Tag Archives: race

N is for Zora Neale Hurston

{Click here for the complete alphabet of intersectional feminism in romance.}

With great difficulty, let us put aside (IF WE CAN) the verifiable fact that Their Eyes Were Watching God is a masterpiece. A perfect book, where perfect does not mean without flaw, but does mean stands out against the background of the mundane world and is so boldly itself that discussion of its flaws does nothing to diminish its power. It’s lush and poetic and funny and heartbreaking, all at once. I know the vernacular dialogue can be hell on the eyes (and was criticized by Richard Wright at time of publication), but I do believe that if you don’t find marvels in this book, you may in fact have a rock where your heart should be. I tremble every time I read it: from bliss, from fear, from awe.

Cover image for Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Sepia-tone background. A dark-skinned woman with rosy cheeks and dark, full lips tilts her head toward the reader, eyes closed and brow slightly furrowed. Gold leaf flowers sprawl across the bottom third of the cover, lending a mystical, magical air.Like many people, I first encountered Janie Crawford/Killicks/Starks/Woods as part of a high school English class. We also read Jane Austen, and Jane Eyre, because all three books are considered fundamental parts of the Western literary canon. At least, they are now — none of them were overly popular in their time. All three had to be resurrected and dusted off by succeeding generations before they could be set up on the pedestals they currently occupy. Two of these Janes are widely considered foundational heroines of the romance genre. I don’t have to tell you which book is the odd one out, do I? (Hint: it’s the black woman.)

Romance authors and readers are only just beginning to discuss what a canon of the genre would look like (example: this Smart Bitches podcast). What are the most important texts of so rich and populated a tradition? The most influential? The most copied and rewritten? The most astonishing or moving or surprising or genre-changing? Lists inevitably grow long. Certain names come up often: Kathleen Woodiwiss, Julie Garwood, Georgette Heyer, Barbara Cartland, Jennifer Crusie, Nora Roberts, Susan Elizabeth Phillips. And, of course, Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, whose texts provide classic story patterns even though romance as a genre hadn’t really been established yet. Other books have also had influence, but are frequently disqualified as romances on account of their less-than-blissful arcs: Wuthering Heights, Rebecca, and as I recently, memorably discussedGone With the Wind. 

You may notice that all these authors are white. As are all but two of the authors on AAR’s Top 100 Romances Poll from 2013. (The exceptions are Sherry Thomas, who writes excellent 19th-century romances starring white people, and Nalini Singh — we should talk some time about race and paranormal/UF romance, because more of that conversation needs to happen.) There is a black romance tradition — a lengthy one, going back to the 19th century — but somehow those books and those authors never make best-of lists when readers line up to cite their favorites. Beverly Jenkins is often named as the Queen of African-American Historical Romance, but she’s never won a RITA. In fact, as far as I can tell from hours of focused and increasingly angry internet searching, no black author has ever won a RITA in the twenty-year history of the award. Only a handful have even been nominated.

It’s a serious gap that becomes more noticeable and less explainable the more you look at it, and learning more about the publication history of Hurston’s text. Their Eyes Were Watching God was first released in 1937, one year after Margaret Mitchell’s insanely popular Gone With the Wind — did you remember that won the fucking Pulitzer? because I did not — a novel which is often heavily criticized for its depictions of black characters (for instance Mammy, who’s getting an upcoming prequel authored by a white man, so help me God I want to smash something now). Mitchell’s book went on to inspire a major movie of Hollywood’s Golden Era and vast numbers of plantation-set romances, while Hurston’s work languished in obscurity until being rediscovered decades later by Alice Walker.

Part of this obscurity is no doubt due to the divide between commercial fiction (though apparently not too commercial for the Pulitzer Committee) and literary fiction; the former tends to have a much greater tendency to trickle over into romance. Hurston’s literary heirs are now numerous: they include Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, and Edwidge Danticat (who write the foreward for my digital edition of Hurston’s text). But at the time of TEwWG‘s debut, she was heavily criticized by black male writers, including Richard Wright, Alain Locke, and Ralph Ellison, who felt her works either pandered to the white gaze or had no relevant social urgency. The idea that black Americans could lead happy and fulfilled lives was difficult to untangle from the racist narrative that black Americans had led happy and fulfilled lives under slavery: much of the work of black writing was/is to undo white supremacist narratives that were/are designed to nullify and silence black voices — in this framework, Hurston’s lyrical, deeply personal prose lacked a direction and an agenda that many black authors at the time felt (and still feel! and rightly!) was necessary to their very survival as a race.

Black/white, literary/commercial, male/female — Their Eyes Were Watching God always seems to end up on the wrong side of history’s divides, though nowadays it’s closer to popular literature than it once was. This unlikely resurrection is both heartening and tantalizing: I dream of an alternate history where the novel was hugely influential on the romance genre. There are plenty of connection points ready and waiting: the focus on Janie’s personal journey toward happiness and the enduring value of love, the secondary characters drawn in economically brief but vivid and memorable ways, the small-town feel of both Eatonville and the ‘Glades, the melodrama of the trial scene. Romance is an omnivorous genre and the past few years have seen erotic retellings of Much Ado About Nothing and Regency reboots of The Brady Bunch, as well as creation of entirely new subgenres like New Adult and a groundswell of interest in sci-fi romance and the 1920s as a setting for historicals. Why shouldn’t authors turn to Hurston for inspiration as they turn to Austen and Brontë? But the race line in romance seems incredibly starkly drawn: there is mainstream (read: white) romance, and there is AA romance, and the two strains rarely meet.

