The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl is a romp of self-deprecating wit relating the anxiety-ridden life experiences of a trilingual, fashion-deficient, Stanford-educated, Halfrican millennial. The mix is fresh, funny and necessary.
In her debut essay collection, Rae mines her life’s most embarrassing episodes for our amusement—and entertain they do. Her inventory of humiliations spans the merely amusing—piano fails and dancing disability—to the downright dangerous—wearing head-to-toe red in a Crip neighborhood and harboring a cockroach in her jumpsuit on an international flight. She seems to alternately invite the reader to laugh with her or at her. We oblige, because we don’t have the moxie to give our own foibles a book’s worth of scrutiny.
We need authentic representations of black women, and there is something both satisfying and subversive about Rae’s book. She gives us a portrait of a well-educated, creative, entrepreneurial woman. Yet she sidesteps the damaging pitfall of presenting a flawless front to bolster respectability and approval. Instead, she jokes about experiences most would edit out of their public profiles, such as catfishing (AKA lying online) at eleven and getting blocked on Twitter by a disabled stripper years later. She’s giving us her humanity, warts and all.
Anecdotes like these are more than entertaining. They are unexpected and lovable–and give old folk a glimpse into the mix of technology, media and public exposure shaping the YouTube generation. “At the time I came up with the concept for ABG I was just a clumsy, frustrated, socially inept, recently graduated adult, looking for confirmation that I wasn’t alone…” she writes. “But at some level, as each new model for social media strives to connect us in new, paradoxically estranged ways, there exists a consistent core, the human desire to feel included.”
At its heart, this book is a chronicle of how little Jo-Issa Rae Diop (rhymes with hope) grew into her alter ego Issa Rae. It’s a book about the fits and starts of forging an identity that’s both truthful and expansive enough to propel one’s dreams into reality. (It joins Gail Simmon’s underrated “Talking with my Mouth Full” on my list of graduation gifts for girls, because it exemplifies the wisdom of allowing ourselves to love what we love, instead of blindly following traditional career paths.)
Part of her coming-of-age story deals with learning to navigate inter- and intraracial relationships. In one of my favorite chapters, she offers a guide for awkward blacks to connect with other blacks. By outlining 14 distinct types of black people and acknowledging hybrids among them, she strikes another blow against monolithic representations. Refreshingly, the categories aren’t defined by the extent to which individuals dial “blackness” up or down in response to the whims and prejudices of white people. (Think: Justin Simien’s One Hun-ned, Nose Job and OOFTA categories in “Dear White People.”) She gives us The 10% Black, The Basic Black, The Know-It-All About Blacks Black, The LGBT Black and many more, and they all ring true.
At the same time, she reveals her personal ambivalence about and fatigue with talking (and writing) about race, particularly with blacker-than-thou people–white and black–who embrace narrow pop culture stereotypes as the epitome of blackness. It’s much more fun–and funny–to explore people’s individual eccentricities. Take schoolmate Remington, the “8th-grade-looking 6th-grader” who “frequently expressed his sexual desires in a way that hinted at experience.” And Grandpa, who counters kids’ fast-food requests with “we gon’ make our own MackDonald’s.” (Think: Nasty homemade patty accented with green pepper and onion.) Rae excels at quippy characterization of the supporting actors in her embarrassments.
On the book’s cover, Rae strikes a Wonder Woman pose under an awkward girl banner, looking anything but. In truth, she’s becoming less and less awkward all the time. By some magic, she’s transformed social ineptitude into a web series, a book, a livelihood. Awkward and all, she’s a new-look leading lady.
Quibbles: The stories are well-chosen and Rae’s humor is refreshing, but the writing itself does get awkward in unwelcome ways. She’s “hot with regret” when an attempt to nickname herself Sloppy Jo flops. Later she’s “hot with embarrassment and shame” when her grandfather calls her fat. Labeling emotions instead of trusting us to feel them is a rookie move. No need to name what the scene evokes and the reader intuits. As Roy Peter Clark puts it, “subtlety is a writer’s virtue.” Still, her foibles are forgivable, easily remedied and take nothing away from my eagerness to see what (mis)adventures she chronicles next. Issa Rae’s The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl is the first selection of the Inkwell Book Club, an online national book club designed to promote good books, wield marketplace influence, and help black writers earn a living wage. Amen.
