Stories for All God's Children

WHEN I ROAMED the Flushing Public Library as an immigrant child, I encountered mirrors and windows—in Little Women, Jo loved her sisters as I did mine; in A Little Princess, Sara Crewe’s heart for the disenfranchised stirred me to compassion; and in Anne of Green Gables, I found another child who loved to write.

It didn’t strike me until later that I never encountered a hero who reflected my ethnicity or brown skin. If Indian culture showed up at all, it was portrayed negatively, as in The Secret Garden, where Indians were described as “natives” and “pigs.” In another book, a lone Indian character was a mysterious servant without any back story. I still reread those two books regularly and know they were crucial in my formation. But I wonder if their portrayal of my ethnicity underlined the truth that my Indian-ness was a liability in wider culture. It took years for me to be grateful, instead of ashamed, about being Bengali. A good book or two with a Bengali protagonist might have helped.

Stories are powerful, and Jesus modeled storytelling that changes the hearer for good. But other stories can be propaganda that causes us to hate or fear the “other.” Jesus raged at those who harm children by causing them to sin: “It would be better for you to have a large millstone tied around your neck.”

When it comes to race and power in books for children, questions abound. Must I have experienced the same lack of privilege as my main character to tell her story? When is storytelling a form of cultural exchange and when does it disintegrate into cultural appropriation? Does the fear of making a “fatal flaw” hinder creativity? Who decides that a story should be kept from children because it might teach them to hate the “other” or even themselves? Does this kind of protection violate freedom of expression?

These are not esoteric questions. They result in action and confrontation. Korean parents protested a historical novel that depicted Japanese people as victims rather than perpetrators of violence. A publisher recalled a picture book after outcry over the inaccurate portrayal of a cheerful, compliant slave. When dialect used by black teens in a novel was criticized, the book’s release was postponed after it garnered starred reviews. Librarians remove the Little House series from circulation because of the books’ negative portrayal of Native Americans.

The controversial word “banning” pops up in the debate to describe everything from editors not acquiring a story, booksellers and libraries not stocking it, teachers not assigning it, and parents not buying it to publishers pulling it. Another option is to keep a flawed book in the pantheon but to “bowdlerize” offensive parts, like changing the “n-word” to “slave” in a new edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Imagine a black student hearing a white teacher utter the “n-word” 219 times, bowdlerizers argue. Others believe such a book is best introduced by adults who are equipped to teach critical thinking. Advocates of intellectual freedom defend access to even the most contentious book, arguing that if we provide more good books than bad ones, we protect children from the “danger of a single story”—a phrase coined by novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in a TED talk. Meanwhile, concerned by the power of stories to marginalize or foster hatred in the hearts of children, others defend the right to winnow the shelves.

When I read or write stories for children, I start by asking questions about race and power. Here are a few.

1. How does a storyteller identify race?

White default theorizes that when an author doesn’t purposefully identify race, most Western readers will automatically envision characters as white. I used to be skeptical of this, given that my imagination’s version of The Lord of the Rings resulted in a mad crush on a swarthy, dark-skinned Aragorn. Then Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games series was adapted for the screen. When a black actor was cast as Rue instead of a white one, some fans responded with anger. In the book, Rue has “satiny, dark skin,” but these readers ignored Collins’ deliberate race descriptors—not only were they white defaulting, they were white overriding. Savvy authors, therefore, must think carefully about how to describe race. It’s complicated. Contemporary race labels might sound racist in the future. If we include “black” to describe one character, as J.K. Rowling did in the Harry Potter series, unidentified characters default to white. Maybe we use a name, outfit, or food choice to hint at ethnicity. Or perhaps, like Collins, we include physical descriptors. What we authors can’t do is not think about it. Meanwhile, readers should notice whether and how race is defined.

Cover art can settle the question of a protagonist’s race. Pay attention—does the cover reveal the race of the hero? Is it true to the story? When the hero isn’t white, race is sometimes camouflaged to sell books: Narrow a nose or make lips thinner in the silhouette of her boyfriend so the book doesn’t scream interracial romance. Put a light-skinned girl on the cover of a dark girl’s story. Hide Asian eyes and show only pale hands clutching a dagger. I’m not inventing these marketing decisions—all have occurred recently in the young-adult book world.

2. Has the author used tropes instead of creating authentic characters?

When I write a novel, I try to imagine which languages each of my character’s grandparents or great-grandparents spoke. I like to know whether the characters know those languages or care that they don’t know. I don’t actually have to put any of that into my story, but without reflection like this, it’s tempting to default to tropes.

In the old days, storytellers got away with lazy crows voiced by black actors in Disney’s animated film Dumbo or a mute Tonto serving the Lone Ranger. Today it’s more common to encounter stereotypes written into a story by an author’s subconscious. Notice a nonwhite “magical negro,” mammy, or mystical elder who advises a white protagonist. There may be a model minority sidekick who serves as a foil for a flawed hero, or an “exotic other” love interest. Check for back story; tropes usually aren’t given much. This may be because the story doesn’t have space, but often it’s because authors don’t take time to imagine authentic secondary characters.

3. How does the author acknowledge a history of oppression, if at all?

Storytelling can teach atrocities in history or erase and minimize them. Authors who seek to write such a story must reflect on our privilege. Should I tell the story or could another writer better inform it with authenticity of experience? Fear of outcry isn’t a good reason to stop writing, but as we take time to research painful history, imagine child readers, and empower other authors, we might decide to stop or keep writing. The finished book might not contain direct references to an “R-rated” historical reality, but our subtext and the way we shaped our story will reflect whether or not we grappled with the realities of history and sought to understand our privilege. Astute readers will notice.

The overarching purpose of the debate is how to nourish children with good stories. First, we pay attention to portrayals of race. Second, we consume and share many well-told stories to counter the danger of a single story. Third, we decide in community whether and how to protect children from a story that causes them to hate others and themselves.

I’m never sure about that third step. As a story creator, I stand with the First Amendment and fiercely defend our right to learn from mistakes. But as a servant of the “least of these,” in a country where the 13th Amendment (abolishing slavery) was necessary, I understand the power of stories to damage and to bless. What I do know with certainty is that this third step is best taken in concert with the first. How do we fight for freedom of expression as well as champion the marginalized child? As always, we start with prayerful attention.