Writing Culturally

I had no idea what to call this blog post. I thought about Writing What You Don’t Know or Writing Taboo or Racial Writing, but nothing quite fit. I had an idea after hearing a piece on NPR that vaguely referred to the stigma some authors face when writing about a race or culture with which they’re not familiar. The topic is one that’s been part of my personal writing conversation for many years, starting with my first non-fiction book on African-American art and collectibles. I’ve thought about it a lot, talked about the topic with my writer friends (of all races, genders, and nationalities) and continue to battle the stigma, but I’ve not written an article about the restraints of writing within a box.

As the first book about the topic of Black collectibles and art, Collecting Black Americana arrived in the mid-80s to a very receptive audience, both in the collecting/antiques world, as well as the art and history arenas. I’d been writing about the subject for years, mostly to teach myself what I couldn’t find in any books. It was purely by accident that I was an antiques dealer, as well as a writer, and that I stumbled upon a hole in the publishing world. When you see that a book hasn’t been published about a subject you’re interested in, you’re a fool if you don’t attempt to fill it. I did.

To be fair, writing Collecting Black Americana wasn’t the first time I’d thought about race and how it was represented in America, both in words (I’ve spent my whole life in libraries, sometimes exhausting shelf after shelf), as well as images (as an arts aficionado and antiques dealer, I can tell the time period a piece was made simply by how the image is presented). My earliest memories include questions about race and culture. My curiosity started before I graduated from kindergarten, and to this day, I constantly seek out new and interesting cultures. I love the crazy quilt that makes up the human race and want to know as much as I can about everyone.

Yes, the book had a great reception: a full-page spread on the cover of the Living section in the Washington Post, articles in national magazines, interviews on radio and TV. For the most part, people welcomed information about the ways this country historically portrayed African-Americans. The book tore the curtain off and exposed both the ugly collectibles, as well as the beautiful artwork created of and by descendants of slaves.

But I am white, and there were some who weren’t happy with my writing to the point of following me into my motel room and threatening my photographer and myself. I understood then and still do now, that the point my attackers made was that it wasn’t “my book” to write, but I’ve never regretted publishing that book or the others that followed about the same topic. No one else was writing the books, and they needed to be written.

Let me tell you why I feel strongly about this. I see my work as a writer to be a chronicler of what I see and understand. I think it’s my responsibility to be curious and to research each topic. I believe that adding to a slim library of work on a certain subject only adds to the depth and breadth of the subject. Every book about art is important and any time a group of people creating an art can be recognized, that’s valuable.

Currently, I’m researching my new book on the divine feminine, and I spent last week at Duke University’s Divinity School Library, because they had a strong collection of books. It dawned on me as I created my bibliography that 98% of the authors of books about goddesses or divinities or female icons were men. Is it possible that women would have been better writers of their own history? Perhaps, but the men who penned the stories of the goddesses had degrees in theology or philosophy. They contributed stories that needed to be told of women in religion and philosophy. They added to a library that still needs to grow.

I believe this to be true for fiction writers: We have the responsibility to use our imaginations, while offering readers insight into a world that might be new to them.

I remember having a conversation with a good friend of mine (an Oprah author and former mentor) about a story he’d written. I was amazed that he could describe what a woman felt while giving birth in such a way that I momentarily forgot the author was male. He could have cut me off with a short and sweet retort, but instead, we had a long and memorable talk about imagination.

I came away from the conversation with a firm belief that fiction writers straddle the worlds of reality and fantasy. You’re never writing totally from your perspective, but you’re also never totally into the head of your character. No writer can get into the mind of another person–100%. Part of the personality you imagine will be bits and pieces of traits you imagine, ones you know, and some that are part of you.

So, what do I think of a white person writing about a family of another race? Or about a man writing as a woman? Or a straight person writing about a transgender?

If writers were to be restricted by their gender/race/culture, they would be robbed of the essence of what makes them writers: their imaginations.

I respect others’ viewpoints on the topic, but I have one question: if we all need to stay in our lanes, then what can I write? I’d be relegated to writing about a single white woman who sits in front of a laptop all day. Boring. I’d rather explore the world of an elephant trainer in Thailand, an interracial couple in Mississippi, a dolphin activist in Hawaii, and a transgender writer in North Carolina.

I’m not ready to have my creativity locked away. I want to hear about all of the various iterations of human nature there are in the world. Give me the stories, both the ones you know and the ones you see in the castles in your mind. Write about what makes you curious, then research the hell out of it. When you become so comfortable with the facts that you wear them like your own clothing, then write.

~peace~