Over It: The Mainstream Media's Preoccupation with Black Women and Marriage

A month ago, my grandmother, the woman who raised me, passed away on Mother's Day. She was a woman who was so very loved in her community, a woman who'd worn her husband's wedding ring, a husband who'd died thirty-seven years prior, until days before she made her transition. She was from an era when more often women, irrespective of race, were married than not; but she lived during a time when that expectation shifted, especially for black women. I count myself as lucky that I had a grandmother who impressed independence, success, and being the best "Me" I could be instead of one who bothered me about when was I going to give her great-grandbabies. In fact, she impressed upon my sister and I caution and good choices—be very careful when and with whom you build a family. Somehow, I don't think she was the only grandmother/mother/aunt/godmama/sister/cousin who has been telling women of my generation that same bit of advice.

However, it seems it's hurricane season, and black women are the mighty rocks in the middle of an ocean bracing against the punishing waves of mainstream media and “experts” who are only so-called because said mainstream media (MSM) stuck a microphone in his face regarding black women and (the lack of) marriage. Yes, his. Very few women, and even fewer black women, seem to be part of the discussion. Instead, we’re called upon to react, not to propose a hypothesis, because maybe we’ll tell it like it is, which many of these “experts” don’t want to hear. It’s much easier to tell us what we’re doing wrong; what we should be doing, instead of acknowledging that we’re doing many things right—and even many things MSM tell other women (read: nonblack women) to do in order to “get a man”. No, let’s just bypass strong, committed relationship, but “a man”. Not necessarily “a good black man”, because those are unicorns who don’t want black women no kind of way. Our standards are astronomical, some of these “experts” say, because the majority of us demand a partner who is on our level (not solely status/material level) or who is working to get there, and vice versa. Of course, you have the outliers in every race of women who want someone to do everything and give them everything for nothing in return; but as normal when people of color are in the media, those outliers, the negatively stereotypical ones especially, are used as the boilerplate for all of those people of color; in this case, black women.

When we’re growing up, we’re told to reach for the sky with our goals in terms of a career & life aspirations; that we can do anything and be anything as long as we set our minds to it. Why then, should I and other black women expect/settle for the anthill when it comes to our mates—irrespective of color or gender? The black women discussed in these articles are accomplished, educated, intelligent, well-traveled, financially secure, and overall attractive. Why is it, then, their fault they don’t “have a man”/partner? More, why is it there are no articles about slack, noneducated, little-traveled, and broke women having problems getting “a man”? Or is the case of “of course those women don’t have life partners” w/ a subtle insinuation of it doesn’t matter how high you (black women) climb, you still aren’t worthy? Or even more damning, “the ‘sadiddier’ you get, the less likely you’ll find a man (of any race) who wants you.”? Naturally, this is not only counterintuitive, but also nonsensical. I’m of the firm belief you get what you put out, and if I put out “I want half-assed men/partners”, that’s all I’m going to get, which will inevitably leave me unhappy. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be unhappy; and there’s a reason an anthem in the black community among women especially is “I can do bad all by myself.”

Which may be why black women aren’t getting married in the first place. The divorce rate, particularly, apparently, for black women in this country, is ridiculous, and it would be ridiculous for anybody to marry just to avoid being a negative statistic. I think I and a lot of other black women would rather put off marriage or not get married at all than to marry someone not worth the effort. Some are even willing to “man share”, especially when one considers the apparent “dearth” of “available (i.e., worthwhile) black men”, but even many articles admit most women don’t even know they’re sharing men. Then folks seem to be operating under the assumption these women even want to get married at all; like Tina said, “What’s love got to do with it?” Marriage is a sacrifice that, until recently, didn’t really work in an independent woman’s favor. You’re giving up your name, your identity to “cleave” unto a whole new one. If you are established as one person, it’s a pain to have to change your name, and all the things that are in it, because you married the love of your next five-to-ten (even though the societal time frame should be until death). And did I mention divorce is expensive? Being single is definitely more fiscally sound than getting married to your first ex-husband. But this recent deluge of articles about black women and why are they single and why no one wants to marry them seems to be trying to induce a state of panic among the targeted group of black women, in which I include myself: educated, intelligent, well-traveled, possessing of good home training, and attractive. And single. But I also have standards, standards that are actually more flexible than many would assume given these articles. They’re so flexible, high melanin content is actually not a requirement in my dating choices.

Yes, folks, that means I’m open to interracial dating.

But when you read those articles about “interracial dating at all time high”, there is the continuous sidebar of “except for black women and Asian men”, but very little analysis of how the intersection of race and gender pan out into those baleful statistics. How the masculinization of black women and the emasculation of Asian men in Western society in particular play a role in their “suffering” marriage rates to people in other ethnicities. There’s even little acknowledgment of the racialization of marriage to begin with, that “interracial” marriage only counts if there is a white person involved. But as the rhetoric pertains to black women in general, the either/or of it all is, quite frankly, frustrating. The articles are usually framed as “black women are the least likely to outmarry of all races” which means “the pool of available black men is shrinking because a ‘great’ number of them outmarry”, thus “black women need to look elsewhere, or else they’ll be alone” except “Well, black women aren’t at the top of the list for chosen mates, even for black men”. Of course, this rhetoric breeds contempt between the sexes intra-racially, which is counterproductive on so many levels. Some vocal black men claim black women aren’t loyal, aren’t “down”, are greedy and whatever other negative stereotypes they’ve absorbed from society, and vice versa. And as someone who writes many love stories featuring black women with nonblack men, this previous tack of “excuses” why to outmarry is annoying, myopic, and just as racist as a KKK member saying black people are lower than dirt. As a black woman born of a black man and a black woman, and a woman who has seen many Barack & Michelle Obamas in her family before she even knew a Barack & Michelle Obama existed, I take great exception to the “grass is greener” school of thought for interracial marriages. The funny thing about pedestals, folks can fall off once you put them up there.

I’m not looking for a pedestal. I’m not looking to be worshipped or to worship someone other than my God. I don’t need to put down black men to “justify” why I like Bob or Juan or Yoshi or Mohammed or Hakan, and black men need to stop doing that to justify their nonblack partner. It 1.) cheapens why you’re in the relationship in the first place and/or 2.) reveals you don’t like yourself or who your people are. Having sex and having children with someone of a different race doesn’t make it love/nonracist. Ask Sally Hemmings or the countless other black women who’ve had to submit to white men’s sexual force. “We’re all the same color when the lights go out” people like to say to “prove” they aren’t racist, but how you treat me when the lights are on matters far more to me than how you do when they’re off. And contrary to popular belief, I’m not going to let you treat me any kind of way. Respectful or loving, or you can keep stepping, which would be your loss, because I have a lot of love to give. But I love myself and respect myself too much to just give myself willy nilly.

