room to breathe

Last week I felt like I’d been holding my breath for too long. Waiting on the movers, waiting on my Lyft ride to the airport, trying not to breathe too deeply on the packed flight to Chicago…then I finally reached Evanston early Tuesday morning, made my way down to the lake, and let myself exhale. The sound of the waves was so soothing…the streets were empty and quiet except for the church bells that rang right at 9am. I knew as soon as the Lyft driver turned the corner that I’d made the right choice. The apartment is lovely but not perfect; the building is a little shabby and there are smokers downstairs. But I was just so relieved and the movers were late—again—but by Wednesday evening they’d brought everything up and were headed back to PA. Now I’m starting my second week in Evanston and I feel a bit breathless. I’m pacing myself, exploring the lakefront trails and parks, shopping locally for the few things I need for the apartment; I found a handyman to install my air conditioners and shelves, I volunteered at the community garden and met some new folks. I had a long, honest conversation about the publishing industry with an author friend who left NYC and now lives just a few blocks away. I’m working on my manuscript and think I just might meet the deadline. Then Jacob Blake was shot in the back by a cop in Kenosha. I learned that his grandfather headed an AME church here in Evanston in the 1960s. They’re holding an outdoor memorial service this Sunday. Evanston wasn’t meant to be a sanctuary for me; after 25 years in this country, I know there’s nowhere I can go to avoid White supremacist terrorism. What’s riled me this week are the endless requests in my inbox from White folks who don’t seem to understand the fatigue Black people feel as victims and witnesses of this violence. I finally reached out to a booking service but they’re not taking on new clients right now. The constant emails, the relentless requests…I just can’t right now. Even when I put people off—I’m not booking anything more till November—they come right back with requests for quotes and head shots and other nonessential requests. Even after I explain that I’ve got a deadline looming and just moved from one state to another. I’m tired of it. And willing to lose these potential gigs just to have some peace for a few weeks. I’m thinking about putting an away response on my email so if you reach out to me, you might not hear back for a while…

My essay for Horn Book came out yesterday–you can read it here.

Coronavirus infections are surging across the country, and protests that began in big U.S. cities and small towns have spread across the globe, igniting a movement to end police brutality and the dehumanization of Black people. Some feel optimistic about this moment. I do not, but I have mostly kept my opinion to myself. Living under quarantine has made that fairly easy; as a middle-aged Black woman with asthma, I’m in no rush to go outdoors, and if I’m not presenting for virtual audiences on Zoom, then I’m alone at home writing.

I am tired of mourning. I am tired of raging. I am tired of hoping for change. I am also exhausted by the largely unproductive conversations we keep having about anti-Black racism in publishing. For over a decade I have written and spoken publicly about racial disparities within the U.S. publishing industry. Though many in the children’s lit community cling to the myth of meritocracy (“True talent will always be recognized — just keep trying!”) and favor narratives of gradual progress (“Things are getting better — just give it time!”), all studies show that the U.S. publishing industry is still dominated by Whites who are determined to hold onto — rather than share — power.