Things that make you go hmmm
From
time-to-time, I share stories of my pre-Momma life with my girls. One recent
conversation with them had the middle and youngest looking squinty-eyed at me.
It is an experience I will get to in a moment. For the time being, I would like
to talk about an issue that has dominated discussions in my house—the implosion
of the Romance Writers of America.
Hmmm.
To
discuss race in America, indeed the world, is always dangerous territory. It is
usually part of the kitchen table talk in my house. These past weeks, though,
have been a hotbed of accusations, resentment, and misunderstandings. It has
always been fascinating to me that charges of racism inevitably garner countercharges
of playing the race card. I would love to be able to clearly and concisely
proclaim to my daughters that neither race nor gender plays a role in
day-to-day treatment, but I can’t.
The
controversy currently going on in RWA hits home. I joined in 1990, starry-eyed
and excited, so it was with excitement and anxiety that I signed up for a
chapter, and subsequently, a chapter conference. I have always been shy, so it
was quite hard for me having to attend the meet-and-greet as a quasi-writer. At
that time, I had come up with a story idea and begged my mother to write it.
She agreed, as long as I researched and typed what she wrote in long hand.
Giving my promise also meant I had to get out in the great, big world and network.
I
was my mother’s only child and the youngest child of my father; both were
older, turning 35 and 51, respectively, when I came into the world in the
aftermath of the turbulent 60s. Saying I was sheltered is the understatement of
this millennium and the next five. But my shyness entered the territory of
sheer fear. To this day, I believe my mother pushed me to network to help me
come into my own and face the world.
So
there I was: facing the world at an RWA chapter conference. She stayed in our
hotel room, wished me luck, and sent me off. When I found the suite where the
meet-and-greet was taking place, I walked in with the burden of shyness on one
shoulder and the dreams of a sheltered, starry-eyed nineteen-year-old.
I
found the lady I’d had several conversations with over the telephone as I promised
I would. Besides, she was the only person I kinda, sorta knew. I needed that
lifeline because I was petrified. She was cordial but busy, so after a brief
conversation, left me to do what needed to be done and, of course, to talk to
who she knew. In a word: everybody. I stood by, nodding to those who acknowledged
me or exchanging pleasantries for the same reason.
I
was like a fish out of water. I felt different—out-of-place. For the life of
me, I didn’t know why.
After
being there for an hour, and picking out some well-known romance writers, whose
books sat on my shelves, another author walked in. I knew her immediately
because I had read some of her work. People were excited to see her. I was
excited to see her. She mingled and worked her way through the crowd, drawing
ever nearer to where I stood. I was working up my courage to talk to her
whenever she had a free moment.
Ah,
but she spotted me first. She looked me in the eye, smiled, and blared: “WHO
LET THE HELP IN”? If I had any doubt that she meant me, (which I didn’t),
the stares at me, snickers, and uncomfortable murmurs while staring at me,
quickly cleared up. Not only that—I was the only Black person in the room.
I
was humiliated and crushed. I left not long after that. Thus, was my
introduction to the world of RWA.
I
went back the next year. I wanted to be a writer and I needed to network. We
couldn’t afford Nationals (aka RWA’s yearly conference), so this nearby
conference it was. This time, I went on a Greyhound Bus. I’d only been driving
about two and a half years, so my mother wouldn’t allow me to take her car almost
two hundred miles away. I ended up meeting a writer and her husband, who ultimately
invited me to drive back to New Orleans with them. The convention was
uneventful…until I was cornered on a staircase and asked why was I there and
what type of books did I write? I explained to her I was working with my mother
on a book idea I’d had. It was set in 1853 New Orleans. The hero was a worker
on the Underground Railroad and the heroine was the daughter of one of the
wealthiest plantation owners. She let my explanation sink in, then asked me, “as
a Black who can you write about white people?”
Hmmm.
In
all my naivete, (read: stupidity), it never occurred to me that I would need an
explanation on why I chose to write that book. Or any book for that
matter. Still, I answered her. I told her I researched the Antebellum and Post-bellum
South, especially Louisiana, and, in particular, New Orleans. She contemplated that
and then decided: “I suppose it is easier for you to write about us, then for
us to write about you. We’re all over TV and the movies. It’s easy to find out
about our mannerisms and the way we talk and live that way. Right?”