I’m over it. Over it. I’m over the MSM telling me I think I’m too good for the right love; that I should just accept anything because he’s “all right” and has high melanin content or because he’s white (there’s very little talk about other ethnicities of men/partners for us, curiously). I’m tired of these articles focusing on material criteria/status markers when, for me anyway, those are not the top five qualities I look for in a mate. Can we talk? Can we make each other laugh? Can we create those butterflies in each other’s bellies with just a glance or a smile? Do our faces split into an automatic grin whenever someone just mentions your/my name? Do we have the same values; and if not, do we still respect and listen to each other when we differ? Why are folk so concerned about not only who I let in my bed, but who I let put a ring on it? And yes, Beyoncé got it wrong—I’m not letting anyone who merely likes me put a ring on it, either. You gotta love me and vice versa. Two-way street. Until then, I and many other black women will live our successful independent lives until Mr./Mrs. Right is ready to enter a partnership with us instead of settling for Mr./Mrs. Right Now; and for my part, I’ll continue to write about black women falling in love with their The Ones no matter the color. I always tell my readers I may put my black heroines through some mess, but she will always have her happy ending. That’s why I write the books and that’s why you read them.

I have the right and even the responsibility to demand that for myself in real life too. Don’t be mad you can’t make the cut. Step up your game, son!

Publishing and the Privileging of White Expression

As a primarily self-published author, I take on a lot of the responsibilities of a more mainstream publishing conglomerate. I have to, obviously, do my own writing; do my own editing (with some pitfalls, admittedly, because I cannot catch everything myself despite my best efforts); my own book covers; my own book pricing; and, most importantly, my own promotion. The actual formation of the book is the easy part, funnily enough; the promoting my book is a smidge harder. There’s the belief self-published books are by authors who “can’t hack it” or aren’t good/talented enough, so they’re immediately regarded as, if not outright trash, “less than” those who could get through those “pearly” mainstream publishing gates. Let it be known that yes, I would love to have the same reach as books with mainstream publishers can achieve, but I don’t necessarily need the mainstream publisher to go with it. If not for the other perks I could get by being a more mainstream-published author (access to more distribution channels, access to writing associations that provide healthcare), I’d consider that route as less than a necessity and more of a “do it if you want.” Then again, I am probably already there more than I realize. I like the freedom I have from total control over my product, even if that means I shoulder all the responsibility, and I’m a little frustrated I can’t get my product into as many hands as I would like or people dismiss it solely because I put it out myself and not because they disliked the story. And then I realized people would be dismissing it even if it were in every Barnes and Noble and Borders and Books-a-Million this country had to offer.

I’m a black author who writes about black women; and not only that, many of these black women 1.) don’t hate the fact they’re black, 2.) are involved with nonblack men, 3.) don’t hate black men.

And, of course, the only people who care to read about black women are other black women, obviously; and since only about five black women in the whole country read (if you go by mainstream publishers’ insinuations), then why put any money behind those stories, anyway? If you’re not writing something that’s salacious, overly heavy and deep ala Toni Morrison, or minimizes the “Negro Factor”, then your book will not enjoy the same amount of support as your white counterparts. Not only that, if a white author can write a similar story, his/her account will be “more authentic” than yours, because stories by white authors, no matter what the color of the characters, are always more universal than stories by Authors of Color (AoC), no matter what color the characters (and goodness help the AoC who writes about white characters)…especially if these stories are love stories.

Which are what I write.

When my first book came out, I was on a plane returning to Boston after having my very first book signing in my hometown. I was sitting beside a very happy white man (he’d been imbibing a bit), but he was chatty and friendly, and I told him I was an author. Never mind that being the first time I ever uttered those words out loud and actually meant them, but his eyes had perked up and he asked to see the book. I gave him the only copy I had on me, knowing I would get it back. He flipped through to the middle and began to read. After a few moments, he then pulled out a fifty, gave to me, and demanded I autograph “his” book. And then for the rest of the plane ride we started talking about race relations and how things have changed or haven’t, and it wasn’t those conversations where he was “challenging the authenticity of my experiences”, but an honest-to-goodness dialogue. It was the first time I realized my stories really could be universal, because I can admit this white man’s face was not among the ones I saw in the audience for whom I’d been writing. By this point, my novel had been rejected several times, one letter even going so far as to say I mentioned race too much, even though the potential agent knew the story was about a black girl and white boy who were former childhood friends reunited on a newly integrated college in 1960s Georgia.

Good luck trying to avoid mentioning race often in that story!

But it wasn’t just the white man who surprised me. It was the white women who’ve e-mailed me and said how much they just loved this book and asked to put it in their libraries; it was my white teachers from high school in South Carolina who just looked at me in amazement and couldn’t stop raving about this story. It was the black men at the book fairs who would talk me to death about the book and its relevant themes while holding it in a ninja grip. It was the black boys who saw their mama/sister/aunt in Coralee and really liked the book. It’s the white boy who, after hearing discussions about it, said he was going to buy it because the story sounded interesting.

Thank goodness I’d started self-publishing, or else I doubt I would’ve gotten to see all of this for myself. I would’ve been shuttled off into the “black sections of the bookstores”, the sections that are as far from the entrance and tucked around a corner so that nobody but those who know what they’re looking for will ever find it. I actually talked to someone from Borders Corporate about that, and she…couldn’t give me an answer. Not that it surprised me. There are arguments for and against having an African-American section and having books integrated into the bookstore as a whole. But the convenience of the section aside, I, as an author, don’t want my books separated like that. It’s like a big ole “blacks only” sign that apparently doubles as a force field to prevent those who don’t meet the melanin threshold barrier from entering the section or something. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life seen a white person come to that section whenever I’ve gone into bookstores unless they’re getting Zora Neale Hurston or Richard Wright for their kids’ English classes. And then this whole business about being “tricked” into reading black books because the cover wasn’t clear? I know all books I see have at least dust-jacket or back-cover blurbs, and if the blurb was good enough to pull you in…I don’t understand why the actual color of the characters can make a reader flip the script. Was it because these white readers really could relate to stories about black characters—especially romances? Did you know black women liked to be held tenderly? That black women liked to be courted and wooed? That black women do have jobs other than wearing a polyester uniform and taking someone’s order? That black men really do run companies they created from the ground up and then don’t run after the first white/nonblack woman they meet once they’ve made it? That black men still are attracted love black women? That black people can have healthy, loving relationships? That white/Asian/Native/Hispanic men of all races can be attracted to love a black woman without fetishizing her? That this same premise applies when the couples are same sex as well?

But there are some major “politics of respectability” going on in “black imprints” for mainstream publishers. Some of the guidelines include “heroine must not be involved with anyone but the hero; couples must use condoms; heroine isn’t allowed to get pregnant without being married or engaged”, and I’m thinking, not even white women in novels have to adhere to such strict rules! I don’t know how many “Secret Baby” stories Harlequin publishes in a month. But if the black characters don’t, it’s suddenly “street lit”, which has its own problematic connotations about suspected quality of the writers and its readers (i.e., mostly and unfairly negative, even if I don’t read street lit myself). But this either/or dichotomy over what kind of stories black authors at mainstream publishers are allowed to tell are exactly why many of us aren’t accepting any old contract we get from them. That we’re putting our books out ourselves. Because after four hundred years of not being able to say a damn thing, like hell I’m not going to say what I want and how I want now. But the publishing industry/media at large continues to have its “Time to Kill” moments and put white faces on black stories or insert white people in stories not about them, as if “White folks, or it didn’t/doesn’t happen/matter!” is the appropriate business model in a world that is certainly not majority white and, in the case of the United States, in a country that is headed by a nonwhite family and will increasingly not be nonwhite in the next few decades. The default universal experience has not been, nor will it ever be, “white”. And, sure, people have the right to write whatever they want, which includes white people writing nonwhite characters (though there doesn’t seem to be the same regard for nonwhite authors writing white characters); but when those white authors get a larger share of the market telling my stories, I just have to echo Ms. Mahalia Jackson: “How come, mister, you think you can tell me about that old song, when it was born in my mouth?”