It’s a sign of my profound privilege that I’m able to get mad at this only now: black romance authors have been caught in this mess for decades. Zora Neale Hurston herself articulated this problem half a century ago:

Now, do not leap to the conclusion that editors and producers constitute a special class of un-believers. That is far from true. Publishing houses and theatrical promoters are in business to make money. They will sponsor anything that they believe will sell. They shy away from romantic stories about Negroes and Jews because they feel that they know the public indifference to such works, unless the story or play involves racial tension. It can then be offered as a study in Sociology, with the romantic side subdued. They know the skepticism in general about the complicated emotions in the minorities. The average American just cannot conceive of it, and would be apt to reject the notion, and publishers and producers take the stand that they are not in business to educate, but to make money.

Beverly Jenkins’ description of getting the copyedits on her first book is heartbreaking proof that not enough has changed since then:

The draft went from the editor to a freelancer. Scenes were changed. The scene where Cara’s grandfather appears, “nigger, nigger” replaced his name. Characters were depicted as “black as coal.” I was devastated when I received the galley. I called Vivian Stephens, my agent, and told her that she should return the advance on the book. I did not want the book published like that. The editor called. She cried and apologized. For four and a half hours, the editor and I were on the telephone going over the revisions. There should be trust between editor and author.

The truism that white readers won’t buy romance books about black characters has echoes of similar truisms in other media. White readers won’t buy YA books with POC on the covers. Male gamers won’t buy games with female protagonists. Films with women as lead characters are box office poison. They are all self-fulfilling prophecies: it is not considered a wise financial strategy to throw good marketing money at a low-reward product, so movies with female leads and games with female protagonists and romances with POC heroines routinely get under-marketed and under-financed — that these books so rarely become wildfire hits is then taken as proof of the gatekeepers’ sound business sense, and the cycle repeats. Marginalization begets further marginalization.

Rereading Hurston’s book after Beverly Jenkins’ Vivid illuminated distinct similarities in structure. Both books take place in all-black towns, where white people’s oppression happen mostly on the fringes: racism is still a part of the characters’ lives, but not necessarily a central feature or most significant obstacle. I fully expected to see Hurston’s name crop up at some point in that IASPR interview. But it didn’t, and to further confound my assumptions Ms. Jenkins indicates that part of her project as an author is to show strong black women in the past working for the betterment of their society, putting her firmly in the Wright/Locke/Ellison camp:

I do know that what these illustrious foremothers stood for—justice, equality, education, a commitment to community and the desire to push the envelope on race and gender—is something I consciously place in each of my heroines. I “borrowed” the concept from the great historian Dorothy A. Sterling. Her book, We Are Your Sisters: Black Women in the 19th Century, is my bible. In it, she states that nineteenth-century Black women had three gifts: a strong work ethic, a commitment to community, and a penchant to push the envelope on race and gender. Whether it’s schoolteacher Cara Lee Henson, journalist Kate Love, or banker Grace Atwood, I try to bestow at least one of Sterling’s gifts on them. Nineteenth-century Black women changed the world not only for themselves and the race but for women of other races as well. Women like Black abolitionist Maria Stewart, who in 1832 became the first woman in America of any race to lecture to a mixed audience; Rebecca Lee and other pioneering Black doctors of the late 1860s were often not only the first Black doctors, but many were the first doctors of any race in their communities. Their experiences helped shape crusading Dr. Viveca Lancaster, the heroine in my second novel, Vivid.

We are down to the heart of things now, where I have too many questions and no answers that aren’t uncomfortable: should we expect all literature to be morally uplifting? Is it hypocritical of me to want to defend Their Eyes Were Watching God against the requirement that it feature social protest and activism, even as I continue to criticize romance as a genre for its perpetuation of harmful attitudes and stereotypes? Romance in particular is often excused on the grounds of “escapism” — critics are told they’re overthinking an essentially trivial genre, that they’re ruining other readers’ fun or shaming them for their enjoyment. In this response there is a tiny grain of truth like the sand that starts the pearl, which is why this response is so irritating. But I think when the word “escapism” shows up there are two questions we should answer before letting the discussion proceed: Who do we imagine is escaping, and what are they escaping from? One person’s hilarious Southern romp is another person’s racist garbage nightmare. And one of the reasons I want to call out problematic tropes in romance is that their existence threatens my own sense of safety in my escapist reading: when a hero turns controlling and jealous, for instance, I feel the muscles in my neck kink up with fear, and the romance loses all its spark and sizzle. I don’t want to erase those books from existence — but I would like to know in advance which ones they are, so I can detour around them and read something more my style. In the growing debate about trigger/content warnings, I come down firmly on the side of more rather than fewer labels and tags.

There are harder, more shamefully personal questions as well: is my desire to connect Hurston’s text with the romance genre an act of appropriation, as I suspect it could easily be? How many of the similarities I see between Their Eyes and Vivid come from my own knowledge of their authors’ skin color? Unconscious biases are the blackberry vines of the mind: you think you’ve pulled them all up at the roots, but they seem to start growing back as soon as you put down the spade. I’ve thought and unthought and rethought every paragraph above: you can tell when my opinions are doubling back because I go very heavily in for parentheticals (which I’ve noticed I use when my thoughts are either too fast or too scattered or both).

I honestly don’t know where to go from here. The best I can say is this: it seems I have a great deal more reading (and listening) to do.

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The Zora Neale Hurston essay cited above, “What White Publishers Won’t Print,” is required reading and feels far more on-the-nose about 21st-century publishing than we might hope. Clearly my next post-April project is to read Hurston’s entire body of work, especially the essays and fiction.

A book-length analysis of black historical romances can be found in Black Women’s Activism: Reading African-American Women’s Historical Romances by Rita B. Dandrige.

