When it appeared in America in 1974, Ann Allen Shockley’s debut novel was celebrated as the first openly lesbian romance with a Black protagonist and from a Black author. For a particular generation it’s obvious Shockley’s book had immense cultural, and personal, significance – writer Jewelle Gomez commented that “for Black lesbians Loving Her was like reading The Well of Loneliness for the first time as teenagers and realising there were “others” out there.” Since then Shockley’s book’s been heavily praised and fiercely criticised. Part polemic, part coming-out story, part narrative of intense sexual awakening, it’s made more controversial by its focus on an interracial relationship: Shockley’s choice of title made me wonder if she’s referencing the, then-recent, ruling in the Loving v. Virginia case which confronted longstanding bans on marriage between Black and white heterosexuals.
Shockley’s narrative centres on a young, Black woman Renay who takes her daughter Denise and leaves her abusive husband for Terry an older, wealthy, white woman. For Renay, Terry awakens long-buried desires harking back to Renay’s teens and her fleeting crush on piano teacher Miss Sims. But the growing bond between Renay and Terry is threatened by Renay’s violent ex who stalks and menaces Renay, eventually ensuring Renay pays an exceptionally, high price for her independence. It’s a really curious book, familiar yet incredibly strange. A number of critics have taken issue with Shockley’s overblown, florid writing but, for me, her style raised questions about her possible influences. She explicitly references Radclyffe Hall, and there’s a slightly stilted, archaic feel to this at times that echoes Hall’s work. But what stood out for me was the way in which Shockley seemed to be reproducing, and reconfiguring, conventions and tropes from the lesbian pulp of earlier eras – a number were republished in the seventies, gaining a newly-minted, cult following. Shockley’s story seems very much rooted in that genre’s traditions and preoccupations, down to the requisite butch/femme binary, with Terry as butch to Renay’s femme.
Elements of Shockley’s book conjure Highsmith’s The Price of Salt but with none of Highsmith’s trademark subtlety. Instead, Shockley’s plot, along with her prose, veers towards the more sensationalist, melodramatic end of lesbian pulp. The portrayal of Terry as established, world-weary lesbian tends towards stereotypical, as do her blatant attempts to steer Renay’s life and choices. But an imbalance of power that might be suspect in predominantly-white, lesbian narratives becomes extremely problematic in the context of an interracial couple. Renay is frequently mistaken by Terry’s white friends for the live-in maid which makes Terry’s assumption that Renay will do all the cooking and domestic chores incredibly uncomfortable. Similarly, Terry’s sense that she’s ‘branded’ Renay by giving her a ring takes on some pretty unpleasant connotations in the context of America’s history of slavery.
But what’s even more unnerving here is the prolific, intense condemnation of Black women and, especially, Black men. Renay’s history of trauma is gradually revealed including the brutal rape that forced her into marriage. Renay connects these events to Black masculinity which she considers inherently toxic, and dwells on extensively. Apparently, part of what Shockley was attempting here was a critique of the patriarchal underpinnings of contemporary Black nationalist groups but even if that’s the case, the overwhelmingly negative representation of Black men here is immensely difficult to deal with. Black women also come under fire, characterised as duped or frivolous or worn out, unable or unwilling to break free of oppressive relationships with men - it seems only Renay through her love for Terry is capable of transcending these deep-seated forms of oppression. Although Terry herself is something of a fantasy figure, an author and highly-political intellectual, hyperaware of writers and theorists like Malcolm X but bizarrely naïve when it comes to everyday racism.
Shockley’s emphasis on challenging heteronormativity and on lesbian identity as liberation, is another striking feature. Many passages seem to anticipate later developments within the wider women’s movement: Adrienne Rich’s provocative essay “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence”; campaigns centred on concepts of political lesbianism. Perhaps why some of the articles I’ve come across point to her novel as an early example of the queering of gender or radical dissection of heterosexual norms. Personally, I found Shockley’s position confused and confusing and the novel extremely unsettling to read. But, viewed primarily as a cultural and historical document, I thought it was fascinating.