I can carry a tune. I can sing just fine.

Some FYIs

1.) I have a blog post brewing about white authors writing about black characters...and why white authors who write about black characters get a larger market share than black authors writing black characters; and why black authors who write about white characters would probably have to self-publish it before a "mainstream" publisher puts out the story. Yeah, it'll be long and involved and probably won't be up for a couple more days.

2.) I have books in Kindle Format now, including the just-released "I'll Be Your Somebody". Check them out and for those who have a Kindle, please tell me how they look!

3.) I have Twitter. I think this platform will get me into even more trouble than I really need to be in, but I've been told it's a good marketing tool. We'll see.

4.) Been editing like crazy. If you're interested in my services, hit me up at sjfediting@gmail.com.

5.) I have a release coming out in August. Hint: You've read it before. :)

A Partial Career Update

I had a really good time at the book signing I attended two weeks ago. I didn't sell much, but the people I met were wonderful, and it was good to see so many self-published out there--and not just self-published, but bonafide publishers of their own. It was inspirational, truly. It was one of the best experiences at a book fair I have had. And now there's an article about African-American Romance and how people are finally waking up to the fact that black people/women read and voraciously, and that our stories...aren't as typical as the "mainstream", and that "our romanace" ain't like "theirs", and yet it is.

Pushing at boundaries, baby.

Which is probably why I am struggling through the end of a novel I am writing because it's taking very many twists and turns to get to the ending I see. I am a fly-by-your-seat writer because I let the characters do what they will. The times I've tried to force them in the direction I want them to go...they've never ended well. So I'm just a reporter on the insanity that is my mind and L'Hotel Characters Who Don't Know What the Devil They Want Other Than a HEA. So, I've been writing...other things that aren't so twisting and turning and angst-filled and heavy. I've gotten great response for it, but I still chug away at the novel.

Meh.

So, as I've been "unemployed" since February, I'm shifting more of my focus on manuscript editing. I just finished a project for Aliyah Burke and I have at least three more to work on for her; as well as Shara Azod offering me work on some projects for her, and Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh wanting me on tap for them once their publishing house gets off the ground. I'm truly, truly grateful for this, and I am also a little anxious. Editing someone else's work is nerve-wracking, especially because it's someone else's. I try my hardest to go a good job, but those times you don't...everyone notices. I want to lower the rate of those instances significantly, because the one time I didn't it turned into a fiasco that almost led me to severing relationships with people I truly admire and respect. I know life is like that, but that part of life ain't the business at all!

I also have to think of my own writing career--the above novel aside. I have another novel that, like I said in a previous post, that everyone in the romance industry who judged it tore into smithereens. Now I have to wonder if I should just scrap the entire idea or self-publish it on my own. Like the above novel, this one goes into some very "don't be going there!" territories in the romance genre. And maybe I just need to reread it again or...a fresh pair of eyes should read it. It got great response when I had it up on my Google Group, but, I don't know...yet, I do have a few others I could release. Then again, there are other avenues of publication and I should never forget those. I have to keep trying and not get so comfortable in DIY. And...I need to get more comfortable at DIY too! However, I'm getting dangerously low on my "already written" cache.

Hence the need for me to finish up that novel. And Felix's Story. And too many other stories I've started and haven't looked at in months...maybe years. You'd think with all this "free time" I have I'd know how to be more productive. But if my muse ain't there, he ain't there.

*please come back muse, please!*

I think the solution is to leave my house, not even take my computer, and handwrite. We'll see if I do that. But if I pretend I'm "going to work" (although, I am), I'll be more productive than staring at the same more-than-four walls of my apartment (have I mentioned I love my apartment? Yes!).

Yay, early Saturday-morning purges!

Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry (and anyone else you deigns to listen)

Well, I've moved. I'm now in sunny, warm, South Carolina in my new apartment doing laundry. And blogging on something I've been wanting to blog on since Friday, but the site was throwing a tantrum but I couldn't.

Oh, well.

Anyway, I'm here, and I'm going to stalk about Mildred D. Taylor's Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and why this novel is THE novel that started my love for reading and in many ways has influenced my writing. And even a decade and a half later, it is still at the top of my favorite books of all time. I love this book, it's as poignant now as as it was when I first read it. I think this will be a book, and this will be a series, I'll continue to read well into my eighties (Lord willing!).

In the beginning of the novel, Ms. Taylor says her father was a master storyteller, a trait he clearly passed on to his daughter. The choice to use Cassie as the narrator was brilliant because female voices were rarely heard during that time or even in the 70s when Ms. Taylor wrote the book--especially black female voices. Coupled with that, I don't think a male narrator would be able to highlight the gender differences and nuances the way a woman could; just like a white character couldn't discern the racial differences and nuances the way a nonwhite character could. More importantly, through Cassie, the reader is allowed to see the entire breadth of black family life in the 1930s South in a way an adult narrator would probably take for granted. There is the innocence and fun along with the terror and stress of what it meant to be black during that time.

And folks, I can honestly say I don't think I would've been able to make it.

Cassie is about three years younger than my grandmother, which means my grandmother is Stacey's age. Reading this book, especially towards the end and how the night riders really had the right to do whatever they wanted to black people and could get away with it...that David Logan had to burn a quarter of his crop so he could save the life of a black boy not even of his blood...wow. Black people during this time never had post-traumatic stress because there was never a "post", it was just traumatic stress every day. Can't get a good night sleep because you have no idea if you said or did something to piss off a white person. Tiptoeing in your own backyard because the laws weren't meant to protect you, were meant to be used against you, having to have those "hard" conversations with your children that white parents would never even fathom to have with theirs.

And those conversations still happening today, even if the language of it is a bit different.

I remember reading that book and believing in my heart of hearts I was Cassie Logan even though I'd never picked cotton a day in my life; or had to walk barefoot for an hour just to go to class; or had my dignity shat upon because "that was the way of things"; or having to see my parents capitulate to white people even though everyone in the situation knew those very white people were wrong. And yet...I was still told all of this growing up, warned, cautioned. I remember my uncle (may he rest in peace, as last week was the fifth anniversary of his passing) tell me to never show how smart I am to other people. I took that lesson to heart because he'd never steer me wrong and I loved him. And now that I'm older, I realize why he told me that. Because showing how smart you were was the quickest way to land yourself into trouble, specially if it were proven you were smarter than someone white. In many ways I'm still unlearning that, especially when it comes to my writing and putting myself out there. Basically, I need to own up to the fact that I am as good as I think I am, which is really hard to do when you've been taught to be humble, almost to the point of making yourself invisible, and have been very good at it for the majority of your formative years.

