I’m another natural extrovert, at least at conferences, and I love meeting new people, so please come up and say hello. I’ll add a couple of hints to the ones already shared. Network like crazy in the right way. Be…
From Bloggers at RWA
In the last entry about Genesis press and allegations of nonpayment of royalties, a discussion began as to whether African-American romance, what some call “black romance,” is different.
Well, considering that much of the time, romance heroes and heroines are white, I’d say superficially it probably is.
One commentor stated that s/he doesn’t believe he/she relate to the racist/oppression themes that must run through black romance. Monica Jackson stated that “[t]he main complaint from racists about black romance is that it isn’t black enough. They expect a different experience and are shocked when the characters are just like them and have love affairs just like they do.”
Clearly, assuming that African-American romance is automatically going to feature victim heroines downtrodden under the weight of racism and generations of discrimination is a breathtakingly short-sighted supposition. In the black romance that I’ve read, and I admit the total is not as much as the historicals I’ve read featuring white protagonists, that hasn’t been a theme. The women have been strong, ass-kicking even, and discussions of racism didn’t enter the storyline.
However, is there a sense that romance targeted toward African-American readers maintains a patina of exclusivity that turns away readers who aren’t of the targeted group? Is it more than just where the books are placed on shelves and how the authors are categorized?
Minority culture maintains autonomy through preservation of elements unique to that culture. Language, food, social customs, sometimes religion. For Jews, it used to be Yiddish, and it’s still food and culture. And food. Did I mention food? And to anyone unfamiliar with the subtleties, it can seem bizarre, and exclusive. The same can be said for any minority, or culture you’re not familiar with.
Writing for that culture can often mean subtly including the signature elements, or piling them on to the degree that they become cliches. I’ve read both, much to my dissatisfaction: to wit, “I’m going to go home and relax with a big plate of ruglach and my cat named Oy Gevalt!”.
With African-American culture, I’m can’t state with authority what the unique elements are, but certainly a shared experience, particularly in this country, of exclusion, racism, and discrimination is in the top 3. How does that shared experience play out in books or films created for that cultural audience? Is it always a prevailing theme? Probably not.
When I consider the films I’ve seen that aim primarily towards African American audiences, there are several elements that establish cultural automony, most notably language and what linguists call “code switching”. I remember channel flipping and landing on a wedding scene in a movie wherein all the characters who were just meeting each other for the first time referred to one another as “my sister,” or “my brother.” And I don’t mean in the colloquial “brutha/sista” sense. I’d never seen that before, and couldn’t figure out if it was a unique character trait for that movie.
Sister in what? Siblings in what sense? And does that actually happen outside of the movies? And why do I feel bashful about acknowledging what I noticed in a film, and what I’ve noticed about language use among people of the same minority versus languaged used by the same people in mixed company? Language, written or spoken, changes based on who one speaks to; it’s true for me, certainly, and I can name countless examples I’ve witnessed.
Is language part of what makes African-American romance seem unique? Is it even different? Is it possible that there is a subtext, not just of acknowledged heritage but of multi-faceted shared culture, that runs through the stories?
Discussions of racism and racial differences are only productive if those doing the talking can put aside assumptions and inflammatory rhetoric to discuss the actual issues, and examine the prejudices that people hold for what they are, not what they represent.
Part of the reason I ask these questions is because much of African-American romance, until recently, operated in something of an exclusive industry, almost in a vacuum. Now that mainstream publishers have caught on, there are more options for authors who want to shop a manuscript, and who want to challenge other publishers on alleged nonpayment of royalties. But with the growth of African-American romance comes my question - is it different, or is that just misperception?