Originally posted 4/4/2014
When I got the phone call about how I had lost my book deal, I told my agent - somewhat desperately - that I was working on my second novel. “Is it realistic fiction with a diverse set of characters?” she asked, to which I replied,“Yes,” though I had never thought of it that way. It is - among other things - a queer romance, a coming-of-age story, grounded in questions about what it means to be young in a society that believes you to be selfish and apolitical. The main characters are two boys growing up in the suburbs who eventually make their way to New York City. One of the boys is wealthy and white; one is middle-class and mixed race. They have friends who span the spectrum of identities - gay, straight, wealthy, not wealthy, Asian, black, Latino, Jewish. I didn’t do this to create some kind of United Colors of Benetton but because this is who the characters are to me, and this is the story I want to tell.
There is a lot of stuff out there in the children’s and YA book publishing world about diversity right now. Everyone has an opinion. Most people think we need more diverse books, which is a sentiment I completely agree with. Literature should reflect the mixed up reality of our world, and the current generation of young people is both the most diverse and the most integrated generation ever. By all means, tell the stories of all kinds of kids from all kinds of backgrounds. Tell different stories, tell exciting stories, new stories, real stories. Let’s do this. I’m stoked.
The things is, though, I’m not so sure that this emphasis on diversity in theory is translating to diversity in practice. When I go to Barnes & Noble or browse on Amazon or frequent my local independent bookstore, often all I think is: S.O.S. Same old shit. In Barnes & Noble, for example, they devote significant shelf space to "If you like this, you’ll like this” displays, not unlike how Amazon recommends books to you based on a complex algorithm that finds similar books to ones you’ve read. If you like John Green, you’ll like this book about kids with cancer. You like this book about dystopian teens in a maze? How about this book about dystopian teens on a planet where everyone can hear each other’s thoughts? Even the covers are designed to trick you into thinking you’re reading something you’ve already read. Such marketing by its definition discourages readers from reading diversely, from going outside their comfort zones. How do we expect different stories to flourish in a marketplace that is trying so hard to keep everyone in their own lane?
Also: is this what diversity truly looks like? Because it’s still hella white and super-straight. Furthermore, these are not - for the most part - different stories. So you’ve added an Asian best friend and the love interest is Hispanic. Maybe even the protagonist is a minority. But most of these books still fit into the narrow categories we’ve created - oh, look, it’s the Hispanic Rainbow & Park. It’s like The Fault in Our Stars, but Haitian! What if we re-wrote The Hunger Games, except Katniss was Asian? Why are we so locked into these boxes? I mean, I know why. It’s because these are stories that sell, and publishing is perhaps as risk-adverse as it has ever been. Truly embracing diversity would be mean allowing for stories that include frank discussions of race, of inequality, of prejudice, of hatred. Publishing wants the rainbow, but it doesn’t want the rain.
When I wrote my first novel, there was never a point where my male protagonist was anything but black. That’s because Damon Lewis was born that way, because his identity as a black kid who had gone to a mostly white prep school in a racially diverse city was intrinsic to the story I wanted to tell. It was a story of two boys drawn together by their difference, strangers in a strange land, and a boy and a girl who come to understand their differences are less important than the charged and heavy past they share. Race is not the subject of my novel but it’s everywhere in my novel. I didn’t write my book because I was interested in representing a particular community or even experience. I wanted to tell this story of these kids, of who they are to each other and to the world.
The flip side of diversity is tokenism, and I fear that some of what is going on in publishing right now is exactly that superficial. My “diverse set of characters” is not just a selling point, it’s the story I’m telling. It’s the world we live in. Stop trying to sell me the same old shit. Embracing diversity is a risk. Let people tell the stories you’re afraid to hear, not the stories you’ve heard a thousand times over. Then we’ll know something is actually changing.