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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Thanks for your interest in entering to win a complete set of the 2015 Girls of Summer List, curated by authors Gigi Amateau and Meg Medina.
Stay Tuned!
Another exciting giveaway will launch on August 17. We’ll release details via social media and my weekly newsletter, The Smart Take. Thanks for being a part of our reading community. Email book and author suggestions for future giveaways to hello@mayasmart.com.
“You’re such a good boy,” Jazz Jennings’s mother always said.
“No, Mama. Good GIRL,” returned Jazz, a transgender child who would grow up to write a picture book about her path to girlhood.
Until that book, I Am Jazz, appeared on the Girls of Summer reading list, I had not thought about introducing the transgender experience to my three-year-old daughter. She’s got quite a girl-power library, but this particular narrative of individuality and self-acceptance was not represented. Realizing the omission, I jumped at the chance to read her a book that presented the complexity of gender identity simply enough for a preschooler to understand.
Turns out, it’s still not that simple. I read the book without considering how my daughter might receive its revelations; how it might complicate messages I had sent her about gender. I didn’t anticipate the confusion that the line, “I have a girl brain but a boy body,” would spark for a child whose playroom is conscientiously engineered to defy gender stereotypes. A hammer for every tiara. Blocks before dolls. A counter comment every time she declares blue is for boys.
What is a “girl brain,” to a child raised to reject gender categorization of toys and ambitions? The book talks of pink and princess gowns as signs of Jazz’s inner girl–reinforcing narrow ideas of femininity, even as it spoke to Jazz’s authentic experience. I Am Jazz raised more questions than it answered for my daughter and for me. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I’ve always wanted to share an inclusive roster of books with my daughter to enlarge her heart and her world. What I’m learning now is that the process will expand mine as well. I had picked up the book to prime my daughter to be kind and accepting of a range of human experiences. I put it down craving a greater measure of understanding myself.
So I read Redefining Realness, by Janet Mock, an advocate for trans women’s rights, to gain a more nuanced sense of trans experiences than a picture book could deliver. And, girl, did I get an education. I have not read a more truthful, urgent and brave story. I learned that the line, “I have a girl brain but a boy body,” represents many journeys, all too frequently sharing an undercurrent of shame, terror, and isolation. My daughter is too young to be introduced to those truths, but our discussions of I Am Jazz and other children’s books on similar topics will be informed and enhanced by what I’ve learned.
As a parent, I will never have all of the answers, but I’m convinced that it’s my job to continue seeking them in the pages of good books. On this topic, I Am Jazz and Redefining Realness were great places to start. This was originally published on Book Riot. You can read my Redefining Realness review here.
A career change inspired “The Crossroads of Should and Must,” Elle Luna’s manifesto for passionate living. Part pep talk, part illustrated guide, the book is all heart. It offers a remedy for discontent and unachieved potential to people who feel their talents are being stifled by others’ expectations.
I’ve read unapologetic calls to “just do you” many times before, but Luna’s use of drawings presents the idea in a fresh and memorable way. She offers no tedious footnotes, lengthy citations, or voluminous appendices to support her claims, only the wisdom of her journey from corporate designer to independent artist. This feels sufficient.
Not convinced? Here’s a glimpse of her call to authentic living in eight great quotes:
“Should is how other people want us to live our lives…Must is who we are, what we believe, and what we do when we are alone with our truest, most authentic sel[ves]. It’s that which calls to us most deeply.”
“Our prison is constructed from a lifetime of Shoulds, the world of choices we’ve unwittingly agreed to, the walls that alienate us from our truest, most authentic selves. Should is the doorkeeper to Must. And just as you create your prison, you can set yourself free.”
“All too often, we feel that we are not living the fullness of our lives because we are not expressing the fullness of our gifts.”
“It is constant effort and hard work—and inexplicably life-affirming—to honor who you are, what you believe, and why you are here.”
“It turns out that the more intimate we are with what we want, the more self-aware we will be about how we spend our time.”
“To choose Must is the greatest thing you can do with your life because this congruent, rooted way of living shines through everything that you do.”
“When you follow Must every day, you impact not only what you create for your work, but also who you become in your life. This is how your work and your life become one and the same. When you choose Must, what you create is yourself.”
“How long will you wait to honor who you are?”
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In her compendium of propaganda against black women, “The Sisters Are Alright,” Tamara Winfrey Harris exposes America’s historical and ongoing contempt for “the sisters.” She identifies stereotype after devastating stereotype, from whitewashed beauty standards to angry-black-woman clichés, and calls for recognition of the diversity and humanity of black women.
