CRITIQUING FROM A PLACE OF PRIVILEGE

I don’t like to share a lot of details about myself. I tend to be a very private person, and while I’m sure no one is reading this blog with the notable exception of my mother (Hi, Momma!) I’m still reticent to publish personal details about myself on the interwebs for all the English-speaking world to discover should they so choose. However, as may have been gleaned from past posts, but needs to be stated unequivocally for this post to make any kind of sense, when it comes to my privilege card, I’ve essentially hit bingo. I’m not a card-carrying member of the patriarchy, but in all other respects, my life is golden.

I live in a world that is, by and large, built for people like me. Obviously, I’m human, and like all humans, I have my share of trials and tribulations, but very little of those come my way based on WHAT I am. Consequently, it’s easy for me to be blind to areas of the world that cause problems to others purely based on WHAT they are. I don’t like the idea of being ignorant. Yes, sometimes the mere thought of the tonnage of what I don’t know overwhelms me, and I have nightmares of being crushed under its enormous weight, but that weight is never going to lessen if I don’t start SOMEWHERE. So, I start tackling my ignorance elephant the way I start tackling all my elephants. One bite at a time.

Many of the bites I take come in the form of my pleasure reading. Sometimes this includes nonfiction, but frequently it comes in the form of fiction. When I’m already looking for a fantasy read anyway, it is just as easy to pick up N.K. Jemisin as it is to pick up Brandon Sanderson. I don’t consider diversifying my reading a burden. It stretches part of my brain that otherwise grows stiff and calcified. Reading diversely has had the added benefit of exposing me to some great authors, fascinating concepts, intricate worlds, stunning prose and more. It’s nice to see the world a different way, like looking at a postcard from a friend, imagining what it would feel like to stand beside them and experience the same tourist trap that’s emblazoned on the front. It takes some effort, an attempt to be conscious of what I’m reading and how much of my reading is taken up by one particular worldview, but honestly, the rewards have been tremendous.

However. Occasionally, (and, for my first caveat, let me say this is happening LESS the more opportunities are given to a wider range of diverse voices), there will be a shiny new apple on the diversity tree. And everyone raves about how great this new apple is. And I get excited because I too love apples and cannot wait to try this new shiny, delicious-looking apple that everyone has been raving about. Only when I bite into the apple, I find that it’s really not very good. It might not have worms, but it’s definitely mushy and too sweet and feels like cotton in my mouth. And I’m stuck there, with this mushy, too sweet, cotton-tasting apple just sitting in my mouth, afraid to say anything differing from the chorus of people praising the apple, how necessary the apple is, how wonderful the apple is, how brilliant and literary and groundbreaking the apple is.

Okay, enough with the apple metaphor. Going back to a literal discussion books (and continuing with my train of caveats), I get that literary taste is subjective, and maybe those people on the hype train really did love the book. Or maybe the audience has been so starved for the perspective the book offers, the flaws of the book may have seemed inconsequential, and that’s as valid a reason to enjoy a book as any other. Chances are, I picked up that book because I wanted to engage with that perspective, too. However, the question then remains of how to proceed when I am asked what I thought of the book.

Honestly, this happens rarely. I don’t talk to enough people for them to request my opinions on anything, much less the literary merit of any given book, buzzy or otherwise. But it does happen on occasion. And also, sometimes I want to talk about a book without being asked just because I like talking about books. That was the main impetus behind me starting this whole blog in the first place after all. But I become more hesitant to share my literary opinions when they are critical of a diverse author’s work. I don’t like being (publicly) critical of any author’s work. Writing a book is nearly impossible, and the idea of diminishing anyone’s great labor is not something I revel in. There’s also the idea that my voice and perspective on a marginalized author’s work is most likely not useful to the larger dialogue which makes me wary to open my mouth (or type my keys, as the case may be). But then again, isn’t it condescending to the talent of the author to handle their work with kid gloves, grade it on a curve, treat it as though it has a right to be crafted poorly because it came from the margins instead of the mainstream? Isn’t that an insult not just to the author of that book but to other marginalized authors whose work is exceptional and laudatory? Is it more discriminatory of me to NOT be honest about my opinions?

The reason why I’m vomiting up all this privileged guilt/angst/whatever you want to call it is because recently I read just such a book. It was YA contemporary. I don’t do YA all that often, and when I do it is mostly fantasy (which is less to do with the subgenre’s popularity and more to do with the fact that most of my reading across the board is fantastical). But this particular book was from a Native author, and recently I’ve been desperate to find books by Native authors. I had been reading through Sherman Alexie’s bibliography, but, given recent events, that endeavor became tainted for me. Then last year, I with the rest of the world read Tommy Orange’s There There and loved it. Earlier this year I read Rebecca Roanhorse’s Trail of Lightning and liked it fine. I had my quibbles, but I’m looking forward to picking up the next book in the series. So I was primed for this YA book and started reading it with a genuine desire to enjoy it. But I just...didn’t.

I liked parts of it. Like the message and the perspective and the use of native languages. But there was so much that was clunky and cliched and odd choices that I thought hurt the sharing of the message the author was clearly TRYING to get across. And it wasn’t like this was the worst book I’ve ever read. Not even close. But there was so much I wanted to break down, to inspect, to, well, critique. I wanted to have the kind of discussion that book clubs only dream about. But, well, there was the problem which I described in detail in the lion's share of this post.

So, this rambling monster of a post is what I landed on. And it’s kind of a half-measure, a compromise, a cop-out. I got to vent some of my feelings about the book without, you know, actually DISCUSSING the book. And like most compromises, this probably won’t make anyone happy, including, honestly me. But that’s okay. Part of acknowledging my privilege is realizing that I don’t have to be happy all the time.

#books #personal