ever have to do. But cancer is humbling, taking away much of the control we’re accustomed to when it comes to our bodies. While Mary was resting, Christine and I shared our cancer stories. Who hasn’t lost a loved one to that disease? Strange to consider how cancer has created so many different communities. When I got home on Monday, I found a voicemail from my aunt in Nevis; she just wanted to send her love on the anniversary of my father’s death (May 26). Even though I talked about him all weekend, I hadn’t remembered the anniversary, which always feels like the wrong word to use. My brother got married on that day, so it is his anniversary. For me? It’s just a day. Watching a loved one die is so painful and as Christine remarked, “Cancer is chaos.” That’s mostly what I remember about caring for my father, but spending the weekend with Mary was the exact opposite. Everything seemed calm and even when we were concerned, the visiting nurses came right away and took control. I’m putting together a care package now and will send it express. Mostly it’s for Mary’s grandkids who understand that she’s sick but not that she won’t get better. Working on a picture book, too, and wrote a poem while I was in Cranleigh. The only hard part of the visit was saying goodbye. I didn’t cry in front of Mary but my eyes were leaking for the rest of the day. My friend Clare understood when I bailed on our plans. Instead I walked through Hyde Park, resisted the carousel but got an ice cream cone. Just walked till my feet hurt and then holed up in the hotel and tried to process it all. There’s no point talking about fairness. It’s cancer. Indiscriminate. Heartbreaking. And yet I left Cranleigh feeling closer to Mary, and Christine offered me a place to stay in London when I next cross the pond. Mary’s daughter got a much-needed break, and I contacted another friend in the US so she can visit Mary while there’s still time. Cancer brings people together, which means we don’t have to mourn alone.

summer’s coming

We still have a few more weeks of spring, and I’m enjoying it for the most part. All the rain helps to wash away the pollen that’s been triggering my allergies/asthma, and the weather’s been cool enough to wear a coat. Yesterday it rained almost all day yet I still had an excellent afternoon in Philly. I hit the post office and mailed out copies of THE RETURN before catching my train; we got in a little late but I got up to Mt. Airy in just fifteen minutes and toured my first apartment. The neighborhood was stunning—and so green! Huge Victorian mansions on tree-lined blocks…quiet, clean. The agent who showed me the apartment was nice, but the unit was too small. I walked over to the second apartment; it was huge but on the first floor, and I need the light and quiet that comes from being on the top floor. The agents mentioned how many New Yorkers are moving to Philly; I hate to be part of the next wave of gentrification, but Mt. Airy seems like a diverse area. I’m hoping my arrival won’t displace anyone. I talked to a third agent and then walked down Germantown Avenue—so serene in the rain. And so many beautiful murals! I snapped this photo later in the day on my way to Reading Terminal Market. On my way to the Black Writers Museum I passed a few historic houses—Cliveden, Upsal—and stopped at one for a tour. Johnson House was a station on the Underground Railroad and it was nice to see a portrait of Sarah Bass Allen as part of the exhibit on abolitionist women. The wonderful docent gave me some tips on pursuing my own genealogical research and was excited to learn that I write for kids. I can see several Philly books in my future…I’m ready for a change. Two trips this month, two final gigs in June, ALA in New Orleans, and then it’ll be time to pack!

The We’re the People 2018 Summer Reading List is out, and I’m honored that A WISH AFTER MIDNIGHT is on the young adult list. I love their mission and the fact that they don’t focus on new releases from the Big 5—this is a truly inclusive list!

Are you looking for a curated summer reading list that celebrates diversity and all its intersections? The team at We’re the People select books that are by and about IPOC (Indigenous and People of Color), people with disabilities and people from the LGBTQ+ community. Chosen books are thoroughly discussed, vetted and given second reads.

2018 Summer Reading List PDF 

WTP team members: Tad Andracki, Edith Campbell, Laura M. Jimenez, Alia Jones, Sujei Lugo, Lyn Miller-Lachmann & Sonia Alejandra Rodriguez

Nyla’s back!

I finally self-published THE RETURN! If you haven’t read THE DEEP, this news might not excite you but when I show slides of the book’s interior illustrations, they get an enthusiastic response from young readers. I’m reading Children of Blood & Bone right now (it’s good!) and hope speculative fiction narratives set in Africa can correct at least some of the misperceptions that many African American youth have about the people, history, and cultures of the continent. You can learn more about THE RETURN in my latest newsletter. This is my most expensive self-published book (it’s $18), but I’m glad I tried a hybrid illustrated novel. It was great to work with Christina Myrvold again (she did that amazing cover for MOTHER OF THE SEA). Maybe the next installment in Nyla’s story will be a proper graphic novel…