This
conversation was making my head and stomach hurt, and I really wanted to throw
up. I didn’t know what to say, though, so I nodded. I added, on a mumble, “but
we’re all just people, right? We aren’t any different because we are different
colors.”
She
probably didn’t hear me because when I say I mumbled, I did. I wanted to be invisible. Yet, I stuck out
like a sore thumb. I stuck out like the only Black person there who wasn’t part
of the hotel staff.
That
was the last time I went to the conference. Eventually, I became Vice-President
of a chapter. I was invited to speak at certain places. I was awarded a Trailblazers
Award. We got an agent. We got five publishing contracts. We were on local news
stations in Southern Louisiana and Beaumont, TX. We were featured in New
Orleans Magazine and in two Natchez, MS newspapers. I met some of my heroines
of the romance genre. I fielded “race” questions. The characters my mom and I
wrote were Caucasian. I accepted criticism and denials. Black bookstore owners
refuse to carry our books. We were Women-of-Color, who chose to write ‘white’.
No,
I would say. We are Americans, who exercised our freedom of speech and wrote
what came to us. Read your history, girl, they would say to me. Mostly, they
said nothing at all. They just gave me the side eye and firmly closed their
doors. At booksignings, I came across women who turned their noses at me
without even approaching my table, friends pulling friends back with the
warning: Don’t go to HER table because she writes THOSE books. You know? About
Blacks. I heard from my friends, I’m not reading your books unless you write
about Black people. I can’t identify with Whites.
So
what was this: racism or ignorance? Not one-sided, either.
Months
later, the friend I’d made at the last conference in that Louisiana town and I
went out exploring an ended up at a restaurant in Buck Town, in a section that
was the heart of Duke Country (David Duke, former KKK Grand Wizard). Towards
the end of our meal, she looked around and exclaimed, “Oh my God, do you know you’re
the ONLY Black person in here who isn’t bussing tables?” I was as shocked as
she was. “Well, yeah,” I responded. “I saw that the moment I walked in.” My
words shocked her. “You did?” I thought her reaction was funny and I said, “as
a Black person, it is something you tend to notice immediately. Call it
instinct or a sense of survival.” Her eyes grew rounder. “Are you afraid?” Now,
my eyes grew round. “Nope. Should I be?” Nonplussed, she shrugged. “If you took
me to a restaurant and I realized I was the only White person, I would be
afraid.” I tsked. “First of all, it wouldn’t have been a dawning realization
that you were the only White person. You would’ve picked up on that
immediately. Secondly, the world is much more accepting, so you and I should be
able to go wherever we want to, without any problems. Just like I trusted you
to bring me to a place where I wouldn’t come to any harm, I expect that same
trust from you.”
Eventually,
she and I lost contact. She moved away.
I
continued in RWA. The editor my mom and I had, resigned. Our agent closed her
doors. We were assigned a new editor, who had never liked our writing, so I
knew our time at the publishing house was coming to an end.
I
continued in RWA.
I
attended another conference. My last, actually. I was older now. Divorced.
Mother of a beautiful little girl. I was also weary. Being an American was one
thing; being a Black American, a Person-of-Color, was another. And, as a Black
woman, the onus was on me to preserve the Black race. To keep it pure by marrying
a Black man. But this always falls on a woman’s shoulders. We are expected to
stay within the boundaries of race.
I
hadn’t, though. I married a man from Northern Ireland. Our daughter is
bi-racial. We fit in as long as we were with our families, amongst a select
number of friends, and within the world of romance writing. Off the top of my
head, I recall two fights due to our interracial relationship. One, when we
were in the French Quarter, showing his visiting friend what New Orleans had to
offer, a guy from a group, looked at my then-boyfriend and his friend, then
looked at me and said, “she ain’t all that, bruh.” My boyfriend asked what that
meant. I shrugged and said it means, “I’m not that special. Basically, why are you
with me when he wouldn’t have me?”
Egged
on by his friend, my boyfriend backtracked and approached the group. Fighting
commenced, a melee that went across Decatur Street and the back again. Someone
sprayed pepper spray into the fighters. Cussing and shouting and accusations
and chaos ensued. Until I heard sirens. I squeezed my way through the crowd and
told them that cops were coming. Unless you want to be arrested, stop this now.