A 2006 article from The Free Library about the founding of Harlequin’s Kimani line has some great names and data about African-American romance.

For some amusing hate-reading, here is one gentleman’s one-star opinion (via Goodreads) about how Their Eyes Were Watching God is just like a trashy romance novel.

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Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009. Ebook.

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L is for Jeannie Lin

{Content note: the following post very briefly quotes fictional acts of torture during a police interrogation — and, in case anyone else cringes at such things like I do, I should mention the torture involves hand injuries. GAH. 

Click here for the full alphabet of intersectional feminism in romance.}

Despite the casual malice of Othello and the oceans of blood in Macbeth, I have always found King Lear to be Shakespeare’s most chilling tragedy. There’s a dark purple void at the heart of that story into which all good things fall, never to be seen again — it’s simultaneously frightening and fascinating, a masterclass in showing how human isolation can tear a whole world to pieces.

I would never have expected to get shades of that same feeling from a historical romance set in Tang Dynasty China, but such are the marvelous gifts the romance genre sometimes offers to its reverent acolytes. And by “romance genre” I mean Jeannie Lin, whose Chinese-set historicals just keep getting better and better: Jade Temptress is a stunning and memorable book, maybe even a masterpiece of the genre. The Shakespeare angle only clarifies how the book deconstructs the interlocking systems of money, class, and power.

Cover image for Jeannie Lin's The Jade Temptress. A woman with pale skin, dark hair, Asian features, and deep red lips wears a white gown patterned with bright flowers and wrapped with a blue sash. Large red flowers are woven into her hair. One hand is languid and the other held against her face in a pose of subtle invitation.The first scene of King Lear sets up everything that follows: the king divides his kingdom between his three daughters, offering the most riches to whichever one who loves him most. Or rather, whichever one claims to love him most, since of course love is not so easily measured or proved as Lear seems to believe. It’s a stupid game, thoughtless at best and malicious at worst. As the two eldest fall over themselves in their haste to kiss dad’s ass, Lear’s youngest and best daughter Cordelia decides the only way to win is not to play.

LEAR: … what can you say to draw

A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing!

CORDELIA: Nothing. (Lear I.i.87-91)

Lear imagines himself as something like a fairy-tale king who can discern true goodness and reward it with the appropriate amount of wealth. It is stagey and disingenuous, particularly since he has plainly saved the best part, the “third more opulent,” for his darling youngest daughter. Cordelia’s “nothing” shatters the king’s comfortable little play: she rejects the idea that love can be exchanged for anything except itself. To exchange love for money turns love into something like work — or something like prostitution, though Cordelia doesn’t say so. Lear throws a tantrum, the King of France proposes to Cordelia on the spot, the two elder daughters are embarrassed, and everyone agrees Lear is a royal ass. Things proceed to go quite rapidly to hell.

Jade Temptress heroine Mingyu, a famous courtesan in the imperial capital of Changan, is caught in a similar web where familial relationships and profit-based relationships are conflated. Her fellow courtesans are her “sisters,” and the scheming brothel-mistress Madame Sun prefers to be known as “Mother”:

Though they called each other mother and daughter, Mingyu never forgot the truth. She had a true mother once. Her birth mother had sold her and her sister for a small handful of coins. Madame Sun, her foster mother, would never let her go for so little. (Kindle location 352)

A nice little twist of the knife, there: are you really more valued simply because your foster mother sets a higher price on you? (Short answer: no.) Madame Sun is even less able than Lear to imagine human worth as anything other than a financial measure —  as a result, her affections are always expressed in terms of prices and profit. It’s unclear how much of this is artifice, manipulation for her personal gain, and how much is simply her own deeply ingrained belief: even Mingyu is left uncertain about this, at the end. But she is quite clear on her own position in this dynamic: “Always ‘us.’ There was no Mingyu. There was Madame and there was the Lotus Palace . . .” (375). Since her love (or at least its performance) can be purchased, it becomes a commodity — which is to say it has economic value, and therefore cannot/should not be given away for free. Any sense of the courtesan as a person capable of love outside of currency relationships must be suppressed in order to maintain the value of the courtesan’s love as a luxury item. At the same time, since all her wages go to the Lotus Palace and not to herself, the courtesan is distanced from economic agency: she can earn, but she cannot spend. She is in essence a lever by which money moves from her suitors to her foster mother, who quite literally owns her. As indicated by “There was no Mingyu,” our heroine reads this framework as an erasure: “This is a dream world,” she says later of the city’s pleasure district. “We don’t exist outside it” (1223). This is Cordelia’s thought turned inward: Mingyu recognizes that her participation in the sex trade has made her into nothing, both in a legal and an emotional sense.

Since she is nothing, Mingyu has learned to use nothingness as a weapon in Changan’s tangled web of money, gender, and class. She cultivates a quiet and mysterious air of unreadability — an emptiness behind which she conceals her own truth. Hero Wu Kaifeng recognizes this:

“You make yourself into a blank canvas and let your admirers fill it as required.”

“A mirror,” she corrected, unperturbed. “A courtesan is a mirror. The bureaucrats value their own learning, so I give them poetry and music. The generals value competition and strategy, so I confirm the brilliance of their plans.”

“And myself?” . . .