Although I don't think your "formative" years stop until you die.

Roll of Thunder is one of the main reasons family is such an important theme in my writing, or why my supporting characters almost mean as much to me as my main characters. Every person in that novel meant something to Cassie, even if that character was mentioned on page 57 and was never spoken of again. And while it's not a romance, it's a love story because it shows the love Cassie's family has for each other, the love the family has for the land, the love Cassie has for herself despite an entire society telling her why she shouldn't.

In many ways, nine-year-old Cassie is who I aspire to be, who my heroines aspire to be. To have that much self-knowledge and efficacy despite everything...that girl was blessed. Yes, her parents shielded her from a lot, and she had to grow up real fast between the beginning and end of the novel, but the essence of her remained the same. That impetuous, unfiltered sense of justice and demanding it; knowing you're worth dignity and respect and becoming damn affronted when it's not given instead of "accepting it as things are"--Cassie is the real definition of heroine to me. I don't mean to be all lofty about it, but she is who I want to reclaim, who I think a lot of black women want to reclaim. I think as black women grow older, a lot of us give up our inner Cassie so we can "make our way and make do", but we miss her. We really do. I know I do.

I'm slowly getting her back, though. And when I write my heroines, I try to get them back to their "inner Cassie" also. Because until you have her, I don't think you can truly, truly fall in love. And maybe it's when you're falling you realize how much you've missed her, how much you need her back so you don't fall so far you forget about yourself completely.

*rubs chin in thought* I'll have to let that bit marinate some more...

One Day, Some Day, Today: January 20, 2009

I have not cried once today. My smile has been permanent on my face. Even did the running man in the privacy of my own home lol. I'm a blessed young woman to bear witness to this, knowing that those who came before me fought, bled, lived, died, sang, laughed, cried, toiled, cussed, stood up, sat down, marched, carpooled, prayed, hoped...that someone would see this someday.

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

~From "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

The son of a voluntary African immigrant moves into a house built over two hundred years ago by involuntary African immigrants who are the collective ancestors of his wife and daughters.

Well done, America, well done.

The Audacity of Hope

A moment to shout out what just happened yesterday night.

I’m at work . . . absolutely NO GOOD today . . . because I stayed up until after one o’clock to watch a black man become President of the United States of America. I refused to believe it for like two hours. REFUSED. I was waiting for the pundits to be like, “SIKE!” He didn’t get Virginia; he didn’t get Indiana; he didn’t get California . . . just . . . he didn’t get it. But he did. I was alive to witness it. I thought about all the people who came before me; who died for this . . . who never in their natural-born lives thought this could even be SUGGESTED, let alone a reality.

I called my grandma and I couldn’t talk to her. So we just sat on the phone, well after eleven at night, and we watched McCain’s concession speech. I thought he gave a fantastic speech, to the point I think even if he had won, it would’ve been a fantastic speech too. He’s a classy guy—both he and Barack are. Even if there were measures of classlessness by supporters on both sides of this political race, but I was glad to hear the concession speech, and Barack’s speech (I’m sorry, I know he’s President-Elect, but dammit, I done claimed Barack . . . we family . . . shoo . . . lol). But seriously, after the speech, we also just sat there. And then my grandma, who’s gonna be 87 on the 30th this month. She said she was grateful to be alive to see this and that she never thought it would happen and I just . . . whoo. She saw this. Born in 1921—NEVER had she probably thought it would happen. Hell, I’m twenty-five years old and I never thought it would happen in MY lifetime. But it had. And I’m so glad she was.

I called my grandma; I called my 65-year-old dad (who didn’t answer and was probably out somewhere actin’ a STRAIGHT FOOL—I called him at work this morning as well; he was :-P); I called my aunt and we talked and then my cousin talked. She said she wished my uncle, her husband; a man who’d been at SC State during the Orangeburg Massacre; a man who served in Korea and Vietnam had been alive to witness this; wished my mother, a woman who actively marched for Civil Rights—almost got hit by a truck during one of those instances—first black woman who had her own law practice in Columbia, SC, were here to witness this; but that they were looking down on history. My cousin joked they probably were wearing Obama stickers in heaven and actively campaigning for an Obama victory! I thought about them and wished they were here too.

The first person I’d called, though, was my sister. She was on campus with the Black Students’ Association party and she was actually the person who told me it had actually happened . . . even though I’m watching the damn returns myself. I was ACTIVELY DISBEILIVING it. I was telling the pundits to shut up and don’t call states that hadn’t even reported because it was unfair and irresponsible. I cussed out The New York Post calling it before some key states had posted their results. But then, I mean . . . wow. WOW. My sis said the Africans were crying with joy but the Black Americans were cautious with their celebration because we wanted this to be real. We didn’t want the rug pulled out from under us, something people of color had experience after experience with.

I think about why I called my sister first, though. We are the firsts born post–Civil Rights in our family, right in the heyday of Reagan, when things weren’t looking so dreamlike and hopeful for blackfolk. We’d been raised on the Civil Rights heroes and the pre–Civil Rights heroes and could recite the second half of the “I Have a Dream” Speech and sang songs about Dr. King (and then added our own verses of Malcolm X and Medgar Evers and Booker T. and WEB . . . lol), but we were still under the belief it was just that—a dream. Something that would never be realized in our lifetimes despite the strides blackfolk have made. It would always be a dream deferred to shrivel up like a raisin in the sun as Langston Hughes had said. There was nothing happening in our purview to make us think differently. Because even with our education, and our middle-class believes, and our middle-class jobs, and more of us doing right than doing wrong . . . there were still more closed doors than open ones; still more “you can’ts” than “you cans”; still more doubts than the benefits of them; still more “you’re not like those other black people . . .”

And yes, Barack Obama is exceptional, but then again not really. I went to school with people like Barack and Michelle Obama. I sat next to them in class; I debated with them; discussed with them. I was borne from them and raised by them. Those “other black people” ARE Barack and Michelle; and yes, Barack had a white mother from Kansas and was raised by his white grandparents; but they couldn’t prevent him being called a nigger or being thought as “less than” or shield him from the things white people will never, ever have to experience on a mass-societal level. And yes, Obama got an overwhelming majority of the electoral votes and over fifty percent of the popular vote, but I’m sorry to say, racism isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

We are not a colorblind nation (nor should we be, but that’s another post); the headlines are he’s the first African-American President of the United States. That is true, and nothing about the lack of the Bradley effect or the fact “just enough” white people voted for him is going to change the fact that because he is a black man sitting in the highest office in the land, he is still very much an exception. It should tell you something this country has only elected three black senators since Reconstruction and five total. It should tell you something there have been only four black governors total in the country—two of them being elected in the last three years. The fact people and pundits are trying to say race didn’t play a factor does a disservice to the fact that it HAD—maybe not in the negative way people thought it would—and that will always be there and be present. It’s like they’re trying to diminish what this victory means for people like me and the people who died fighting for the right to be considered a full human being—never mind a citizen; never mind a citizen whose rights had to be respected; never mind a citizen whose voice should be heard; never mind a citizen who had been here building a nation literally from the ground up—talk about your “grassroots efforts”. The man was surrounded by glass as he gave his acceptance speech “just in case” for goodness sake. We put a sizable dent in the institution of racism, but it’s far from eradicated.

