I’ve grown weary of reading non-POC journalists cover everyday POC experiences like they’ve been given a passport to an alien planet. I’m talking about those anthropological stories that make like Christopher Columbus and “discover” food, music, films, books, etc. that were otherwise already being enjoyed by a majority of the population. These articles are often reductive and offensive to a readership (people of color, women, youth) that tends to be neglected by the mainstream media. In August 2017, The New York Times published a story on Boba tea that described the popular East Asian beverage using words like “exotic” and “blobs.” It was removed after readers called it out for being out-of-touch and insensitive—a misstep could’ve been avoided altogether if more diversity existed in newsrooms.
Because I’m Black, because I’m a woman, and because I’m the daughter of immigrants, I can look to my own experiences and write about marginalized groups with a sensitivity that has yet to become the standard. That said, as a freelancer, the “Black” beat is unofficially assigned to me at every publication I’ve worked under. When I was a freelancer at the East Bay Express and wanted to write about something not directly related to Blackness (whatever that even means), my pitches were given away to other writers so that I could focus on the black stuff. As is the case for other Black women writers I know, a number of publications are looking to exploit my internalized racial trauma for emotion-bait and can’t fathom a use for me outside of that role. Publications need to do better.
Publishers like The New York Times are beginning to recognize the need to include diverse voices in the greater cultural discourse, but as a result, qualifiers barrel through every introduction. While they’re a shorthand for relatability, these increasingly lengthy lists of bona fides can turn into stifling containers for a multi-hyphenate writer. Profiles tend to preface a subject’s name with something like the 30-something differently-abled black woman writer, photographer, filmmaker, and producer. Is it necessary that we be introduced with our entire DNA chains? It’s a catch-22. As POC, we want our skills to be acknowledged and our histories to be preserved, but there’s also a desire to be a part of society’s universal makeup. Zadie Smith once said on a book tour that she is not simply a “Black writer,” but someone who also “likes cats and chocolate.” She asserted that her identity can’t possibly be encapsulated by pithy epithets. It’s one thing to reconcile with qualifiers on one’s own terms, but it’s another for publications to decide your place for you.
Critics like Wesley Morris of The New York Times, are making great strides for writers of color everywhere. As a Black man, Morris can eulogize Aretha Franklin and reflect on her Baptist upbringing from a place of visceral, deep-seated understanding. It’s a privilege that he wields well. But sometimes, for those of us writing on a more modest scale, there are only tiny triumphs. After a while in the freelance market, I yielded to my role as a beat reporter. I saw my work published on a regular basis and felt fortunate in that I could cover marginalized groups that weren’t getting recognition. I figured that was enough.
Still, there was the lingering feeling that I was trapped in an airtight box, being kept from commenting on the general purview of pop culture. So when I successfully fought for the chance to do a little review of a retrospective of French filmmaker Agnès Varda at the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive—and was told that my eventual story helped sell out one of the screenings—it felt big. I’d proven to my editors that I could write about canonical subjects that didn’t directly relate to me. It’s only natural, given that I’ve spent a great deal of my life straining to find myself in media and literature that had never bothered to consider me as an audience member. If I can manage to identify with the ridiculous, stylized worlds spun up by Wes Anderson or the fictional Upper West Side lives of the cast of Seinfeld, then I can certainly write about them.
In small ways, the once-sealed box is crushing under the weight of progress and giving way to some much-needed air. Innovations like the “Writers of Color” Twitter account are making the prospect of publicly writing about whatever I want more possible. An aggregator of both freelance gigs and prestigious staff writer positions, the account (run, aptly, by writers of color) has turned into a glorious, well-curated bulletin board for publications looking to diversify. Those who fall outside the target demographic call it a form of affirmative action in the replies. Others prey over the page at all hours, feverishly scrolling as they await the next missive that could lead them to their big break. For me, its growing traction—amongst both publishers and writers—is a hopeful sign.
Where does this leave us? For writers like myself, it remains a balancing act: between striving for the next big assignment––big enough to lift up not just my own career, but to shine a light on others like me––and refusing to stand for the exploitation of my experience. Although publishers hold much of the power, let’s not forget that it’s the reader who really drives this ship. As readers continue to thirst for more authentic voices, publishers will have to learn how to court such writers with cultural humility and more enticing opportunities.