“Queen Sugar” offers a fresh perspective on the New South, a landscape marred by inequity yet rich in complexity and perseverance. In it, debut novelist Natalie Baszile gives us that elusive treat — an appropriately complex black woman protagonist.
Told through the eyes of a down-but-not-out Los Angeles art teacher, Charley Bordelan, the novel chronicles her attempt to make a life and build a business on sugarcane land in Louisiana. The “gift” of 800 acres from her recently deceased father gives the young widow and her 11-year-old daughter a fresh start, if not an easy one.
The tale of the locals and migrants who step up to help her (and those who don’t) is told with insight and restraint. It takes a parish, a faith healer and prayer to contend in a back-breaking industry where both treacherous competitors and natural disaster reign. But Charley persists, moved by the notion that “the one thing, perhaps the only thing, she could now give her daughter [was] the chance to see that even a woman in desperate straits could pull her own survival out of the ruddy earth.”
At its core, this is a story of inheritance—not money, but character, ingenuity and focus. There are lessons here about generosity and authority, about family and fortitude, but above all about sense and survival. I was intrigued by this lovely novel’s quiet insistence that the most influential gifts we give children are our examples, including the hours we spend toiling out of their sights providing for futures they cannot yet imagine and we can scarcely control. “Queen Sugar” reminds us that our best isn’t always sufficient, but it is always required. OWN: Oprah Winfrey Network announced that Winfrey and “Selma” filmmaker Ava DuVernay have joined together to create a new original drama series inspired by “Queen Sugar.” DuVernay is set to write, direct and produce the project and Winfrey will co-produce and act in multiple episodes. Production is scheduled to begin in 2015. Details here.
Every now and then a crazy idea captures my imagination and won’t let go. In 2013, it was to sell 1,000 short-sleeved t-shirts in the dead of winter to raise money for a local nonprofit with deep roots but little name-recognition. In 2014, it was to transform a Richmond trolley into a Brooklyn cityscape inspired by Ezra Jack Keats’s classic children’s book “The Snowy Day.”
I thought the story’s urban landscape and celebration of childhood made it perfect for the Richmond Christmas Parade. The story about the innocence of play and the comfort of home stars Peter, a black boy. When it was published in 1962, it was considered a “pioneering portrayal.” Sadly, all these years later, it’s still noteworthy to see a black child in a storybook. In 2013, 3,200 children’s books were published, and fewer than 100 of them featured black children.
Continue reading “In Praise of Diverse Books for Children”A defining moment in Elizabeth Warren’s life was watching her 50-year-old mother wrestle herself into a worn black dress typically reserved for funerals and head out for her first job interview. The family was in dire financial straits after Warren’s father suffered a debilitating heart attack and her mom wasn’t going to lose their house without a fight.
“The dress was too tight—way too tight,” Warren writes in “A Fighting Chance.” “It pulled and puckered. I thought it might explode if she moved. But I knew there wasn’t another nice dress in the closet. And that was the moment I crossed the threshold. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I stood there, as tall as she was. I looked her right in the eye and said: ‘You look great. Really.’”
Her mother got the job answering calls at Sears, and Warren got an education in walking straight ahead, no matter how tough the going (or wobbly the heels).
Personal stories like this make Massachusetts Senator Warren a compelling character in her political narrative. Ultimately, though, the family dramas she recounts are mere asides. The memoir’s primary concern is combatting the big corporations, lobbyists and billion-dollar tax loopholes that she believes rig the game against working families.