“You value justice, Constable. Unfortunately, that is the one thing I cannot speak to. I know nothing of it.” (2023)

And this is true: Mingyu and her Lotus Palace sisters are disempowered in Changan by the trifecta of gender, class, and economics. They are all women, of low birth, whose earnings go to Madame Sun. They only have agency insofar as they control the agency of others — specifically, men: “Sometimes exploiting a man’s power is the only influence a woman can wield” (526), Mingyu explains. Love becomes a means of channeling power, and money a measure of both. The higher the price a courtesan commands, the more power she wields — and vice versa. (Which goes a long way toward explaining Madame Sun.) Love separated from money is rendered meaningless, unmeasurable: nonexistent. Mingyu’s fellow courtesan Ziyi, burned by heartbreak, expresses this most succinctly: “The inspector is wealthy and offers you his protection. He’ll pursue you at any cost. It’s hardly different from romantic love. In some ways, it’s more reliable” (2565).

This is some Jane Austen-level irony in a genre romance — especially since the inspector in question, imperial official Xi Lun, is so very easily read as the horror-movie version of the classic alpha romance hero:

Xi was pleasing enough to the eye. His face was square and his jaw broad. To match the strong features of his face, his clothing was impeccable and his manners cultured. He was young compared to many highly ranked officials and he was free with his wealth. (1724)

Handsome, powerful, rich, worldly, and younger than many at a similar point in his career — all my Dom Billionaire alarm bells were ringing like mad. His pursuit of Mingyu is relentless and he completely ignores the charms of the other courtesans, all while giving our heroine crushing kisses, pricey gifts, and a barrel full of disregard for her limits and boundaries. This is the complete set of genre-recognized Stalker Romance Hero Cues. Mingyu responds the only way she can: by getting profoundly creeped out. Xi Lun has entirely bought into — see what I did there? — the system of love-as-commodity that she feels erases her as an individual and an agent. He offers her valuable objects and Mingyu knows this is because he sees her as only another type of object. His intent to purchase her bond — to make her legally his property — is the novel’s biggest threat, and even his erotic desire is an expression less of physical lust than of an eroticized control: “Sex would just be another way for him to exert his dominance” (2160). Again, this is language we are used to seeing as the mark of an alpha hero, but in this context the alpha billionaire’s confidence and compliments turn impeccably sinister.

Xi Lun is only the most obvious symbol of a patriarchal system where all women are commodified to greater or lesser extent. I was strongly reminded of activist blogger Melissa McEwan’s “The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck,” which details the way marginalized groups — specifically women, though she recognizes parallels to LGBTQ people and people of color — learn to respond to the constant barrage of microaggressions with wariness and guardedness toward privileged groups, as a form of self-protection. For Mingyu and Ziyi and the other courtesans, every man in Changan exists as a potential threat. Even the wealthy men they hope to seduce into providing for them. Even our hero, Constable Wu Kaifeng.

If Xi Lun is a villainous romance hero, Wu Kaifeng is a heroic romance villain. We know Kaifeng interrogated Mingyu at one point in the first book, The Lotus Palace, but it’s only now that we learn the full extent of what happened. Turns out, he tortured her. Actual physical torture as part of a police investigation — and it’s explicitly sexualized:

The first time Wu had interrogated her, he’d taken out six bamboo sticks and laced them between his fingers. He’d held her hand still in his own as he completed the task, a gesture that was grotesquely intimate. (573)

In the hands of an author I trust less, this would have had me side-eyeing the text something fierce. But Ms. Lin has remarkable control of her material and has not led me wrong before — more concretely, this is not the first time Mingyu has been abused at the hands of a man in authority. The late General Deng was fond of making his possessiveness known in subtle but unmistakably douchey ways. She knows how to read abuse rather than merely react to it: Wu Kaifeng puts her in physical pain, yes, but he does it in the course of his duty — torture being an accepted part of Changan police procedure — and most importantly of all, he stops the torture long before he needs to. (And apologizes for it later in a perfect and specific way.) This one fact is enough to show Mingyu that the constable operates outside the usual dangerous networks of social privilege:

“I don’t trust you because you are kindhearted and honorable, Constable Wu. I trust you because you don’t care who Deng Zhi is or how vast his forces are. You don’t care who I am, which means you don’t care that a lowly courtesan was found with her dead and high-ranking lover. Or that her life means nothing to the magistrate or his superiors. All you care about is finding the truth.” (596)

Note all the negatives in this early passage — Mingyu is starting to rebel against the values of the Pingkang Li by seeing value in nothingness more generally. She will grow bolder about this as the novel progresses.

Merely being a member of the privileged gender is not enough to put Wu Kaifeng at the apex of power in Changan, and he knows it: “I’m ill-mannered,” he says later. “Unsightly. Nothing to anyone that matters” (1271). Mingyu initially recognizes in Kaifeng a lack that gives him power, similar to her own mirror-like unreadability: “Part of her envied Wu Kaifeng and his unyielding approach. It must be freeing to walk through this world and feel nothing” (596). But their positions are differently privileged by class: Mingyu may not have money of her own — except for what she’s been able to hide away in secret — but she does have access to a moneyed lifestyle. Her clothes, her social skills, her musical ability, all these mark her as a member of the rarefied upper echelons of society, even if she only exists there as a shadow of her true self. The constable, in contrast, is a man of unknown birth, fortuneless and indifferently educated, a pariah in the imperial world where scholarship and bloodlines are directly tied to career advancement and power. Mingyu’s position might be a cage, but it’s a cage raised far above the level a man like Wu Kaifeng can hope to reach. If he resists the kyriarchal network of money and privilege, as Mingyu sees, it is because he has as little hope of agency within that network as she does.

A third of the way through, at the very moment when Kaifeng insists he is nothing, Mingyu contradicts him:

“It’s not true,” she murmured. “You’re not really like that.”

He smiled crookedly at her. “Not ugly?”