But then I saw the Obamas walk out as the FIRST FAMILY. And then that was it. And after I thought about what just happened . . . what they represent . . . I finally cried. And I didn’t sob; it was just a quiet cry . . . I am so overwhelmed that there will be people who look like me in the White House who aren’t cleaning it or cooking in it, but living there and being the face of the country because the electorate had chosen the son of a White woman from Kansas and a Black man from Kenya to lead it. And the country will see an accomplished black woman standing by her husband’s side, being his rock, being the person he turns to when he needs someone to keep it real and ground him. They’ll see black little girls be GIRLS and not be short women this country thinks them to be . . . girls who have the complete and unadulterated love of their father, even if their father couldn’t say the same about his. Seeing a black family unashamed to love each other, because so often all you hear about is the “broken” black family, and I truly believe they are stronger for what they’ve been through and what they will go through.

It’s disheartening to hear some folks are saying it’s racist that so many black people registered to vote for the first time just for a black man. Seriously? Seriously? How in the world is that racist? Jesse Jackson ran twice and didn’t have nearly the support Barack did. Black people weren’t on the Obama train for a MINUTE, but this is someone with whom many people of color especially could connect with; and I would even say had Robert Kennedy survived, he would’ve gotten an insane amount of support from black voters as well. It wasn’t necessarily about the man’s skin color; it was about the fact THIS presidential candidate seemed to be committed to improving the lives of EVERYONE. For the first time we, black people especially, felt as if we were part of the conversation every time he opened his mouth . . . without specifically calling us out. The audacity of hope—that’s all black people have HAD since the moment our ancestors were brought over here.

There are those opponents who say hope can’t feed you; hope can’t protect you from the big baddies of the world. You tell that to all the people who came before me. We’re still here. We still survived. We survived being 3/5ths of a person as mandated by the US Constitution; we survived being told no white person had to respect our humanity and rights in the Dred Scott case. We survived “separate but equal”, when it was really separate and unequal. We survived being hung, run off roads, beaten, attacked, just for simply being here without shackles on our wrists. We survived bombs and denial after denial after denial. We survived being in a country that extended its promises to everyone, it seemed, but those with too much melanin. We fought for this country; we loved this country in spite of its faults and because we wanted America to live up to those promises and extend them to all its citizens, not just the ones descended from Europeans or the ones who have a whole lot of money. Wanted the dream to come true . . . not just stay a dream.

Wow. I think about the history books I had . . . the ones that were full of white faces and black people only made appearances during the 1860s and the 1960s. As if we didn’t exist outside of those times. Now, if I’m blessed enough to have children, they will have a history book that prominently features a someone who looks like them for something so positive. And if my child says, “Mommy, I want to be president when I grow up.” I will be able to now say, with conviction and pride,

“Yes, you can.”

Black Women's Fiction and Romance

Right now I'm reading Leaving Cecil Street by Diane McKinney-Whetstone. I'd just finished reading her Blues Dancing about a week ago and Tempest Rising before that, and between reading these three stories, and then thinking about other Black Women's Fiction writers such as Alice Walker and Toni Morrison, I realized something. It's rarely a happy story. There is just so much pain discussed and shown and seen, especially on the part of black women, that I just feel heavy and want to cry. And then I think, is that all of our stories? Is that it? How we're not loved enough, or we're used too much, or we're ignored, or we're spotlighted for all the wrong reasons. We easily stray, we stay on the wrong straight-and-narrow? And to think that was what was only offered up until almost thirty years ago when Black romance really started taking off.

Let it be known I appreciate Ms. McKinney-Whetstone and Ms. Morrison and Ms. Walker and Ms. Angelou, etc. I do, and I like how they write, and I loved Blues Dancing almost as much as I loved Tumbling, but I think my current personal space is making my reading of Leaving Cecil Street so hard. I just . . . I want these black women to not only be loved, but to love themselves. And the reason why I appreciate these stories is because often, so very often, we don't as black women, and it shows us that. So when I am reading about these husbands, who love their wives as they say and the author says, straying, or these dirty old men preying on little girls/women (which is particularly notable because someone on an online group put forth her personal theory that little black girls are rarely seen as children, but just small adult black women, and I can't say I disagree with that), or women abusing other women because it's easier to hurt someone else than to deal with the pain you feel yourself, especially because you were never taught how, I just . . . I'm nodding and trying to hold tears at bay and wondering when will it be our turn as a people, to allow ourselves to feel loved and be loved and demand more than what we've been getting. And no, the answer is not "forget black men" and "black men are dogs" or whatever other reasons you hear to rationalize outdating (on both sides). It may not start with us, because we are children when we learn how the world operates, and it takes a long time to unlearn some things, but it does end with us. There has to come a point where we just say "stop" and "no more." I think all the women I've mentioned above allow their heroines to get there, but to watch that journey to that point, breaks my heart, especially when, in many ways, it mirrors my own.

I didn't really discover black romance until Brenda Jackson and reading Surrender. I didn't appreciate it then, either. I was still in high school, I was more fascinated with interracial fiction, especially after reading Sandra Kitt's The Color of Love, so while I thought it was a good story, I set it off to the side because I wanted to read more interracial fiction, especially since they were the types of stories floating around in my head. Fast forward to the beginning of this year and Wild Sweet Love by Beverly Jenkins, and then it was on and popping. I rediscovered Brenda Jackson, became introduced to Gwynne Forster, Francis Ray, Rochelle Alers, Donna Hill, Gwyneth Bolton, Dyanne Davis, AlTonya Washington, and practically inhaled Beverly Jenkins. And I even realized Ms. Kitt wrote more than just interracial romance (see, Adam and Eva), and that she was the first to write for Harlequin. Thank God for these women and their books and the many others who are breaking out onto the scene, or else it would be nothing but heavy reading for black women. And maybe, another part of my hesitation for black romance was because my main readings of black women authors were those heavier tomes, and I was not trying to have any more of that during my "leisure" periods. And, to an even sadder extent, because I didn't see any of that in my own life or on my own television, I thought it was more fictional than even interracial romance. At least Zack and Lisa had a kiss; and Winnie and Christian dated each other. There was no black couple like that in my everyday life, even if I had cousins who were in good marriages.

So now, here I am having published four times, three interracial stories and one AA story. Having completed five more, all of which are interracial, and I am struggling with one story that is completely women's fiction and two stories that are both interracial and aa. As the heavier books show, love, romance, relationships are far more complicated and messy than romance books show, but romance books let you feel that happiness and joy that everyone needs, especially black women. I write both, and apparently in the same story lol. I write both because I need both--I don't want nothing but heaviness in one story and nothing but light in another. I want to run that gamut of emotions, I want to feel . . . everything a human being could feel, everything a black woman doesn't usually allow herself to feel. I want to own that pain that I try to ignore, and I want to own that joy that I try to deny. And maybe that goal makes it difficult to place me with publishers or agents, but my counselor yesterday asked me who is my audience. I didn't answer her for a moment, because I knew it was an incredibly selfish one. I write for me. I am my audience. And something one of my writing instructors back in college says still stays with me now, even if I found that class personally such a struggle--the most personal story is often the most universal.