“It’s not meant to be a definitive account of any historical event—it’s just what I saw and what I lived,” she writes of her book. “It’s also a story about losing, learning, and getting stronger along the way. It’s a story about what’s worth fighting for, and how sometimes, even when we fight against very powerful opponents, we can win.”
I would expect nothing less from the former Harvard Law professor and Consumer Financial Protection Bureau visionary. But more than her policy prescriptions and political rhetoric, the book struck me with her enviable courage, consistency and fight. Here are a few unexpected takeaways from the senior Senator from Massachusetts.
Bloom where you’re planted. Career “experts” encouraged my generation to seek “dream jobs” at the intersection of our unique talents, passions and skills. Problem is: Most of us need real jobs, the kind where pay stubs meet living expenses, and those are often less than dreamy.
Warren’s expectations were much lower as a young professional. For her, working — period — was a triumph, because married women were expected to stay home with kids. She got one job offer after law school, and part-time at that, but she accepted and relished it, striving to make it meaningful. She taught legal writing with gusto, and when her husband’s job transferred, she cold-called a law school to win her next gig—a real professorship. In short, she sought “better,” not “perfect,” and kept taking the next step.
The long arc of Warren’s career is instructive. When she had small children, her teaching, writing and research hours were limited, but she never abandoned them altogether. By putting one foot in front of the other day after day, cranky toddlers and all, she laid a strong foundation of expertise—and indignation—that propelled her all the way to the Senate, where she arrived at 62.
Outrage can drive a career. Notably, her rise from legal writing instructor to bankruptcy law expert to the U.S. Senate wasn’t fueled by a love of the law. Rather, a deep disdain for the injustice of some laws and a commitment to fighting for change spurred her on. This notion that pain points, not warm fuzzies, are worthy motivators is powerful.
Warren’s book is filled with her visceral reactions to injustice. When a world-famous law professor couldn’t support his negative claims about people in bankruptcy with data, her teeth hurt. National Bankruptcy Review Commission hearings made her gag. Politics felt dirty, and the cynicism of banks who preyed on vulnerable families infuriated—and motivated–her.
In each instance, she adopted a fighter’s stance and hustled to learn enough about the problems to propose and advocate for effective solutions. She took it all very personally. “My daddy and I were both afraid of being poor, really poor,” she writes. “His response was never to talk about money or what might happen if it ran out—never ever ever. My response was to study contracts, finance, and, most of all, economic failure, to learn everything I could. My daddy stayed away from big sores that hurt. I poked at them.”
Never be afraid to pick a fight. Throughout the book, Warren uses the language of direct confrontation to describe her work. She chooses battles, wrangles with opponents, and punches back—all to give working people a fighting chance. Whether snatching a microphone from a bankruptcy judge on a panel or railing against industry-backed bills, her message is consistently loud and clear.
Amid the pitched battle for a consumer protection agency, she refused to see it gutted. “My first choice is a strong consumer agency,” she said. “My second choice is no agency at all and plenty of blood and teeth left on the floor….My 99th choice is some mouthful of mush that doesn’t get the job done.”
Love her or hate her, you always know where she stands. May we each learn to fight our own good fights with such urgency and resolve.
I was reading Laura Vanderkam’s “I Know How She Does It” when news broke of the racist killing of nine churchgoers in South Carolina. At first, it felt meaningless to be mining the book for time-saving strategies and productivity tips as the nation (or some of it anyway) went into mourning. It felt absurd to read a self-help book when I could be toppling confederate monuments or lobbying for gun control.
Yet I kept turning the pages. And I realized that in the face of senseless violence, I was comforted by Vanderkam’s assertion that we have plenty of time to do the things that matter to us. Even toppling monuments to oppression or lobbying for change.
We have the time — we just don’t recognize or appreciate it, she argues. “The math is straightforward,” she writes to her audience of women juggling careers and families.
“There are 168 hours in a week. If you work 50, and sleep 8 per night (56 hours per week in total), that leaves 62 hours for other things. If you work 60 hours and sleep 8 hours per night, that leaves 52 hours for other things.”
