“those aren’t your people”

My first National Conference of African American Librarians (NCAAL) was a mixed bag. Earlier this month when I was at IRSCL in Toronto, I posted on Facebook that the way to survive an academic conference is to “find your people.” And when I arrived at the Buckhead station in Atlanta, I was immediately approached by a Black woman author who introduced herself and accompanied me to the hotel. We talked about self-publishing and what an organization like BCALA could do to support aspiring authors. I went up to my room, ordered some food, and then pulled my suitcase full of books back downstairs to the conference area on the lower level. The first person I saw was Satia Orange and my heart soared—Satia is one of the most gracious, kind, and generous people I’ve ever met and she organized the first NCAAL 25 years ago! We took a selfie, she offered to get me into the reception that evening, and then I caught the end of a panel with Greg Christie, Carole Boston Weatherford, and her collaborator son Jeffrey. There were only a few people in the room but a few more trickled in before our panel began. I read part of Milo’s Museum and showed my accompanying video, and Renee and Tonya both read from their latest novels. There wasn’t much interest in my books—the self-published ones I was selling and the traditional ones carried by the designated bookseller. When I packed up and got back to my room, I saw a small jump in online sales so maybe people who attended our panel went to Amazon instead. Or maybe those sales weren’t related to NCAAL at all. But I found myself feeling a way that evening and texted a friend who responded by reminding me that conservative Southern “church ladies” are not “my people.” I was raised by “women of the church,” but I generally use the term “church ladies” to refer to older Black women whose radical impulses have been dulled by respectability politics; they are concerned primarily with image, don’t want to rock the boat, and have disdain for anyone who does. I’m not a librarian but as an author I’ve certainly worked with lots of librarians over the past decade and know that some of them are truly radical. And I know it’s not fair to characterize an entire organization as passive, but I’ve had this same conversation around the Coretta Scott King awards. Why are the same authors, illustrators, and genres celebrated year after year? It’s important to celebrate talented creators, but it’s hard to call someone “the best” when so few creators are given the opportunity to compete.

On Friday night I couldn’t sleep and started thinking about Angela Davis’ movement for prison abolition. I wound up starting my talk on Saturday by referencing the strange contradiction of Black people defending the prison system. Considering the devastating impact of mass incarceration on our communities, why wouldn’t we wholeheartedly support the dismantling of the prison system? Why are so many oppressed people so quick to defend systems that contribute to their oppression? As far as I’m concerned, the same applies to children’s literature. What would happen if BCALA issued a statement decrying anti-Black racism in the children’s publishing industry? Not much, perhaps, but don’t they have an obligation to speak up on behalf of the patrons they serve? Edi Campbell named our panel “Vanguards of Stories for Our Children,” and I took that to mean stepping up as a leader—and sticking your neck out, if need be. I regularly critique the publishing industry but other members of the kid lit community have to take responsibility for demanding and/or creating change. I shared this graphic from Reflection Press during my talk:

I understand the impulse to celebrate successful Black authors and illustrators—especially when the odds are stacked against them—but that shouldn’t preclude the demand for greater inclusion and broader representation. When you KNOW that less than 3% of books are being produced by Black creators and you CHOOSE to say nothing about that injustice, you’re implying consent. After our vanguards panel ended, the audience stayed for quite a while to discuss strategies for refocusing BCALA. I figured I’d take a moment here to share my specific recommendations as an outsider to the library profession:

1. Issue a statement to acknowledge and condemn anti-Black racism and the exclusion of Black creators from the children’s literature community. This could include the need for more Black editors, reviewers, marketers, educators, booksellers, and librarians.
2. Embrace diverse methods of producing books, including self-publishing. Instead of excluding indie authors from libraries and/or expressing disdain for their books, offer support to improve the editing, design, and marketing of self-published books. Recognize that many self-published authors are people of color who have been systematically shut out of the traditional publishing industry. Our communities are full of storytellers and everyone deserves an opportunity to share their story.
3. Establish a new review column/website for Black kid lit. Train BCALA members in writing reviews and cover a wide range of media—especially books from small presses and indie authors since they are often excluded by the major review outlets.
4. Address the issue of corporate publisher influence in the library world. If “big money” is a problem in politics, then similar lobbying, wining & dining, and gift-giving should be considered a problem in the library profession, too. Corporate publishers spend inordinate amounts of money to promote just a handful of authors but the “big fish/small pond” syndrome (or “one and done” approach) doesn’t serve our communities; we need a range of authors with multiple perspectives. Demand that this money be redistributed and redirected into discovering and promoting more Black authors and illustrators (and/or reparations). Small presses and indie authors are also unable to compete with the unreasonable expectations established by corporate publishers (free books, trips, meals, swag, etc).
5. Refute the idea that a book’s primary value is commercial. Our communities would benefit greatly from a non-profit press. Provide tools and resources so that library systems can partner with local organizations and individuals to practice community-based publishing (putting people ahead of profit). Too many of our stories go untold because traditional publishers see no economic value in them (and they only market books to White readers).
6. Ensure that the organization is a safe, welcoming space for EVERYONE. Take specific steps to engage LGBTQ readers (especially kids & teens), creators, and library professionals.

It’s a lot to ask, I know. And it isn’t easy being a Black librarian. But if justice is our goal, we’ve got to start doing things differently and I’m willing to do my part to support Black librarians who reject rather than uphold the status quo. Panelists and attendees agreed to keep the conversation going. If you have any suggestions, leave a comment!

(l-r: Renee Watson, moderator Karen Lemmons, Tonya Bolden, me, Cheryl Willis Hudson, Kelly Starling Lyons, Wade Hudson)