Just
like that, the fight broke up. Nothing else anyone said had worked.
Hmmm.
Another
time, we had gone to an event in downtown New Orleans. It was a peaceful Sunday
afternoon and we were enjoying each other’s company, heading back to the car.
The looks, comments, and sneers, from one man, ruined it. Before I could
blink, this stranger and the man I loved were arguing. I. Was. FURIOUS. This pushback,
when it was no one else’s business, was just too much. In the middle of the
testosterone-fueled shoving match, I jumped between them. By the time I was
pulled away, I had torn the stranger’s shirt off and tried to rip his chest
open with my nails.
No,
it didn’t make me better than them, but I was so frustrated, especially by the
fact that the physical confrontations were always with Black men. I was
the traitor. The Oreo Cookie…the…well, you get the picture. In the years to
come, my biracial daughter would also face…?
What
would you say if I called it racism? Would I now be playing the race
card?
What
would YOU call it?
It
has impacted her life, and left her with an identity crisis.
Yet,
in that room, with that editor, I pushed all the past hurt and confrontations
out of my mind. I saw her as a woman who would want to see a proposal that I
wrote. Or not. I didn’t care about the ignorance or the hatefulness that I had
faced through the years. I was a writer. She was an editor. I was at an RWA
chapter event, and I needed another publishing contract.
I
gave my pitch. And she looked at me. “Why don’t you write Black stories?” she
demanded. I floundered for a minute before I replied. “I believe love is love.
It really has no color.” She nodded, courteous enough to acknowledge my reply,
then said, “The romance industry is an overcrowded field and there are enough
white writers to write white characters. I can’t look at your submission
because I don’t feel you should be competing in such an overcrowded category.
Write about Black characters. We need more of these stories. You’d get more
recognition because there’s even a special section in bookstores for Black
romance. I’m sure many of my colleagues feel the same way. That’s why you haven’t
had much success.” She walked me to the door with a smile, reveling in the
advice she’d given me.
I
felt…punched in the gut. But…why? Hadn’t this woman just taken the time to give
me career advice? Wasn’t she offering helpful insights into the publishing
world? Why did I feel so…so…Colored? Black? Let down? Discriminated
against?
Hmmm…Why
was I so crushed?
I
cried on my mom’s shoulders and told her she would have to meet with the
editors from now on. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore.
She
declined. She didn’t, and doesn’t, suffer fools lightly. But I pulled away from
chapter conferences. For a while, I pulled away from writing.
As
always, I couldn’t stay away. I’d written my first story at 4, then tried to
write a novel at 12. Writing was a siren’s call I had never been able to
ignore.
Eventually,
I moved into self-publishing. Wicked Allure was our first self-published
title. It had moderate success. Months later, I was still pushing it, and began
to contact blogs because we were starting book two and a prequel. We wrote
pretty fast, so while bloggers were reviewing Wicked Allure, we would be
completing Scandalous Allure and Wicked Addiction. The book is
erotic, however low-keyed it might be in the suspense and action department. I
specifically searched for bloggers who accepted erotic manuscripts.
Because
Wicked Allure had been out over a year, we received a lot of rejection. Completely
understandable. We took it in stride. Then, one day, I received an email that,
in part, stated, we are not interested in reading those types of novels.
My
first inclination was to apologize. Even with rejections, I tried to send
editors and agents thank-you notes for looking at my project and/or responding.
“It’s
their job!” you say.
Yes,
it is. But that slush pile was a wicked beast. Unagented and/or unsolicited
works were far down the line on publishing radars. These dedicated people do a
billion things in a day. Even if I received a form letter, I was appreciative.
They could’ve easily taken someone else’s blind submission.
Before
I sent the apology to the bloggers, (perhaps I’d mistakenly chosen a blog that
didn’t review erotic romances), I went to their blog. Half-naked men and women,
explicit language, and graphic sex scenes dominated the site. Wicked Allure was
the perfect candidate. Except, maybe not, because my characters were Black.
This
stung as bad, or worse, than anything else I’d ever gone through in the romance
industry. No, in day-to-day life as a Woman of Color in America. Yet, the
publishing industry is particularly merciless.