And truly, very few people work more than 60 hours a week, according to Vanderkam’s research, despite the stories they tell.
She conducted a study, The Mosaic Project, that asked participants to: “Write down what you’re doing, as often as you remember, in as much detail as you wish to share.” Participants used spreadsheets broken into 15- or 30-minute increments or apps, like Toggl, to keep track.
Though time tracking isn’t perfect, it’s a vast improvement over just asking people how they spend their time, which is what much research does. People get this wrong in a variety of ways. Without conscientiously logging hours, they are just guessing. And they are guessing under the influence of systematic bias.
“If everyone in your industry talks about their eighty-hour workweeks, even if logs show they’re probably averaging fifty-five hours, you will talk about your eighty-hour workweeks too,” Vanderkam writes. “In a world where we complain about how busy we are, we’re not going to mention that five out of seven nights per week we sleep just fine. It’s the night that a kid woke up at two a.m. and you had to catch a seven a.m. flight that you talk about at parties or mention in your departure memo.”
Our challenge then is to “arrange the tiles” of our career, family and other interests into mosaics of activity that are uniquely our own, versus trying to wedge ourselves into tired narratives of what life should look like. Happy marriages, quality time with children, a social life and (gasp) sleep are all possible, Vanderkam asserts.
There’s time for reading, reflection and activism, too, I thought.
Each chapter of the book features spreadsheets showing how a real woman accounted for the 168 hours in her week. Often, the women found that they slept more and worked less than they thought. And, notably, they managed their lives not with dramatic sacrifices but with basic choice making.
Can’t make it home for dinner with the family every night? So what, make breakfast your time to bond. Want to make some big moves in your career? Take it easy on the housework. It’s not the decisions themselves so much as the grief we give ourselves about not meeting unrealistic standards in every area of our lives every day that gets us down, Vanderkam suggests.
Hearing the voices (and seeing the schedules) of numerous real women with real children working real jobs is instructive—and often humorous. The time logs contain gems like “Kids in bed w/o bath and only 1 brushed teeth as both were stoned on sugar.” We can see ourselves in each of the women and be reminded to take the good with the stressful and keep it moving.
One quibble with the book is that it wasn’t ambitious enough. It argues that we have time for work and family, but I wish it had gone a step further to describe the kind of impact our work can have when we commit to it. At times “I Know How She Does It” feels like a book about navigating snow days and flexible work schedules, when women are desperate for a book about thriving and making a difference. I found myself craving some anecdotes about the powerful organizations and life-saving technologies moms are developing while their kids sleep and play.
Still, Vanderkam brings a welcome pragmatism and optimism to discussions of work-family conflict. “If you believe, like I do, that the good life can be a full life—a level full life or even a heaping full life—then I invite you to study how you place the tiles of your time, energy, and attention,” she writes. “I invite you to think about the pattern with the goal, over time, of making an even more satisfying picture.”
“I Know How She Does It” arrived at the right time for me. I’ve recently relocated to a new city and, without a full schedule or longstanding commitments, I have great flexibility to shape my days. I’ve spent most of my time on unpacking and household concerns, but a more satisfying picture would show considerable time spent on the literacy and advocacy work I find meaningful.
Laura, thanks for the reminder that I’ve got 168 hours to invest this week. Plenty of time to get to work.
I recommend Lisa Bloom’s “Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-down World” as a complement to “I Know How She Does It.” In “Think,” Bloom makes a smart and forceful argument for women to get our heads out of the dust bins and into engaged citizenry.
“Our country, still the world’s only superpower, has the power to bomb or to heal,” she writes. “Which would you prefer? Will you participate in that decision? And politics aside, each of us is an individual superpower, blessed as we are with a first world education, the ability to pick up a book and read it, the freedom to click around for real news online, the means to write a $20 check that will send an Ethiopian girl to school for a year.”
Together the two books give you a reason to be bold about how you invest your time and the practical tools and examples to get on with it.