“Not . . . nothing.” (1271)

And then something happens: he kisses her. Something else happens: Mingyu kisses him back. (This seems as good a time as any to state that Wu Kaifeng is one of the swoon-worthiest heroes I’ve read in quite some time. Jeannie Lin writes the best first kisses.) “Don’t think too much of this,” Mingyu warns. “I won’t,” Kaifeng promises (1271). And then they part: “They both knew that nothing more could become of it” (1309). This kiss, like Mingyu and Kaifeng, is nothing — but like them, and like Cordelia’s ‘nothing,’ this nothingness has a power outside the system of commodified love and desire. Thanks to the iterative nature of romance narratives, the reader knows damn well that something will indeed come of this. Mingyu is changed almost immediately: “Her stolen and precious hour with Wu Kaifeng had emboldened her more than it should have” (1440). She’s using the language of value — stolen, precious — to describe something that by law and custom shouldn’t even exist.

Kyriarchal power systems are bending beneath the weight of actions motivated by honest mutual desire.

Wu Kaifeng may have started as a torturer, but he moves increasingly away from any attmpts to claim, control, or possess Mingyu. All these terms are standard romance sex scene tropes — hell, they’re practically subgenres at this point — but Kaifeng makes a great case for the pure undiluted hotness of un-claiming: “He found her sash and looped the length of silk around her wrists to secure her arms overhead, but the gesture was only symbolic. Almost poetic, for someone untrained in poetry. He couldn’t tie her there, he couldn’t keep her” (2383). [My notes at this point are simply “SWOON SWOON SWOON.” From me, not Mingyu. She’s not really the swooning type.] This deliberate and careful unclaiming consistently allows Mingyu the metaphorical space to claim herself, to exist again as a person: “When Kaifeng took her like this, single-mindedly, with no motive but for his pleasure and her own, she finally belonged to herself. Her body was her own and this pleasure — this pleasure was hers for the taking” (2737).

But this progression is unsustainable and comes to a head at the climax: Mingyu is growing bold enough to want to free herself from the entire money-love-power system, and talks of leaving the city. Wu Kaifeng knows that although he has come to love her anything he does to claim or take or possess her will only keep her imprisoned. So he retreats entirely, saying they must part.

This next move will take some explaining, so bear with me. Mingyu and Kaifeng are falling in love while trying to solve the mystery of the death of Mingyu’s protector General Deng. (SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!) At first it appears Deng was beheaded by one of his bodyguards, so the general is given a state funeral and a very expensive new head made of jade. But then it turns out — SPOILERS NO REALLY IT’S COMING UP — that the headless body belongs to one of the bodyguards, and Deng has faked his own assassination so he can start a coup, and he’s been hiding in the family mausoleum, but by the time our protagonists figure this out someone else has killed all the surviving bodyguards and also poisoned the general. And servant confesses and commits suicide, but maybe he didn’t really do it either? And maybe he was poisoned by the real killer? It’s a giant MacGuffin of a murder investigation, with near-constant deceptions and a complete lack of meaning at the end — in short, it’s perfect. And the late general’s oh-so-valuable jade head? Is broken up by Wu Kaifeng and used to buy Mingyu’s freedom from Madame Sun.

So the head of a man who was not actually beheaded is broken, and the pieces used to pay Mingyu’s very real debt — a concrete example of something coming from nothing, of emptiness being turned into profit. Now that the courtesan owns herself again, of course, she is able to reunite with Wu Kaifeng. Mingyu has some money she’s hoarded and they spend most of it renovating a derelict tea-shop: in the book’s final scene, Kaifeng has bought Mingyu a very pretty musical instrument with basically the last of their cash. Now, at the happy ending, nothing is all they have. They’re hoping the tea-shop will turn a profit, but they don’t know. It’s the diametric opposite of the usual romance narrative, where the couple ends up wealthy or at least comfortable — but while a lack of funds might jeopardize the normal HEA, we’ve had the whole rest of the book to know how capable our hero and heroine are at making something out of nothing. Where King Lear let nothingness destroy his life, his family, and his kingdom, Mingyu and Kaifeng find nothingness a haven from the interconnecting dynamics that work to dehumanize them. The vast amount of nothingness at the end of this novel is not a lack, but an opportunity. It’s really quite elegant, as a twist on the usual trope.

A brief postscript: Let this analysis not be taken to mean that sex work per se is necessarily degrading or corrupting or dehumanizing. This is a study of a single fictional text and its motifs. But the intersections beneath which sex work takes place in both Ms. Lin’s Tang Dynasty setting and in our own modern Western Judeo-Christian culture — systems of class oppression and gender bias most especially — these often do great damage to sex workers as individuals and as a class. If Mingyu feels erased as an individual, so too do many real-world sex workers, who are criminalized by an imperfect justice system, and whose voices are discounted by a culture that considers them less than fully human.

An even briefer, much less serious postscript: using the words ‘nothing’ and ‘something’ so often has gotten “Something Good” from The Sound of Music thoroughly stuck in my head — and it occurs to me that the lyrics to that song also set up a system where goodness is rewarded with love as if love is a prize for moral behavior and how is that not a type of commodification and I should probably just stop now before my brain dribbles out my ears.

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Dear Author’s group review of this book touches on the class issues as well as themes of artifice and reality — it’s a really great discussion of a really wonderful book. Miss Bates has a review the parallels many of my own reactions here.

Jeannie Lin’s first book in this series, The Lotus Palace, sold less than expected, so that Harlequin pulled The Jade Temptress from print distribution and made it digital-only. Ms. Lin blogged about her complex reaction to the news, and Courtney Milan responded with print sales figures of her own to back up Jeannie Lin’s thoughts. It’s an interesting conversation on how we interpret sales data in light of race and romance, and there are no easy answers anywhere.