High School High

Tomorrow, I'm going back to speak at my high school. Apparently, Being Plumville was on their summer reading list, and they wanted me to come talk about it with the students. I feel weird about it! In many ways, I just left high school, even though I've had almost eight years between then and now. I've done college and graduated and now I'm in the daily grind of work. Not to mention I've written a few things . . . that they've actually read.

I think it's because I've changed so much in many ways, and yet not at all in others. To go back and walk into your past, essentially, that you're doing things now nobody ever fathomed when I was there and having people who "knew me back when" see me now. Clearly, they are proud of me because they asked me back. I'll say, I didn't intend for Being Plumville to be read by children, but even Amazon.com has it under its textbook promotion. Wha? That's so odd. I don't know how else to say it. Something that I started because I was writing my thesis at the same time, and I was curious about some issues that are going on inside me (and still are) has become this "thing" that I never envisioned. Teachers who saw me as a student who played the viola and was on the soccer team now know what I did on my "off" times . . . that I wrote. If they came back and saw my choir in 2005, they'd realize I sing, too. Just the various sides of me will come to a bit of a head tomorrow, and I'm in this very suspended place about it. I'm excited, but apprehensive--about how the students will receive me; how they received my book; how my old teachers will receive me; if I say something I shouldn't because they're too young to understand/get it/appreciate it/agree with it.

I'm not quite the quiet little girl who kept her mouth shut back in high school; I'm much more secure in what I think and not as shy about letting people know it. I used to lay in the cut in high school, unobtrusive because being a chubby black girl who wasn't necessarily poor and was deemed "smart" and didn't have much of a social life was a bit of an aberrance, and kids have a tendency to mock what they don't understand . . . what isn't "normal." I saw Saved by the Bell; I watched those after-school specials; I read Sweet Valley High; I wasn't trying to go out like all the other nerds did.

But what's funny, Facebook. Facebook has been a surprise in a good way. All these people are now friending me, people with whom I wasn't close back in the day; or people I knew only because we shared a class, but never a conversation, or very few conversations. The "cool" people, the "popular" people, to my none of those things. These people friend me or leave me messages saying how proud they are of me or how they can't wait to get my book, etc. And my jaw drops because I didn't think I was that memorable, or memorable enough for them to friend me. Yet, this is opening my eyes to something: just because you do your best to be unseen, doesn't mean you aren't. Just because you keep to yourself and try not to bother anyone or "do your own thing", doesn't mean people aren't paying attention to you and watching you and rooting for you.

Story time: Junior year in high school we got our transcripts to prepare for senior year. They tried to block out our class ranking, but it seemed the permanent marker wasn't dark enough to mask those pesky little numbers. Everyone and her blind dog's dead mother knew who numbers 1 & 2 were--identical twins of all things. But the third spot . . . heh. Me. So I had a dual feeling of "hell, yeah!" and "aw, shit!" (if I'd been the cussin' kind back then ;) ) because, dang, if that further didn't separate me from the pack, especially regarding other black kids at my school (this is clearly, clearly, another post). But, we had a soccer game either that night or sometime soon after, and I was sitting next to one of the "popular" black girls who was also on the team watching the Varsity team play (I was on JV, and quite happy there lol). She asked me what my rank was. I didn't want to answer, but she was nice, and I mumbled it. She said, "huh?" so I said it again louder, but just as, dare I say it, apologetic about it. She nodded, then she smiled and said, "I'm so proud of you."

What?!

I had no idea. Understand, in any given class I had, I was either the only black person, black girl, or one of five or less of either permutation thereof, so I felt on the fringe of the "black community" at my school, especially since my group of friends was mixed . . . which was something you didn't really get at my high school (my cafeteria could've been the cover of Dr. Tatum's Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?). But some sort of invisible burden had been lifted off my shoulder at that, and it felt really good.

So, maybe, by me going back to school and speaking, I can lift that invisible burden off someone else's shoulders, someone who's been told by her culture in school, her culture in her neighborhood, her culture as portrayed by the media, that says you shouldn't excel; that you shouldn't want to be the best you can be. That is is cool to "do the damn" thing, and that being black or being poor or being female or being whatever means you shouldn't, or that you're automatically something else, or your fill-in-the-blank card is on probation. It took me a long time to get to that point, and in many ways, I hang on to it by the tips of my fingers.

But ultimately, as my sis and my friends, those same few people who've been there even when I was unobtrusive and shy(er), said that I represent someone from their community who left and "made good", and that is important for them to see, especially considering I am primarily of a demographic who has the least chance of doing so.

I'll have to remember that when I talk tomorrow.

The Prototype (or a Little Bit of Why I Write How I Write)

His name was MK. He was older, seventeen to my thirteen, but I thought he was so amazing. He was of color; although the U.S. census would consider him white, society would consider him Middle Eastern . . . South Asian . . . not white. I never really asked what he was, and I asked him if he were Jewish, although in hindsight it probably would’ve been better if I’d asked him if he were Hindu or Muslim . . . Christian. But considering the only Christians I knew were either white or black, and his last name didn’t sound like a Christian last name, I had only my ignorance and 13 years of experience upon which to fall back.

I deserve a little break, right?

This was the second time I’d been to this camp; it only lasted two weeks. The year before I’d befriended two football players who played for the university. I don’t know how that friendship happened; I think I was tossing a ball with some people and they came and joined us. They were hilarious; I was their kid sis and it didn’t matter they were white and I wasn’t. So when I met MK, I thought it would be the same kid sister/older brother type relationship.

Except, it so wasn’t, at least not on my part.

MK wasn’t gorgeous in the way a boy could be that made pre-pubescent and pubescent girls lose their ever-lovin’ minds and tag his last name to her first. But he did get increasingly more adorable to me every time I saw him, which was inversely proportional (or is it related?) to how shy I’d get around him.

Anyway.

He was incredibly smart (or at least what smart to my 13-year-old mind meant). He told me about how he’d take the SAT once he got back home (he’s from the North, I’m from the South) and that he wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer . . . I can’t remember exactly which, but regardless, you have to be smart to do either. He was speaking a language I’d only started to learn, that of post–high school life; I hadn’t even entered high school and he was already talking about leaving it. But the fact he was talking about it to me, surely that meant something, right? That he thought I was mature enough to follow conversations like that with me . . .

I’m sure I told him about my mother. Sometimes I think the happiest and most reflective times for me were when I attended this camp. For two weeks I could genuinely be myself, flaws and all, and I was with other people who were getting in touch with that part they hide away because their friends/family wouldn’t understand. Maybe that’s why I felt so connected with MK, because he got an unfiltered 13-year-old me . . . and he didn’t run away or make fun of me or think I was a dork. And even though I couldn’t recall a single conversation with specificity, I can still remember how he made me feel.

Like a girl.