I drifted through the farewell party, feeling unmoored. Our house, no longer our home, stood empty a couple of blocks away. Our belongings were en route to a new city, our departure imminent. Yet here Zora and I stood in celebratory pause, having our last hurrah, a Happy Trails party to launch us toward our new home.
I knew I would be back in Richmond again soon. I had a house to sell and projects to lead, but I didn’t know if I would be back again with Zora, and I needed to reassure myself that I had done enough to impress the place upon her heart. It was, after all, her first home, where she was born and I became her mother.
Continue reading “A Farewell to Remember”I love Ta-Nehisi Coates’s unflinching essays on race. They exemplify journalism’s highest calling as a discipline of verification. He consistently eviscerates uniquely American delusions with deep reporting, impregnable facts and powerful prose.
Witness this brilliant story in which he lets confederates themselves declare the battle flag’s meaning, quoting long passages of their defense of slavery and white supremacy. Only the willfully ignorant or comprehension impaired can read it and credibly assert that the rebel flag is not a symbol of hate. His writing wakes us from our collective slumber.
His first memoir, “The Beautiful Struggle” (published in 2008), is also about awakening, but in it Coates as well as his readers get schooled. The book introduces us to young Ta-Nehisi, the sixth of his father’s seven children, as he navigates the perils of adolescence set against a backdrop of Baltimore street brawls, guns and crack. The captivating story reveals how his parents, teachers and the streets gave him an education in life or death matters of black consciousness.
In particular, I loved his depiction of his reading-fueled maturation, informed by the revolutionary (Dessalines and Toussaint) children’s books his mother imparted and his father’s massive collection of out-of-print texts, obscure lectures and self-published monographs of black writers. The books and the love with which they were dispensed fortified him against the hostility of the world in substantial ways.
“I plunged into my father’s books of Consciousness that he’d shelved in nearly every room in the house,” Coates writes. “That was how I found myself, how I learned my name.”
He’s speaking of the moment when he saw “Ta-Nehisi,” the ancient Egyptian name for the mighty Nubian nation, in print. But also of the long journey, home training if you will, that anchored him in his blackness and his promise as he entered adulthood.
All of Coates’s writing is a gift, but I especially appreciate this deeply personal survivor’s tale, rendered in all its complexity and beauty. It deepened my belief that reading books of substance and conviction helps build children of substance and conviction. I look forward to the next chapter of his memoirs, “Between the World and Me,” scheduled for July release.
Each year authors Meg Medina and Gigi Amateau launch the Girls of Summer List of “amazing books for amazing girls,” in partnership with the Richmond Public Library. The lovingly curated selection of titles–from picture books through young adult–all feature strong girl protagonists navigating incredible tests on their journeys to womanhood.
The summer’s list launches with a party at the library, which draws girls of all ages, ethnicities and identities to talk books — no worksheets, vocab tests or reports required.
The idea emerged five years ago as Amateau and Medina prepared to send daughters off to college. “It came out of a very personal place for both of us,” Medina says. “We were sort of in mourning. You look at your daughters and you feel like you’ve run out of time. You want to tell them something else. You want to give them some other piece of information or skill so that they can go out into the world and really be strong. We just started to talk about how books helped us raise them.”
That discussion ultimately led them to pick 18 books for strong girls, one for every year of their daughters’ lives, and share them through a blog and public library event.
“It’s really something to be at a library and look out at these girls and know that what you’ve done has given them a reason to come to a library,” Medina says. “I feel like the conversation dignifies who they are and gives them practice in how you think about what you read, what you ingest, what you bring inside yourself as entertainment and as a reflection of who you are.”
As an adult and a mother, I can attest to the power of the list and its launch event to do just that. We are, to a great extent, what we read, and each year I eagerly anticipate bolstering my and my young daughter’s strength through Girls of Summer selections.
Here are a few titles from this year’s list, and you can find the full list at http://girlsofsummerlist.com/.