Despite
the fact, that as a sixteen-year-old in modeling school, the Director told me, “I
tell all my Blacks to go to Chicago if they hope to work in the industry”;
despite the fact that, as a child, another child looked at me and asked, “Are
you a n****r”; despite the fact that as a grown woman, I was pushed to the back
of an elevator by a group of men who allowed two women to get off them elevator
before them, then made me go behind them so they could walk out next in a
New Orleans office building.
Despite
the fact, that as a magazine owner, I was told that “it took a little Black gal
from Louisiana to come to Rosenberg to start a magazine”. Not girl. Not woman.
Not lady.
Gal.
Despite
the fact that, as Hurricane Katrina survivors, staying in a temporary home, we
were told not to go in a certain direction, on the very road we were staying,
because Klan members lived that way and held their meetings.
Despite
the fact that, as a magazine owner, I was told to be careful when I chased ads
in some places because there was Klan activity in the area.
Despite
the impact of society’s views on my interracial relationship and biracial
daughter.
And,
despite all my other experiences, this blog, not reading those types of
romances HURT.
Jesus
Christ, I couldn’t win. What was this? What importance were any of my
experiences in the great scheme of things?
Was
it racism? But just what the fuck is racism in today’s society? Was it
the blatant use of racial epithets? Was it perception?
Did
racism even exist anymore?
Goddamn
it, I felt as if I’d been subjected to racism but, maybe, I was just being too
sensitive.
Hadn’t
other writers told me Ms. Who-Let-The-Help-In had only been joking? Maybe, it
was insensitive, but I know her and she is NOT racist.
Hadn’t
other writers told me that the editor who told me she wouldn’t look at any work
of mine if it didn’t feature Black characters, was giving me good, solid
career advice?
It
was 2013, and our world was unashamedly multicultural. These bloggers probably
hadn’t even turned the book down because it had Black characters.
Hmmm.
Who
knew? More to the point, who cared?
Only
me. And, me hadn’t immediately told anyone about any of the incidences I’d
had at these RWA chapter events. It was me who felt so insignificant
that I couldn’t bring myself to even report the incidents because I don’t think
it would’ve mattered. The RWA hierarchy wouldn’t have listened to me. Furthermore,
me had brushed off the Black gal comment, even though I specifically
advised hiring people to wear black face and serve guests at an event wasn’t a
thing to do.
I
stopped writing on book two of the series and the prequel.
But
I couldn’t stop writing. Soon, Christopher Caldwell introduced himself
to me. After advice from a writer friend, I decided not to show the ‘real me’.
I wanted to be on the USA Today Bestseller’s list or the New York Times list. I
wanted to write about bikers and murders and sex. I wanted to be relevant.
So I chose a White avatar. Chose a birthday not my own. If I couldn’t be accepted
as Black, why would I be welcomed as older? I teased and tantalized and pretended.
Every August 6th, I cursed my ass for not choosing the month and
the day of my actual birthday, if not the year.
In
our ‘woke’ society, I felt…alone. Sometimes, even now, for one reason or
another, I feel my differences. I’m still Black, and most of my couples
are still White. I write the
stories that come to me. Besides, my books with African-Americans on the covers
have always undersold all my other titles.
At
an event I attended, a hot model looked at me with distaste. I was...inebriated, to say the least, but so were my friends. He didn’t do that to them. AND no one
else noticed.
I
did. It is those subtle nuances that experience, confrontation, and being a
Woman-of-Color in America, has taught me to pick up on.
I’ve
seen his photos for sale. He would be perfect for an upcoming hero. But, in
this, the power is mine. I would rather burn my fucking money, then to give him
an opportunity to appear on one of my books.
No,
I’m not a big deal—I’ve never listed. Whether I choose one of his photos won’t
hurt him, but it does give ME satisfaction.
Okay,
Woke People, to this I say you can’t see it because you have never lived it.
You don’t understand how lines are crossed with in the most unobtrusive manner.
It isn’t blatant. It isn’t overt. It isn’t obvious.
Still…it’s
there.
Most
of the models I’ve met have been down-to-earth and lovely. Yet, this wasn’t
exclusive to the self-published world. I’ve had male models at writing events I’ve
gone to, distant to me, when they welcomed other women. I’ve sat at
dinner tables with seven other empty seats, while I was the lone occupant
because I was given cursory glances before everyone walked on by.