He was the first boy to ever make me feel like a girl. Feminine. Beautiful. He never said it to me, but sometimes he would gaze at me, or he’d smile, showing off his braces, which was okay because I wore braces too. Whenever we were with a group of friends, walking in the shopping district or around campus or in a crowd, he’d always make sure I was keeping up, sometimes even holding my hand so I wouldn’t get lost. If I were cold, he would give me his jacket if he had one, or put an arm around my shoulders. Once, a group of us were chatting outside—a baseball game, and it’d gotten nippy. We were in the canteen area and we were joking and talking about the game. Suddenly, he drifted into silence, smiled softly at me, and then touched my cheek with cool fingers. I gasped and my hands flew to my face. The others teased me and made obnoxious sounds, but I didn’t care. I just stared at him and he smiled and ducked his head slightly.

I think he took a little bit of my heart then, and I don’t think either one of us knew it. I certainly didn’t, or didn’t admit it until . . . maybe a few months ago. I’d never received affection from a male not my relative. He was the first . . . and in many ways, the only.

In my entire life.

I lost touch with him after camp. E-mail and IM hadn’t really caught on yet, and the only time I ever called him his mother had answered the phone and had said he was studying for the SAT. I think that hit it home that he was much too old . . . far too out of my league, and to pack it up. So I moved on, got through middle school and high school with nary a crush. I thought something was wrong with me because all my friends would talk about cute guy x or y, and I . . . would rarely be impressed. In fact, the guy who got my first kiss—random! First off, totally thought he wasn’t going to do it even though he said he would. On my 18^th birthday, he said he’d give me a kiss; he presented it like a dare/promise. Thought he was full of hot air. 1.) He was white and this is the South, and I’d never seen him date a black girl 2.) we didn’t even like each other like that. But after class on the last day of school, he pulled me aside and he kissed me. And the notable thing, other than it felt very weird, was that a touch on the cheek five years earlier made me feel more than this kiss ever did.

And my simple self, unused to lust and damn curious, went back for more kisses (and some touches . . .) to see if maybe I did it wrong the first time, or if I could get those fleeting moments of “right” to last longer. Then I went to his house with a mutual friend. He took the friend to his room and left me out in his living area watching television.

Well, then.

Since then, the crushes have been on men of every color and racial makeup imaginable, but they never treated me like MK did, or made me feel the way he did. Oh, there’ve been glimpses, but the biggest difference between MK and my subsequent crushes was how I felt . . . all the time. When alone we’re cool; we talk, we connect. When we’re with friends . . . I’m “one of the guys”; I’m not a blip on the opposite-sex radar; the potential-girlfriend radar. I’m not “crush-worthy”. I’ve been flat-out told I wasn’t on “the list”, but a mutual friend of ours would be. Rarely did I feel beautiful. Rarely did I feel like a girl. And the thing was, I looked REAL awkward at 13, yet I managed to get someone to be genuinely interested in me. I was never slim; my hair was never “good hair”; I had acne; I wore braces! Hell, my first crush in college never even NOTICED I’D GOTTEN THEM TAKEN OFF AND I’D BEEN WEARING THEM FOR THE FULL YEAR HE’D KNOWN ME! Talk about a blow to the ego! Talk about not being seen!

I’ve been passed over more times than I care to admit, unseen that I’ve made a niche for myself in forgettable obscurity. I’ve been doing my own thing. I’ve been smart, independent, confident in my abilities, all the while thinking none of that really matters. I’m supposed to be those things, after all; that’s nothing “special.” I went to school with women who were like that, and better-looking. I’m the daughter of one of the epitomes of smart, independent, confident in her abilities, and gorgeous. But for some reason . . . MK saw me anyway, and liked me. He wasn’t ashamed of me. He allowed me my awkwardness, my vulnerability, and didn’t blast me for it. I had no idea how much I needed that . . . he has no idea how much I appreciate him for it.

He’s the prototype, MK. He’s the foundation for the heroes I write, because Lord knows I put a lot of me in the heroines I write. That essence, that allowing for vulnerability, for being dependable for an independent woman; for seeing the beauty that many don’t see, or if they do, don’t mention it . . . that the heroine can’t or doesn’t see because it’s never been pointed out to her. For allowing the heroine to come just as she is and to be respected and thought worthy at the starting place, but helping her grow to be the best she can be. And for a black woman especially, that’s incredibly rare. The rhetoric we hear (and I’ve been told to my face) black women are too this; black women are too that (and none of it construed positively); me being told I can’t rely on anyone but myself. Me seeing this fact in the majority of the relationships around me; me reading and studying statistics. Me wondering why “regular” looking black women on television, in movies; in romance novels don’t ever get the hero. I know it’s possible. For two weeks when I was thirteen, I had it. But when it reaches the point where I am now wondering if it would be “realistic” for a “regular” black woman to draw the attention, and keep it, of a hero . . . and he be proud of her and humbled by her . . . because it’s not happened to me (again). But it can happen in my stories; it has happened to the new friends and mentors I’ve talked to since I started this journey. And how that journey of being an author is really parallel for my journey to being a woman and finding love. Why I write romance; maybe why I write primarily interracial romances, but I read all subgenres of it. Maybe because someone who wasn’t on MY radar had me on his, and how would I deal with that now, twelve years later . . . and would he like the woman I’d become. Would I have the courage to depend on someone else; the same courage many of my heroines have to find; will I have the courage to believe it when he says, “you’re beautiful”, something I and many black women rarely hear but so want to; will I have the courage to own the good points I possess, but shove in the back because the bad points are constantly heaped upon me and I carry them like the scars my ancestors did, because I feel guilty I don't have to sacrifice like the generations before me did.

I’m blocked (an annual occurrence lol), and it’s because I had to get all that out . . . and maybe relax, before I can get started. I work too hard, some of my friends say. Even my boss says I’m too stressed. Heh. Well, hopefully this will free up some space and to allow my characters possibilities, and maybe that’ll transfer to me.

I wonder if MK even remembers me. Nevertheless, I thank him, and I thank God for allowing him to enter my life, even if for such a short period of time.

A Theme in My Writing

Using duty to hide from dreams and desire. And not necessarily romantic or carnal desire, although that is very valid. Just the desire to do what you want to do--maybe what you were even born to do. Using your (perceived) duty to your family and community instead of fulfilling your own aspirations. And, getting all "academic" with this, these could be construed as very "middle-class" concepts, because those who have little to no leisure time can't afford to worry about dreams or desires. There's food to be put on the table; clothes to be put on backs; bodies to remain living in safe (or as safe as possible) dwellings. Yet, it doesn't matter what class, what race, what gender--people have dreams and desires, and I think everyone should have the opportunity to reach them.

I could stretch it further and say the above is also a "white middle-class" concept, and especially "white male middle-class" concept. In this society, women of color have had the least opportunity to fulfill either in any real way. And because I am a black woman, that is my basis and frame of experience. That is what I write, that is also with what I struggle in my own daily life. Responsibility, duty, has always been at the fore--and often to the point of allowing someone else the opportunity to achieve those dreams and desires. Family is big; community is big; not being "selfish" is something taught time and time again.

Selfish. That's a tricky word, a loaded word. Oftentimes, an unfair word. Many of my characters struggled with perceived selfish behavior versus doing something or being with someone who makes them happy. I struggle with that word, with that perception, as I do this writing thing. I'm the type of person where it's so hard for me to say no to a request, that duty or what I "should do" for others almost always can trump what I need/want/should do for myself.