Journalist Kristen Green seems born to write this particular and personal history of Prince Edward County’s legendary segregationist resolve. Yet her book, Something Must Be Done About Prince Edward County, reveals the many ways her family and community groomed her to do otherwise–to look the other way as devastating racial divides persisted.
The story of her awakening is powerful. It is rooted in history that began before her birth but is by no means past. In 1948, the all-white school board of Prince Edward County, Virginia faced overcrowding of its black schools. The board decided that seeking a bond measure for “a nigger school” was out of the question, and instead built two flimsy tar-paper shack classrooms that reeked of petroleum and leaked when it rained.
Black students went on strike in 1951, to draw attention to the deplorable conditions and demand acceptable schools. The battle quickly morphed into a desegregation movement, including a lawsuit that joined four others and went to the Supreme Court under the Brown v Board of Education banner.
The local backlash was immediate, fierce, and determined. The Supreme Court mandated public school desegregation in 1954, but the county resisted. When its actions were deemed unconstitutional, the white county leadership began underfunding the public schools and laying the groundwork for a whites-only private school called Prince Edward Academy.
Later, when given a firm deadline of desegregating by September 1959, the Prince Edward County Board of Supervisors voted to eliminate its entire education budget rather than comply. They shuttered every last one of the county’s 21 public schools and sent their own kids to the Academy, a hodgepodge of classes in churches, former homes and vacant stores, stocked with supplies pilfered from the abandoned public schools.
The county’s 1,700 black children were completely shut out, denied a free education for five hard years. That devastating loss reverberates to this day in high rates of illiteracy and poverty in the community.
Green recounts this history, as well as her personal story of coming of age in Prince Edward County, being (mis)educated at the Academy, and graduating oblivious to the harsh toll the segregationist history exacted on black residents. She bravely calls out the racism of revered figures in Farmville, the small rural town where she was reared, even of her own beloved grandfather.
The release and circumstances of this particular story of white hate and recalcitrance is perfectly timed, given recent debates over the confederate battle flag in public spaces. The depiction of Green’s earnest efforts to grapple with the past is much needed. I suspect that as a white woman, she’ll be able to reach audiences who have been deaf to these stories for years, like her former classmate, referenced in the book, who denies the racist origins of their school.
Little of the ground covered in the book is new–The Moton Museum bookshop features several accounts of the school closing, written from a black perspective–but Green’s synthesis is welcome. I’m reminded of the Daily Show parody where Jessica Williams makes points that her white colleague only acknowledges after Jon Stewart repeats them. Black people regularly tell these stories of racism, fear mongering, and hate, but many people will not really get it until a white person tells them. Such is the insidiousness of unconscious racial bias.
I’m thankful for Green and others who are bold enough to tell the truth about America’s racial hierarchy. I hope her work resonates widely. “Something Must Be Done About Prince Edward County” could actually serve as a primer for people who want to acknowledge and dismantle the racist systems they are complicit in. Her diligent efforts to ferret out the truth, correct her mistaken assumptions and educate others is instructive and worthy of wide emulation.
In particular, Green’s writing offers a couple of crucial lessons:
Go deep. When we’re honest–and informed–about our complicity with racist systems, we have a chance at redeeming ourselves. Green interviewed an array of people in the town, spent hours in dusty libraries and read book after book on the subject to grasp the complexity of the issue. She simply refused to accept surface explanations and pushed past personal discomfort to faithfully engage with the subject. She kept asking questions and cataloging responses to make personal sense of the sordid history. She pursued the truth even when it made her friends, family and herself look bad.
“It has become a painful topic for me, a source of shame and guilt,” she writes. “I feel torn between my love for my grandparents and embarrassed by their prejudice. I want to be loyal to them and protective of their legacy. Yet I believe that this story is worth exploring. My discomfort, and others’ discomfort, is all the evidence I need.”
Digging deep is the only antidote to ignorance and oversimplification. A strength of Green’s account is its depiction of a range of complicity in and reactions to the county’s turmoil. We hear from the staunch segregationists but also from the poor white farmers who couldn’t afford private school fees and the college professors who thought everyone deserved an education.