This post from Racialicious is brief but illuminating and touches on capitalism in China, contact between Asian and European cultures, Orientalist stereotypes, and the difference between a concubine and a mistress.

My own views on sex work are rendered largely irrelevant, I think, by the fact that I am not nor ever have been a sex worker. (And no matter what they tell you, erotic romance authorship is not the same thing at all.) For years I have looked to Seattle’s own Mistress Matisse for considered and knowledgeable opinions in a very volatile field of discourse and experience: her Twitter feed is a great source of activism and writing. And while I’ve only just started reading Melissa Gira Grant’s recent book Playing the WhoreI can tell you that it is robust, insightful, and pulling no punches.

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Lin, Jeannie. The Jade Temptress. Toronto: HQN, 2014. Ebook.

Shakespeare, WIlliam. King Lear. Shakespeare Online. Web. 1999. Accessed April 4, 2014.

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I is for American Indians, Native Americans, First Nations, Indigenous Peoples, Etc.

{Note: for the purposes of this article, I will be using “Native American” as a general term, and tribal designations or individual preferences for identification when appropriate and/or available.

Click here for the complete alphabet of intersectional feminism in romance.}

When it comes to the treatment of Native Americans in fiction, the romance genre has a lot to answer for. E.g. the millions of historical Western romances with the word “savage” in the title. Or that time white author Cassie Edwards filled her novels with plagiarized passages from nature writing and out-of-print Native American memoirs. I mean, the words holy shit are utterly inadequate there: cultural appropriation does not get more shameless and literal than that.

Romance’s appropriation of American Indian experience is often cloaked in New Age-y terms of appreciation and/or reverence, such as this quote from Western historical author Paty Jager’s 2011 post on Romance at Random:

The Indians love of the land and nature make wonderful backdrops for the use of language and how they portray their lives. This honest connection with the world around them adds to the romance of the story. Their distinct and different culture from ours is fascinating to us.

Notice the use of pronouns there: they are Native Americans, primitive and romantic and exotic. We are romance authors, sophisticated and language-oriented and cultured. The phrasing splits the two groups and allows for no overlap between them. Similar stereotyped language appears in this RT Magazine Theme Spotlight piece: “The Native American romance emphasizes instinct, creativity, freedom, and the longing to escape from the strictures of society to return to nature.” It’s Noble Savages all the way down. With this kind of othering so strongly at work in the subgenre, it’s hardly surprising that actual examples of Native American/American Indian romance authors are very difficult to come by.

Cover image for Her Land, Her Love by Evangeline Parsons Yazzie. A brown-skinned, dark-haired woman in a Navajo rug dress looks sadly down to one side. Gold triangles frame the corners of the image.Naturally, as I often do when stumped, I asked Twitter for help — a Storify of the collected responses can be found here — which is how I learned about Evangeline Parsons Yazzie.

Of all the authors mentioned in that Storify, Ms. Yazzie is the one who most explicitly identifies as Native American (specifically Navajo). Her Land, Her Love (Amazon link: publisher page is here) is the author’s first romance: her other works are children’s books based on Navajo legends and stories. Ms. Yazzie makes clear in her introduction that she chose the historical romance form deliberately, and that this story is a way of remembering and retelling her people’s past: therefore it seems appropriate to talk about the ways in which this book departs significantly from the usual forms of white-authored Native American romance.

This book’s roots are in oral storytelling and the prose shows it: the opening chapters have zero conflict and are simple and descriptive in the manner of folktales and poetry. Time moves in fits and starts and great leaps — we start with our heroine Nínááníbaa’ as a baby and move quickly forward into her youth and the day of her marriage to hero Hashké Yił Naabaah. At the same time there’s a wealth of detail of Navajo daily life: it felt more as though I were reading a work of historical scholarship rather than a historical romance. I’ll admit: it was at times quite frightfully dull. But those conflict-free, happy chapters full of loving family members and yearly rhythms and hilarious sheep and goat sounds give us the space to see the Navajo as they are when they are free to be themselves, with their religion, culture, and living places mostly intact.

This in-depth depiction is the opposite of what we see in the captivity narratives identified by Janet at Dear Author as part of the romance genre’s foundations, where a white heroine (it’s usually a heroine) is captured by a local tribe and gradually assimilated, often marrying a Native American man (or a white dude who has been similarly assimilated). This is the voyeuristic and colonialist arc we see in — to take one popular example — James Cameron’s Avatar, where an outsider can out-native the natives, for some reason. By contrast, none of the white characters in Her Love, Her Land is going to out-Navajo the actual Navajo — this romance novel is centered firmly in indigenous culture, looking out, rather than from the mainstream white colonial perspective, looking in. Practically all of the dialogue is in Navajo, an extremely complex language, with English translations following. I liked this a great deal: it reassured me that the author was writing from within the tradition, with personal knowledge of Navajo language and culture. (I’m also a bit of a language geek, so I would occasionally try and work out which words were doing what in a given Navajo sentence. I got basically nowhere, which isn’t surprising since there’s a reason this language was used for coded messages in WWII, but it was fun trying.) Most of all, this book felt profoundly real — perhaps it was just knowing that many of these stories were real, had been handed down the author’s family tree for several generations. I can’t separate that from my reactions, and I’m not sure I’d want to if I could. Reading this book felt like bearing witness.