Black women are rarely told it's okay to "do you". Do for others yes, always, definitely, but do you? Do for you? No . . . So many of my heroines are struggling with this, and I try to surround them with people who will give them the courage to "do them"--not just their hero--but their best friends; their sisters; their brothers. LJ in Being Plumville is definitely and example of that person, and I hadn't planned on him being that, but I'm glad he was. Samara struggles with that regarding whether she would take a chance with AJ in AJ's Serendipity; and in her case, AJ was the one to help her make her ultimate decision.

I've used the phrase "hiding behind 'x'" in many of my manuscripts, not even realizing it until just now (as I'm working on yet another story lol), but instead of removing it, I'm keeping it, because it's real. To get to that point where you can "do you", and not to the detriment of others, is truly liberating, I think. You can't give your all if part of you is tethered to the ground. We have to allow ourselves to soar.

And once we do, don't apologize for doing it. I'm still working on that, but to see my characters get to that point, or at least get closer to that point, definitely helps.

Being Plumville: 1 Year Later

Between this:

Title: Being Plumville

Author: Savannah J. Frierson

Genre: Historical

Hearts: 5/5 - Reviewer Top Pick

Reviewer: Lisa

Date: 4/2/2008

Online: http://www.nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.asp?ReviewId=1504

This is not an ordinary read – it is an amazing one! Savannah J. Frierson transcends barriers of time, culture, and race to create a love story which could be real. Historically accurate, pertinent, and with painstakingly correct dialogue, this book places you in the South in the 1950's and 1960's. The childhood friendship between Coralee Simmons and Benjamin Drummond has always been special but held within the confines of societal and cultural dictations of the time.

The tension builds slowly, leading to an amazing climax. Frierson fearlessly wrestles not only with blatant racism, but also with issues at the core of humanity; acceptance, change, equality, and growth. She skillfully explores conflicts between a person's being and doing. With expert finesse, she deftly probes painful unconscious influences cast by culture and society and how they dictate roles and behavior, creating a caste system still written about today.

Frierson is an author that I would, without a doubt, read again. I expect great things from her in the future. Romantic yet edgy, not only does she weave a wonderful story, but her characters are human, wrestling with humanity and authenticity in the deepest of ways. This reviewer has three final words – You Go, Girl!

And a very nice note from a reader who got wind of my book from a former nanny of all people, I'm surprised, humbled, and so blessed people are still responding so well to Being Plumville now that it's been out for a full year. Now, if only the agents and publishers could respond equally as well to my writing! God is something, because I'd just gotten another rejection from an agent, and yet I get these two lovely responses back. It's like He's trying to remind me that I'm doing all right and encouraging me to keep doing the do. I'm not gonna not listen, ya heard?! One day . . . one day I'll get that yes I'm waiting on, even if the nos get more and more frustrating to hear. I'll just pull up these reviews and reread the lovely letters readers are writing me. I really do appreciate it. It sound so trite, but it conveys so much of my gratitude, you don't even know. Also, thank you to all of you who came out to chat last Sunday! It was fun! I'll have to do that again soon.

And tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination. On the surface it seems like it has nothing to do with the above post, yet I mention it because he was/is the face (outside of my mother, father, grandmother, aunts, uncles cousins) who struggled during the Modern Civil Rights Movement so that I can sit here in my mixed-race apartment and attend my mixed-race middle/high school and college and be employed at my mixed-race office and vote at my mixed-race precinct come November and date/marry whatever race I see fit. And then I think about Being Plumville and the story's setting and the story's, well, story, and it has just about everything to do with it. I tell you when I first started writing it, the year 1968 just popped into my head because it sounded far enough away from the current year (then 2004) but recent enough that it's still tangible in its access. 40 years isn't a long time. I have cousins older than that--a brother older than that! Both my parents, both my uncles and my aunts are older than that. We're all affected by that, and to write about a mixed-race couple who have to deal with all that upheaval and still find their way to each other and have current readers, many of whom weren't alive 40 years ago and many who definitely were; readers of all genders and races; able to relate to that . . . it means a lot. So thank you all. Truly. Truly, truly, truly.

Sav

Women and AA/IR Romance

So for the past few weeks I've been gorging myself, literally, on African-American romance. I do have a question though--why are the majority of the women in these books possessing high cheekbones and long hair that flows around the shoulders. I've seen plenty of black women in my day, and the majority of them do not have high cheekbones or hair that flows around their shoulders. What's wrong with having "regular" cheekbones and hair that stops at the nape (or shorter, natural). Because admittedly, I'm seeing "weave" with that earlier (Eurocentric) expression, and I don't think that was the intention of these authors.

And why are they all skinny (small waists, full breasts, slender hips)? All of them? I've only read one who wasn't like that--Chamein Canton's Not His Type, but she was also light-skinned and had good hair, too. Not that that's a problem, but where are thick girls who are more dark than light, who have typical African features and hair? It's not that I have a problem reading about all the shades of black women, but when I, essentially, read about the same woman appearance-wise I get a little wary. In fact, I think my slimmest woman that I've written is probably Coralee. Maybe Margot, but she's preggers, so she doesn't count. Jada isn't fat, but she'd never be called slim. Tyler is plus-size, and so is Rosalyn, if a little smaller than Tyler; and Samara is also plus-size. I think the lightest one is Samara as well. Jada has the most Eurocentric hair in terms of texture (although it is curly), then Rosalyn, and then Tyler. Coralee's hair would be nappy if not for the hot comb, and Margot and Samara have nappy, "natural" hair (although I try to make sure all of my female characters have natural hair, but I'm not above introducing a weave or two :-P). I guess my standards of black beauty were pretty diverse and pretty strong, but I know how it is to see black women who look closer to the Eurocentric ideal of beauty than not, and I try to be very conscious of it when I write. Since I primarily write IR, I don't want these black women to have prominent Eurocentric features to be seen as a "reason" why the (usually) white man would be interested in the first place. It bothers me so much when I read that, especially when white authors start writing black women (I haven't read a black heroine from a white author who has two black parents or isn't so light and bright regardless of parentage that I have to flip back at the initial description of where the author says the heroine identifies as black. If anyone has, please point me to it.). There's nothing wrong with a woman being (unambiguously) black and beautiful and attractive to both black and nonblack men. She doesn't need hair all the way down her back or a slender figure or honey/caramel skin (and I have honey/caramel skin). Dark, "natural"-haired, more-African-featured-than-not, curvy/heavy sisters need some love, too, after all. We're sure not going to get it from Hollywood!

ETA: I didn't mention Addy, mainly because I'm not finished with her story, but since her look, I don't believe, shall be changing any time soon, I'll say this--I think she's the tallest of all my heroines; definitely heavyset, but it's better balanced because of her height; has relaxed hair to her shoulders; medium-brown skin (more dark than light, but not dark dark). And Eric loves her to pieces. Boy Eric . . .

ETA2: There is also Working Man by Melanie Schuster that also features a plus-size heroine, and I think she's darker than Canton's heroine, too.