We’re not all professional journalists, so the depths of our investigations will vary. You don’t have to write a book about your discoveries, but the nation needs you to engage your critical thinking skills, weigh the evidence and come to your own conclusions–and actions.
Challenge yourself to view events from the perspective of “the other.” Green frequently uses her family’s housekeeper as the lens through which to view 60 years of Prince Edward County history. Known just as “Elsie,” she was the only black person Green knew until high school. For years, Green gave no thought to Elsie’s own family and life outside of cleaning Green’s parents’ and grandparents’ homes. Eventually, she reckoned with the incompatibility of her mom calling Elsie “part of the family” while her grandfather helped tear Elsie’s own family apart.
When the county’s public schools closed, Elsie sent her 12-year-old daughter Gwen to live with relatives in Massachusetts to get an education. Gwen stayed there for decades and Elsie, missing those formative years, never again got to be Gwen’s mother in the way she longed to be. “The separation of children from their parents echoed the indignities of slavery and the irreparable harm done when the closest of relationships were suddenly severed,” Green writes.
When taken to heart, books like this one allow empathy and action to bloom. Those who are sensitive to the suffering of others are more likely to address it.
Yes, something must be done about Prince Edward County and the rest of this nation. And, as the book reminds us, it’s up to us to do it.
Janet Mock’s “Redefining Realness” is a heartbreaking work of staggering revelation. I have not read a memoir that felt more truthful, urgent and brave. Mock chronicles her perilous journey from boyhood to womanhood, illuminating all of the obstacles race, class, life circumstances and other people (even well-meaning ones) erected in her path.
The narrative is deeply personal and also political in its insistence upon drawing attention to the entire transgender community, which desperately needs broader awareness and acceptance. The book educates as well as captivates. I highly recommend it to anyone seeking a better grasp of the challenges facing transgender children and adults, particularly those who come of age without the financial and moral support of their families.
Here’s why everyone should read “Redefining Realness:”
You’ll get a master class in unapologetic selfhood. Mock lays herself bare in this book, from her parents’ drug addictions to her time as a teen sex worker. But this is not exhibitionism for exhibitionism’s sake. This is a full-hearted embrace of her own complex, layered identity. She’s owning her story and daring us to join her in making life easier for the next girl like her–born with a male body but longing to grow into her womanhood.
“I believe that telling our stories, first to ourselves and then to one another and the world, is a revolutionary act,” she writes. “It is an act that can be met with hostility, exclusion, and violence. It can also lead to love, understanding, transcendence, and community.”
It’ll sharpen your understanding and your communication. “Redefining Realness” packs real explanatory power, helping us avoid stigmatizing slips of the tongue. It will teach you the basics: the difference between cis and trans and their relation to the alignment (or misalignment) of a person’s gender identity and the sex assigned to them at birth.
More importantly, you’ll gain a sense of the very real lived impact of words when used to dismiss, dehumanize and disparage trans people. You’ll grasp why gender reassignment surgery isn’t about turning gay people into straight people of the opposite sex. Why it’s not prudent or safe for a woman to disclose that she’s trans to everyone she meets. Why we all need to focus on making the world safer for everyone.
It’s a love story. Mock presents storytelling as a form of intimacy. The book operates within the frame of her revealing herself as a trans woman to the man she loves, but it’s clear that self-love is really what’s at stake. She had to learn to accept, embrace and love the fullness of her experience before expecting the same of him. The revelation of her truth itself was vital, whether he embraced her or not.
“I wasn’t sure of anything but the fact that I was no longer merely the veneer I had cautiously constructed since leaving Hawaii for New York,” Mock writes of the moments after the telling. “I could no longer maintain the shiny, untarnished, unattainable facade of that dream girl, the mixed one with the golden skin and curls and wide smile, the one wielding a master’s degree and an enviable job.” The mask slipped to reveal something more beautiful–her humanity.
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