This sense of a place well-lived in, with real-life families, makes the text absolutely terrifying for a reader aware of what’s to come. We know this idyllic continuity is not going to last, and the happier our main couple and their relatives become, the harder it will be when everything is taken away from them. We see, in exquisite detail, precisely how much our here and heroine are going to lose in the years to come. And by this point we’ve come to care for them just as they’ve come to care for each other. (Seriously, Nínááníbaa’ and Hashké Yił Naabaah’s four-day honeymoon where they’re living together but not allowed to touch one another is the sweetest, shyest thing. They’re all trembling and nerves and yearning eyes, both of them.) The fall happens gradually — the capture of two daughters here, the loss of a son there, the need to compromise for safety’s sake as Kit Carson’s men burn villages and poison waterholes — and it is all the more heartbreaking for being drawn out. Hashke Yił Naabaah is a war leader, admired and respected and responsible for his people’s happiness, so at every turn he is trying to understand what the white men want from him, how he can find a way to compromise, how to get across the vital needs of his people. There are a few moments of narrative omniscience, where the story pulls back to tell us what one particular white officer might be thinking, but for the most part the white men we see in this novel are all completely opaque, nameless and inhuman. There’s occasional reference to the state of national politics, but it is not nearly enough to outweigh the terrible crimes happening here, on the page in front of us, to people we’ve spent years of book-time with.

One of these moments, however, is particularly worth our attention as intersectional feminists (practicing):

Never in the wildest dreams of the Naabeehó naabaahii did any of them think that the greed for gold and silver was at the forefront of the decision to remove the noble Naabeehó people to a place far from their land between the four mountains. Once again, the soldiers lied to them!

General Carleton, along with a man who had been a territorial governor of New Mexico, had secretly met at Santa Fe and created a grand scheme for removing the “savage” Navajos from their lands. The two men believed the land the Naabeehó occupied was rich in gold, silver, and copper. The Union Army was becoming poor fighting a war in the south known as the Civil War. General Carleton felt their contribution of precious metals would be valuable in helping their Union Army fund the war. (Kindle location 3212)

The Civil War, while not “fought over slavery” precisely as whitewashed history would have us think, nevertheless did have the outcome of making the chattel slavery system illegal in the United States. (Unless we want to talk about sharecropping and Jim Crow but I digress.) The huge effort required for the liberation of the slaves is here directly tied to Indian removal and violent oppression. This is intersectionality at its most basic: the legal/military means by which black people became legally people (as opposed to property) necessitated the destruction of Indian nations in territories hundreds of miles away from the battlefield — at least in the eyes of the white men in charge of the Army and US domestic policy. We like to believe — are often taught to believe — that the US’s story is an arc of decreasing racism and the long slow death of white supremacy: direct connections like this one between black and Native American oppression prove that comforting fiction to be a sweet and poisonous lie.

Ms. Yazzie’s text walks a fine line between realism and romanticism: the pain our hero and heroine suffer — removal from their homes, the loss of their children, fear for their safety and the ever-present possibility of rape and starvation and death — is arbitrary and malicious, unthinkably sadistic. At the same time, the resourcefulness and strength Haske Yił Naabaah and Nínááníbaa’ show in supporting one another and their fellow Navajo is highly idealized. Frankly, I was glad this was so. I didn’t want to watch those strong hearts lose hope in one another, even though they lost hope in plenty of other things (the promises of soldiers, for example). This is not a subtle moment in history, so the heightened contrast feels appropriately stark.

In the middle of the book, our hero and heroine are removed from their home and sent on the Long Walk. Again the tropes of the captivity narrative are reversed: the Navajo people are the ones being taken and removed, forced to depend on the dubious charity of Union soldiers in an internment camp on the outskirts of a fort. People starve, people sicken, people vanish, people die. There’s no moral justification for any of it. Our protagonists are still living in the camp at the end of the book, though historically the Navajo were eventually moved to a slightly better location (not great, and not their proper home, but not quite as barren and hostile as Bosque Redondo). Perhaps this is part of what makes Native American romances so comparatively rare: the implausibility of a happy ending in the face of flat-out genocide. The history of contact with Native peoples in the US is irredeemably tragic and negative, a difficult setting for a genre whose most recognizable trope is a happy ending.

This would make Native invisibility in romance more understandable if it didn’t dovetail so nicely with the prevailing cultural notion that Native Americans only exist in the past, rather than being present citizens, neighbors, friends, and potential lovers/heroes and heroines of romance. I expected to be able to find at least one contemporary romance with a Native American protagonist — but everything skewed immediately paranormal and urban fantasy. You can apparently have Muscogee or Navajo characters, but only if they’re magical. Special. Not really human or normal at all, in fact. It put my hackles up in ways I haven’t been able to articulate, though this post is a good start.

So going forward I shall continue my search for that unicorn: a (hopefully contemporary) romance with a Native American hero/heroine written by a Native American author. If anyone knows of one (or has written one!), let me know!

Let everyone know. We’ll be listening.

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The Navajo People have a truly excellent website, with plenty of links about history, culture, and news.

Native American authors are definitely out there: they’re just writing things that aren’t genre romance. Here is a list of 20 Native American authors you need to read (hometown hero Sherman Alexie shoutout!). 

Speaking of Native peoples and children’s literature, Colorlines recently did an eye-opening post about the interplay of racist sports mascots and children’s books.

Photographer Matika Wilbur’s Project 562 aims to photograph people from every one of the 562 federally recognized tribes in the United States. It’s amazing and beautiful and vital — go look!

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Yazzie, Evangeline Parsons. Her Land, Her Love. Flagstaff, Arizona: Salina Bookshelf. 2014. Ebook.

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Cover for Sandra Hill's Frankly, My Dear. A tan-skinned shirtless man with dark hair holds a tan-skinned, dark-haired woman in a yellow historical gown. Red background. The cover pose references the famous movie poster for Gone with the Wind.

F is for Fuck’s Sake, Frankly, My Dear

{Content note: this post discusses slavery and pernicious anti-black racism all the way down.

