ask not

I was pretty seriously depressed as a teenager, but at the time didn’t know what depression was.  In my twenties, I read up on it, found a great therapist, and started to really monitor my moods; I got to a point where I could feel myself “sliding into the abyss,” which is how my friends and I referred to our depressive states: “Where are you?”  “On my way out,” or “Just hitting bottom,” or “Hauling myself up over the edge, thank God!”  We never judged one another; we empathized, and did what we could to help ourselves and each other.  I was in a funk earlier this week.  Got an email from the English Dept. at my college announcing that Jane Yolen was coming to campus today.  That was exciting news, even though I knew I’d be in Brooklyn.  But as I continued reading, I noticed that the event was sponsored by a prof who was currently teaching a course on Writing Children’s Literature.  I had to stop and take a moment, since my immediate response wasn’t exactly prudent (or polite).  I sent her an email saying I couldn’t make the Yolen event, but maybe she could pass on some flyers about MY books to anyone who was interested in African American children’s literature.  Of course, the more I thought about it, the more upset I became.  What IS it with being invisible?  So often I find ways to be alone in the city; I just came home from the promenade in Brooklyn Heights, and I had to fight against my anger at the leering men who came close to ruining my lovely, sunny afternoon.  Sometimes I wish I were invisible–in fact, I used to wear a baseball cap on the days I wanted to vanish; I told myself no one could see me, and I could just tilt my head and reject any part of the urban landscape I wanted to avoid.  But when I actually WANT to be seen, when I want my work and my accomplishments to be recognized and valued, then I’m invisible again.  I’ve been invited to Rutgers, Brooklyn College, and I’m heading to Willamette University out in Oregon next week.  I do workshops all over the city.  People actually want to hear what it’s like being an author of an award-winning children’s book.  But not on my own campus.  I don’t get it.  The prof I emailed hasn’t yet responded, and I somehow doubt that she will.  So as I felt myself sliding into the abyss, I tried to talk myself out of it.  This is how that conversation usually goes:

“If you never won an award, would you continue to write?”  YES

“If no one ever invited you to give a talk, would you continue to write?”  YES

“If every publisher in the world rejected your work, would you continue to write?”  YES

“Then quit whining and pining and get busy!”

It’s nice to be validated and appreciated, especially by your own colleagues.  But nothing is guaranteed when you’re a woman of color.  You can’t expect what your own experiences have taught you is improbable.  Well, you CAN, but that just leads to disappointment.  So focus on the positive, the many spaces where you’ve been welcomed, the people who’ve thanked you for sharing your ideas.  I heard from a prof at Brooklyn College today who’s willing to review A Wish After Midnight and share the info about my books with her education majors.  I got another email from an educator at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden who offered to share my book with their librarian and the teachers with whom she collaborates.  I sent a copy of Bird to Barbara Smith who, despite her hectic schedule as an Albany Council Woman, mentors two little girls.  So I didn’t get invited to the big dance, so what?  I sat in the sunshine today and thought about the future…I don’t have an academic job lined up, and my lease is up at the end of July, but I’m not as frightened as I ought to be.  There is abundance in the universe.  Just gotta believe….