I
remained a member of the RWA until 2005. I merely stopped attending conferences
and meetings.
Besides,
ugly undercurrents aren’t strictly within RWA. It is in the publishing industry
and is taken directly from our day-to-day lives. The RWA controversy just puts
the issue at the forefront.
And
what issue might that be? Racism?
Hmmm.
I
have a very definitive answer to that question. But I also know for each
experience I wrote about could be construed in a different context, to make it
seem as if I am a disgruntled person-of-color, filled with nonsense and
bitterness.
The
travesty committed by RWA isn’t exclusive to them. The entire world could
take a lesson or two on inclusion.
Take
the time I was in a fashion show for a charity because I was in the community.
My vitiligo, at that time, had me looking like an inverted raccoon. We were
instructed to bring ourselves and be ready for the catwalk. Hair and makeup
people were coming in to beautify us. The make-up artist assigned to me found
everything else to do before she got to me. There came a time when she couldn’t
ignore me any longer. I had to get out on stage. When she realized, she didn’t
have powder or foundation to match my skin color(s), she was annoyed. “Did you
bring your own makeup?” I was simply horrified as I told her ‘no. I was told we
didn’t have to bring makeup.” She wasn’t amused, and, frankly, her attitude
began to annoy me as well. Finally, she declared, “there’s nothing I can do
with your face. Not bringing makeup was optional. You should’ve brought your
own makeup because I don’t have colors to match your dark complexion.” She
walked off.
I
remained seated in the makeup chair, contemplating if I should walk out or not.
But, I told myself, she was right. Her delivery could’ve been better, but I
should’ve brought my own makeup. If it hadn’t been needed, at least I would’ve
been prepared.
This
was outside of the writing industry and I was still dealing with it.
But
what was, is, it? Hmmm. Again, was this really racism? Or was it just a
misunderstanding by a woman who was probably tired and frustrated by the time I
sat in her chair.
What
about the time I shared my grief with a therapist over the death of a beloved
two-year-old? My therapist scolded me. “That’s a White child you’re
crying over. They wouldn’t cry over you.” I begged to differ. “No, your mother
is just their housekeeper. You’re the housekeeper’s daughter. That family doesn’t
care about you. There are so many things to cry over, other than a White
child.”
I
was already in the midst of depression when I saw her. I was already
grief-stricken. I even felt a little guilty because I’d thought to call my
mother, then changed my mind because I figured she was dealing with the kids
and would just say she had to call me in a few minutes. For so many months, I
told myself had I called, things would’ve turned out differently.
My
mother came home from work, and cried for weeks. Months. She couldn’t
discuss my pain and grief because she was so heartbroken. I didn’t report my
therapist. She was Black, by the way. Who was I supposed to report her to? And
I was almost incapacitated with depression, grief, and sadness. Would anyone
believe me if there was a way to report her? It would come down to she said-she
said. I wasn’t emotionally or mentally available to engage in such a fight. I
told myself they were only words and she was so wrong about how she saw the
entire situation.
That
day was the last time I ever set foot in her office.
The
tragedy took place about three months after I’d been cornered by the woman
wanting to know how could I write White characters as a Black person. It came
about 6 weeks after pre-cancerous cell were found on my cervix and I had to
have an operation. It happened roughly two months before my twentieth birthday.
And, months later, when I finally found someone I could open up to, she scoffed
at me.
I
was so hurt and disillusioned because of my experiences at the writing
conferences and because I couldn’t fathom why a sweet little angel had been
taken away. I was done. Fed up with writing, with praying. With living. I was
just miserable.
I
attempted suicide.
When
I read about how their ethics complaint was handled, I wasn’t too surprised. I
had lived it, inside the writing community and outside of it. It did sadden me
that the group had yet to come into the 21st century. Twenty years
into the new millennium, it was supposed to be different.
For
many, many years, I told myself my shyness, what I deemed as my biggest
weakness, was the reason I’d had my experiences within RWA. If I hadn’t been so
painfully shy, I would’ve had different experiences. If, when I had been a new
member if what I saw as a prestigious group, I had stood up to the curious who
commented on my presence, gawked at the fact I was young, Black, and literate,
and stared at me like an alien when the found out what I wrote…If I had
complained…if I had responded with anger and outrage instead of confusion and
hurt…If I…
Wait,
now. Hold on. I can hear the disagreeable voices. Why would you do anything
different, since you didn’t experience anything but day-to-day living in
America? Besides, you put yourself in the position of trying to break
into an industry that was, is, notoriously hard to break into. Suck it up and
deal with it. Who cares about people’s stupefaction at the fact that you not
only spoke decently but could read and write?