Although billed as a pep talk, Harris’s collection of panicked headlines, cruel criticism, and biased studies assailing black women makes for tough reading. On more than one occasion, I thought, It’s a wonder any of us survive.
And that’s the point. Most black women are not thriving, because we are doubly burdened with racial and gender discrimination. When we show up in the real world, we are too often seen through a thick veil of negative stereotypes. This limits our educational and employment opportunities, threatens our health, and makes it difficult to solicit and receive help.
Harris describes the brutal, sometimes deadly, consequences. Witness the frightened Detroit homeowner who shot teenager Renisha McBride in the face when she knocked on his door to seek assistance after a car accident.
But Harris didn’t write this book to enlighten people who discriminate against black women. Her goal is to bolster our self-esteem so that we can better navigate the toxic landscape. She peppers the book with positive messages called Moments in Alright. These vignettes highlight positive notes about black women, such as business ownership and educational attainment progress, and anecdotes about us excelling and helping one another. The nuggets offer little relief, though, set as they are against a backdrop of grim stereotypes.
It’s often said that it takes five expressions of praise to balance out a single criticism, and in this instance I craved more detailed stories of black women overcoming adversity, more insight into the self-talk that helps us flourish, and more explanation of how we’ve come to know we are alright, even when media coverage and social customs suggest the opposite.
For me, the book was not uplifting. But it offered something more valuable: honest and unapologetic insight. It is a fine example of how to consume media thoughtfully–one writer’s conscientious rejection of the tired notions and labels society tries to pin on black women. It’s a tough job. I’m glad she did it.
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Sarah Scarbrough exudes passion and pragmatism. She’s internal program director for the Richmond City Justice Center in Virginia (formerly the Richmond City Jail), and she’s serious about giving offenders another chance. To help these most disadvantaged, dismissed members of our society, Scarbrough takes a holistic approach in partnership with other agencies and the community at large.
I saw Scarbrough in action in February, when I participated in an event designed to help volunteers and philanthropists understand the connection between incarceration and homelessness.
At the Justice Center, our group heard inmates describe the effectiveness of Scarbrough’s rehabilitation program and lament their prospects for continuing progress after being released. The average number of incarcerations is 7.7 among the men and women in the RCJC Program that Scarbrough oversees.
“Somebody could have the utmost motivation while in jail, in the program, but if they’re released and they are homeless, or they don’t have the proper preparation to be released, they’re going to revert back to the old ways,” Scarbrough says.
Continue reading “Sarah Scarbrough: Putting Offender Recovery and Reentry Research Into Practice”I love this elegant story of kindness and cruelty. In just 32 pages, it distills the essence of human conflict–a persistent refusal to see the humanity in others and extend simple warmth and care.
Set among school children, “Each Kindness” is told from the perspective of Chloe, a young girl who refuses to accept small gestures of friendship from Maya, the new girl. Maya wears spring shoes in the snow and plays alone, snubbed by classmates who laugh and name her “Never New” for her hand-me-down wardrobe. Despite her absolute rejection in the schoolyard, Maya continually reaches out, extending a glance, a smile, some jacks, a ball–ever optimistic that one day her affection will be returned. Alas, it is not, and we last see her jumping rope around the whole school yard alone, never stopping, never looking up. Heartbreaking.
On the next page, Maya is absent from school and the girls’ teacher Ms. Albert gives a lesson in kindness. Chloe is moved when the teacher drops a small stone into a bowl of water, observes the ripples and says: “This is what kindness does. Each little thing we do goes out, like a ripple, into the world.” But Chloe can’t think of a single kindness to share when it is her turn to drop a pebble into the bowl.
Later, she resolves to be kind and make the world better by simply returning Maya’s smile. But her realization comes too late. Maya’s absences from school pile up and Ms. Albert announces that her family had to move away. Chloe sits by a pond and considers each kindness she had never shown.
I threw small stones into it, over and over.
Watching the way the water rippled out and away.
Out and away.
Like each kindness — done and not done.
Like every girl somewhere —
holding a small gift out to someone
and that someone turning away from it.
The economy of Woodson’s prose and the solemnity of E.B. Lewis’s illustration combine to powerful effect. Together, they remind us that sometimes we learn valuable lessons too late, with real consequences for the people we spurn.
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