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I get it, the “dumbing” down and “ghettoization” of Black literature—in the name of making white folks feel good about not acknowledging/allowing Black excellence/progress—is a problem.
Sometimes, in our desire to put food on the table, we (sorta) compromise our integrity.
It makes sense. When you’re not the keeper of the gate, you have to be let in somehow. Even if the terms and conditions are unfair as hell.
That said, here’s the problem I had with this book, there’s plenty to be said about the stories Black writers have to tell; all types of voices are necessary because some of us don’t need (or want) to read Ellison and Baldwin 24/7.
Sometimes, its really just meant to me entertainment. The fact that some white person can’t tell the difference doesn’t actually matter. Why? Because at the end of the day, no matter what is written, those preconceived notions will always exist—if said white person is committed to believing them.
The way “Monk” makes himself sound is as if he’s too much above the bullshit to allow himself to even imagine the possibility of something like “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto” being palatable—especially to Black people.
To an extent, I get it.
Personally? I don’t tend to gravitate towards gritty, urban, novels. They don’t do it for me. However, just as Black people aren’t a monolith, nor is the Black reader. Monk is so absorbed in his disdain for what it means to have a white person relating such themes and characters, to Black life, until he’s unable to truly see the battle should be less about convincing them that it’s Fiction than it is about building a bridge between what’s real and what isn’t—and allowing a story to just be a story.
There’s plenty to be parsed in this one, particularly as it pertains to opportunities for Black authors, but the mindset of Monk came across as being a bit too “respectability politics” to me.
Those ideas of what Black excellence should be are every bit as dangerous sometimes.
Still, a good read and one worth the time. I intend to check out Everett’s other offerings as well.
Sometimes, in our desire to put food on the table, we (sorta) compromise our integrity.
It makes sense. When you’re not the keeper of the gate, you have to be let in somehow. Even if the terms and conditions are unfair as hell.
That said, here’s the problem I had with this book, there’s plenty to be said about the stories Black writers have to tell; all types of voices are necessary because some of us don’t need (or want) to read Ellison and Baldwin 24/7.
Sometimes, its really just meant to me entertainment. The fact that some white person can’t tell the difference doesn’t actually matter. Why? Because at the end of the day, no matter what is written, those preconceived notions will always exist—if said white person is committed to believing them.
The way “Monk” makes himself sound is as if he’s too much above the bullshit to allow himself to even imagine the possibility of something like “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto” being palatable—especially to Black people.
To an extent, I get it.
Personally? I don’t tend to gravitate towards gritty, urban, novels. They don’t do it for me. However, just as Black people aren’t a monolith, nor is the Black reader. Monk is so absorbed in his disdain for what it means to have a white person relating such themes and characters, to Black life, until he’s unable to truly see the battle should be less about convincing them that it’s Fiction than it is about building a bridge between what’s real and what isn’t—and allowing a story to just be a story.
There’s plenty to be parsed in this one, particularly as it pertains to opportunities for Black authors, but the mindset of Monk came across as being a bit too “respectability politics” to me.
Those ideas of what Black excellence should be are every bit as dangerous sometimes.
Still, a good read and one worth the time. I intend to check out Everett’s other offerings as well.