In
case you’re wondering: yes, these were actual comments made to me through the
years at various writing events. The qualifier, and she’s so well-spoken too,
had become tiresome by the time I removed myself from chasing a dream of having
our books in stores again and on the bestseller’s list.
In
other words, if it acts like racism and sounds like racism…most definitely doesn’t
point to racism.
Truly,
this makes me go hmmm.
As
I close, I will end where I began—with my girls and the story I told them. It
all began as walk-talk—holding conversations while we walked through our
neighborhood for exercise.
Is
there such a thing as reverse-racism, I asked, or is it only racism?
Have
you ever felt uncomfortable in a situation due to racism?
What
can be done to make the world a better place for everyone?
What
can be done for us to see each other without skin color?
How
much does race matter?
The
questions went on and on. Finally, they asked me, what had I ever done to
overcome racism, and do you think you’ve ever experienced it yourself?
Thus,
I began the tale of the time a KKK member was a guest at our home. It was
before they were born. And he only came because his wife forced him to, and he
loved her. He was uncomfortable. He was upset. Many times, he looked downright
angry. He’d sit on the porch gazing toward the St. Bernard Project. Excuse me,
he’d stare at the St. Bernard. I wondered what went through his mind, so
I asked him, “do you see a lot of differences between us?”
He
told me that he saw some, but not many. “If my friends knew I was staying in this
place with you people, they’ never talk to me again. I’d never be able to face
them again.”
I
rolled my eyes. “You’ve eaten with us. Laughed with us. Talked with us. And you
still feel this way?”
He
just shrugged and said, “You’re still Black, aren’t you?”
After
that, I was done. I didn’t know what else to say. At twenty-two, I was still
very shy and quiet. When it came time to
take pictures, he’d crouch behind everyone else. He really didn’t want his
friends to know he’d been in a Black person’s house on friendly terms.
The
night before they were heading out, he and my mom had a chance to talk. He
mentioned if his friends were there, they’d go into one of the courts in the
St. Bernard, waving their guns and watching how many of them would run.
My
mom’s response? “So you’re only a racist when you have back-up?”
“I
wouldn’t call myself a racist.”
“I
wouldn’t either. I’d call you an ignorant sonofabitch.”
He
snickered.
“Why
did you come here if you feel as you do?”
“She
wanted me to. So why did you let me stay here knowing how I feel?”
“We’re
not the ones with the problem. You are. Why don’t you get your ass up and go
through the St. Bernard right now, with your gun?”
“I
ain’t stupid.”
“You
just don’t have a brain.”
He
glared at her, grabbed his beer, and stomped inside.
We
never saw him again.
Which,
I told my children, was on him. We allowed him into our house because, we, as a
society, would never bridge the divide if we didn’t reach across the chasm and
get to know each other. There would be no need to understand race, if we didn’t
see color. Besides, in many ways, in the 90s, the world was so much more tolerant.
The
fact of the matter is it isn’t getting racial in this piece. It is just still
racial. Until we see people, this kind of tumult will always flare
up. There needs to be real, honest talks in businesses, in churches, in
schools, on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Someone needs to ask the questions,
where do we begin? How can we start? A narrative must begin everywhere. Let it
spill outside the boundaries of the Romance Writers of America.
Why am I sharing my experiences now? Because I want insight. We can't learn and grow, until we listen and consider other perspectives. Tell me what is your take on my experiences? Do you see it as racism or ignorance by people who really meant no harm?
I am sharing my experiences now because the subject of race has been dominating the news recently, more so than usual. Besides, I was once enamored of RWA, and all it represented, even with the many challenges I faced. In my heart of hearts, I believed there would come a day that an industry built on happily-ever-afters, communication, trust, openness, and relationships would get it right and show the world how it is done. Instead, it allowed the anachronistic ideologies that we still face to seep into its ranks.
We
want a better, more diverse and inclusive RWA? We need to initiate such an
incredible cultural movement in the whole wide world first.
