By Lisabet Sarai
Our
Grip title for the next two weeks is “Appropriation”.
If
you’re an author, appropriation isn’t something you do. It’s
something other people accuse you of doing. And frankly, most of the
time those accusations ring hollow, at least to me.
I’m
sorry, but I don’t intend to apologize for writing stories that
feature black characters, even though I’m white. Nor do I feel any
sort of reticence in imagining and capturing the experiences of men,
either gay or straight, despite the fact that I don’t have a penis.
Or creating a character who’s a Catholic nun, when I was brought up
Jewish.
Sure,
it’s quite possible that I will not get everything “right”
(although I’d argue that human beings are so diverse and
multifaceted that the concept of accuracy might not make a lot of
sense). If someone objects to the way I’ve portrayed a gay man, an
Asian woman, a Native American, a Catholic, a transgender woman, or
whatever, because I’ve made some factual errors, I welcome the
correction. However, I categorically reject the suggestion that I’m
not qualified to write about groups to which I don’t belong, or
that my doing so somehow inflicts damage on the members of that
group.
Remember
Black Lace, the groundbreaking erotica imprint that would not accept
submissions from male writers? Of course they were free to make their
own rules, and I suppose that in some sense “erotica for women by
women” was their marketing gimmick. Still, I found it annoying, and
I know many male colleagues who felt the same way. I would be willing
to bet there are quite a few male authors out there who could
convince an editor they were female.
Part
of the magic of writing is spinning truth out of the imagination.
Experience may be important, but our stories transcend experience.
The
concept of appropriation is closely tied, for me, to the notion of
political correctness. Please believe me when I say that I try to
respect every human being on the planet. Compassion, civility, human
rights for all —these are among my most cherished values.
Paradoxically, political correctness often erodes these values. Wars
about the appropriate terminology for a marginalized group don’t
help build trust and cooperation, they tear it down.
I’m
an author. I’d never claim that words are not important. However,
actions still speak much louder, for me at least.
Immediately
after the 2016 presidential election in the U.S., I wrote a story
(Divided We Fall) about a possible dystopia I saw arising from
the outcomes. The two young protagonists, one black, one Vietnamese,
live in adjoining ghettos in Los Angeles. They’ve been taught to
hate and distrust one another, because the powers that be understand
that a divided resistance will never be effective.
The
story includes some harsh language, including racial slurs. When I
asked my fellow authors to help share my blurb and excerpt, some of
them objected because of the language. I found this deeply
frustrating. The language was the whole point, after all. It’s a
deliberate attempt on my part to show how they have dehumanized one
another. If I were to remove the references to “nigger” and
“gook”, the story would lose some of its impact.
Finally,
I just have to shrug. You’ve got to have a thick skin and a
philosophical attitude, because you’re always going to piss someone
off.
Meanwhile,
here’s a politically incorrect excerpt from Divided We Fall.
If you want more—well, all sales benefit Planned Parenthood.
“Freeze,
bitch.”
I’m
expecting the challenge, but still, my stomach does a queasy flip. I
remain motionless, as instructed, keeping both hands visible. A tall,
lean figure steps out from behind some pollution-rusted shrubbery in
front of a ruined apartment building. He carries his Kalashnikov like
it’s another limb, one which he points directly at me. Funny how
there’s never enough food, but no problem getting guns.
“What
you doin’ here? This ain’t your territory. You get your gook ass
back ‘cross the street before I kick it back!”
Though
the guard talks tough, I can see he’s young, maybe younger than I
am. He fixes me with a belligerent glare and brandishes his weapon
like he’d just as soon shoot me as not, but there’s a softness to
his mouth that lets me imagine him smiling. Using his left hand to
draw an ugly blade from his belt, he strides in my direction.
He
wears threadbare jeans and a faded camouflage shirt, open to the
waist. The inky skin on his bare chest gleams with sweat, despite the
brisk wind. The paler flesh of a scar slashes across his chest, just
above his left nipple. That must have been a dire wound, close to
fatal. He might be young, but he’s no stranger to battle. None of
us is, these days.
“You
hear me, bitch?” he growls and jabs at me with his knife.
Instinct
taking over, I shrink backward, then recover. He mustn’t think I’m
afraid. Straightening my spine, I raise my flag a bit higher.
“I
claim the right of truce.” I make my voice low, even, and
respectful. But not subservient. “I’m looking for my three-year
old brother. He wandered out of our territory earlier today. Someone
said he might be in Niggertown.”
“You
better hope he’s not.” The guard gives me an evil grin. “Me and
my boys just love a bit of barbecue.”
I
ignore his jibe. He’s just trying to pull my chain. I hope. “Can
I have a look around? Please?”
“Any
gooks enterin’ Niggertown got to pay the toll.” His leer widens,
his white teeth a shocking contrast to his soot-dark complexion.
“Of
course.” I’d expected something like this. I jerk my thumb
toward my backpack. “May I...? I’ve got veggies, from my mother’s
garden. Cucumbers, green beans and kale. Chilies, too.”
Money
wasn’t much use in the barrios. Fresh vegetables, though—they
were hard to come by, and I’d heard the soil in Niggertown was even
more contaminated than ours.
He
steps closer, until he’s looming over me. The point of his knife
grazes my throat. Unflinching, I meet his eyes, brown as the muddy
water of the Mekong in Mother’s old photos. His blade travels down
my chest, pausing between my breasts. “I want something hot,” he
murmurs. “But it ain’t chilies.”
“You
think you’ll rape me?” Amazed at my own daring, I grasp his
wrist and drag it to one side, until the blade’s a safe distance
from my flesh. He doesn’t resist. Dropping his hand, I give the
little kick I’ve practiced so many times and flip the switchblade
into my hand, already open. “I’ll kill you first, boy.”
“Don’t
you call me that, bitch!” I’m ready for him to hit me—I expect
the toll to include some blood—but he holds back. “Anyway, I
wouldn’t rape your skinny yellow ass. Nah, I’m gonna wait till
you beg for it!”
I
burst into laughter. I just can’t help it. “Right. That’ll
happen the same day the pigs lay off the barrios and the Tower
collapses.”
He
tries to look fierce, but he can’t quite pull it off. “Just you
wait,” he warns. “You gonna be on your knees. Beggin’ for me to
put my big thing between your legs. An’ me, I’m just gonna leave
you there!”
