clicks, cliques, and clubs

I’ve never been cool. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not in college or graduate school. Being nerdy and Black comes with particular challenges; since nerdiness has been racialized, to be a Black nerd (or Blerd) is to be not just a social outcast but to be perceived (and condemned) as White-identified. I think that has changed since I was a kid with a big sister who insisted that “fairies are for White girls.” Black geeks no longer seem as isolated—they have a presence on social media and opportunities to gather at their own conventions. I didn’t know other Black geeks when I was young, which forced me to hide my interest in unicorns, wizards, and dragons. I still had friends, though, and have only become something of a loner since hitting my 40s. Facebook helps me stay connected but I haven’t really used social media to build the kind of fan base some authors enjoy; as I wrote in a poem last spring, “popularity has never been my priority.” I’d rather be alone, chatting with my imaginary characters, or hanging out with real folks who let me be my true self.

Last month when I was watching the first Democratic Party debate, I got a sick feeling in my stomach and soon changed the channel. It was painful to see so many intelligent people jockeying for attention and trying to steal the spotlight by diminishing someone else. It also seemed like such an ineffective way to select a presidential candidate, but that’s the introvert in me recognizing that public performances aren’t easy for some folks. You might be thoughtful, considerate, and have a lot to contribute but if you can’t impress the audience by manufacturing zingers and viral sound bytes, you probably won’t make it to the next round. The cult of personality is real and that’s partly how we wound up with someone so petty and incompetent running the country. In kid lit, there’s also a lot of emphasis placed on popularity and clicks—one Big 5 editor told my last agent that they’re only looking at picture books by celebrities and social media influencers. Whenever I’m at a mainstream kid lit event, I find myself reflecting on how the publishing industry shapes the way authors interact with readers. I’m not a celebrity author but I’m still able to earn a living as a writer. Today I  received an invitation to join a speaker series in MA next year; it came from a professor/parent whose librarian friend regularly sends my books to her daughter. Scholastic recently inquired about reprinting Dayshaun’s Gift, Book #2 in my City Kids series; the ALA’s Great Stories Club is using Mother of the Sea with their nation-wide program for teens. Tomorrow I’m giving a talk at the Philadelphia Museum of Art; the education department there hosts an annual week-long seminar for teachers and they’re all getting a copy of Milo’s Museum. Increasingly people are recognizing that self-publishing is a viable alternative for those systematically excluded by a racist publishing industry. I’m aware, however, that when I attend a mainstream conference, there will likely be no conversation about self-publishing and the circumstances that make it necessary unless I bring it up. Sometimes I risk it. Sometimes I don’t feel safe or sure that allies will have my back.

Celebrity educators are new to me, though I’ve seen some teachers on Instagram sharing innovative lesson plans and student enthusiasm for Dragons in a Bag. I’d heard about Nerd Camp and have been invited to the versions in NJ and Long Island, but it was a surprise when my Random House publicist told me last year that I’d been invited to the original camp in Michigan. I’ve been writing about Black geeks (Bleeks) for a long time, but didn’t think my books were on the radar of Colby Sharp and his Nerdy Book Club. So I went to MI with an equal measure of curiosity and dread. I’ve already written and spoken publicly about fangirling in kid lit, so I won’t go into that again. Abby Cooper kindly let me join her session on magical realism, and allowed me to explain why I prefer to call my work speculative fiction; we had a small group but a good discussion, and I got to meet two librarian friends that I usually only see online. This was the first promotional event Random House has fully paid for but they sent no ARCs of The Dragon Thief so there was a very short line at my signing station; I was glad I brought some of my own books and educators happily accepted free copies of my self-published writing guide and workbook. I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be much racial diversity among the 1800 attendees at Nerd Camp; as soon as I reached the school on Monday, I started counting Black and Brown faces and didn’t make it to ten before I returned to the hotel. The overwhelming majority of teachers, librarians, and booksellers in this country are White women, so I expected I would be in the minority. That’s true of all the mainstream kid lit events I attend. But before leaving Philly, I asked on Facebook whether book lovers from nearby Flint and Detroit would be in attendance and a Black librarian friend made it plain: NO. Another White friend chimed in—somewhat defensively, I thought—and insisted that the Nerd Camp team did a lot to promote authors. Their commitment to having an inclusive roster of kid lit creators was apparent. So why doesn’t that extend to the attendees? The highlight for me was Nerd Camp Jr.—kids and their parents were lined up around the school when I arrived yesterday evening, and my three classes were full of focused, energetic young writers. I rarely get invited to majority White schools, so it’s always interesting to see how my activities are received by White students. But again—out of more than 60 students, just a handful were kids of color. A librarian friend in MI pointed out that the camp seems to attract a lot of repeaters; those who know about the camp return year after year, traveling from all over the country for the free event. So it’s become a sort of club. Authors and illustrators donate their time, but I couldn’t have gone without my corporate publisher covering my travel and accommodation. And, of course, I was invited. On the hour-long drive to the airport in Detroit, I chatted with fellow Random House author Stacy McAnulty about fees for school visits, presenting at conferences, and the challenge of promoting your books with and without support from your publisher. The day before, a media specialist shared the fees of some male celebrity authors she brought to her school last year. That kind of transparency is so meaningful, and I hope more people will be open to having honest conversations about the many ways inequality operates in the kid lit community—in ways that are obvious and not as apparent.