I spend a lot of time thinking about the ways in which the books you read define who you become. Growing up, I was obsessed with Donald Barthelme, Raymond Carver and Flannery O'Connor, mostly because the writers I knew and respected told me I should be. As I got older, I leaned primarily towards American literary fiction: first Jeffrey Eugenides, Rick Moody, Bret Easton Ellis and Jonathan Lethem and, later, Joy Williams, Chris Adrian and Lydia Davis. I read everything these authors wrote, and when they came to read their work in Houston, or Providence or later, Los Angeles, I made sure to sign up for tickets early to get a front row seat.
There's a song by the Cocker Spaniels called "The Only Black Guy at the Indie Rock Show." I can sympathize. For much of my life, I've been the only black girl at the literary fiction reading. This wasn't something I really even thought about until about a year ago when I went to seen an obscure (so obscure I don't think he's ever been published) fiction writer read in the lobby of the Standard Hotel. After the author finished, he thanked everyone in the audience and then looked at me and said "as for those of you who just happened to be passing through, thanks for listening." The reason this affected me so greatly, I think, is because I'd gone through considerable pains to attend the event. I'd recently totaled my car, which meant I'd had to take the bus. (I don't know how many of you have ever attempted to take the Metro from Koreatown to Hollywood, but let me tell you, it's no easy feat.) I know the slight (was it even a slight?) was unintentional, but it still hurt. It also made me think. When I'm reading, I tend not to think about the color of the writer, or the characters s/he creates. I love good literature in a way that has nothing to do with my feelings about race. I wonder, though, does it work both ways? Do authors ever stop to consider the color of their readers? Should they?
No comments:
Post a Comment