Click here for the complete A-Z of intersectional feminism in romance.}

Let’s imagine you are a slave on a sugar plantation in 1845 Louisiana. Which of the following things do you think you want most?

  1. Modern makeup
  2. Aerobics lessons
  3. Group psychotherapy (from amateurs, not professionals)
  4. Cosmo-style sex tips

If you answered 5. My fucking freedom or at least a decent working wage, you bigoted asshat, you are correct. But if you picked 5, you would be far too astute to be any of the characters in Sandra Hill’s Frankly, My Dear — not naïve time-traveling white supermodel heroine Selene, not emo slave-owning Creole hero James, and certainly not the cheerful and well-fed slaves on the Bayou Noir plantation, who are just so happy to have our heroine’s opinion on their physical attributes, mental health, and sexual adventures.

And yes, the aerobics lesson actually happens on-page, while everyone sings “Achy-Breaky Heart.” Hand to God, head to desk.
Cover art for Frankly, My Dear by Sandra Hill. Red background. A shirtless man with dan skin and long dark hair stands. In his arms he holds a woman with tan skin and dark hair, in a butter-yellow off-the-shoulder gown.  White formal text reads: SANDRA HILL above and FRANKLY, MY DEAR below.

This novel reads as though someone is lovingly pulling out every mint-condition antiquated racist stereotype of black characters from all of comedy and film. Every black woman is a Sassy Black Woman, except for the ones who are Eeeeevil (and inaccurate) Voodoo Priestesses. (Many thanks to Virtual Chaplaincy for that link.) There are multiple Magical Negroes (can I posthumously apologize to Marie Leveau for her cameo in this book?) and the heroine’s time-travel is accomplished through a voodoo spell — which felt like such a waste of a premise. Imagine a world where black people had the secret of time-travel in 1845: wouldn’t that be the best way of escaping from slavery? It would be the ultimate Underground Railroad. Can somebody write that book, please? Because I would really love to read that. {Update: this trailer comes pretty close! And has a great soundtrack, to boot.}

Instead, a black woman’s magical powers are leveraged to serve the white protagonists. What we have here is a romance where a slave plantation is a Fun Unique Setting!, starring two preposterously shallow and self-involved white people. How appropriate that this entry falls under the letter F, as there are many, many f-words in my Kindle notes for this book.

Ms. Hill’s text makes heavy use of the language of appropriation. Black experiences of dehumanization and torture are merely a useful metaphor with which to describe the lives of our white hero and heroine. In other words — do you know what is just like slavery? Western beauty ideals (all emphasis mine):

  • “Besides, I don’t have to diet now … In fact I feel as if I’ve been emancipated.” (507)
  • In deference to the temperature, she scandalously insisted on wearing only one crinoline — one too many, in her opinion. Apparently, most ladies wore five or six. They must be masochists, Selene decided, or else slaves to the dictates of a fashion-conscious society, just like modern women. (1028)

Also just like slavery: paid work:

  • Five years of working side by side with the natives on a Santo Domingo sugar plantation as an indentured servant had taught him good and well what servitude felt like. (1368)

(Side note: you weren’t working with the ‘natives,’ James honey, you were working with imported African slaves and their descendents. The native Taino people of Hispaniola were wiped out centuries before by your slave-owning asshole forebears.)

Also especially like slavery: hating slavery but still choosing to acquire slaves to work your land for you:

  • Escape… that was what he yearned for — escape from the burdens of running a struggling sugar plantation, escape from the responsibilities of a family that was splintering apart, escape from the loneliness of his self-imposed exile. Most of all, escape from the system of slavery he abhorred and yet benefitted from. Sometimes he thought he was as much a prisoner as his slaves.(1386)

In the face of such rank, self-aggrandizing, unempathetic bullshit, I lose all critical distance. My notes for this passage are a motley collection of all-caps and swears and ludicrous errors by the Autocorrect.

But don’t worry about all the black people, the text assures us in this same passage — our hero James is nice to his slaves. (Surely some historical slaveowners were nice, too, right?) He lets them earn their freedom after five years of good slavitude, followed by five years of indenture, during which he pays them not in wages but in land they can farm and sell the proceeds from. He pays them in extra work after their slaving work is done. What a champ. But at least it’s better than nothing, right? Give the poor heartbroken slaveowner a break: he’s a motherfucking job creator: “If I don’t make this land thrive, not only will my future be bleak, but there will be no future at all for the hundred slaves who depend on me” (2125). There is no sense here of slaves as people with independent dreams or desires: if James does not provide them with work, clothing, and food, they will have nothing. Black people in this text have no agency of their own — despite not only the historical fact of the Underground Railroad and various slave uprisings during this time period, but also all the free black people we saw living and thriving in California in Beverly Jenkins’ books. In fact, when the hero and heroine of Frankly, My Dear move to California at the novel’s end to avoid the future Civil War, many of the slaves go with them willingly. Because of niceness, or something. It’s a blatant narrative move to justify our hero and heroine morally and ensure the reader’s sympathy: if the slaves choose to stick around even in free territories, it proves James and Selene weren’t Real Slaveowners ™ at all. The subject of back pay for years of unpaid labor somehow never seems to come up.

I  might forgive this set-up (though it’s a long shot) if James had inherited the plantation and the slaves and was making the best of a shitty deal — but James bought into this toxic system, his mother explains:

  • “For more than ten years, he worked as little more than a slave until he earned enough to return for me and purchase Bayou Noir.” (3728).

Heroine Selene is shamefully quick to abandon her initial distaste for slavery: “I don’t know why I’ve been sent to the past, but somehow I know it’s wrong for me to be trying to change history — impossible, actually” (4066). Why is it wrong or impossible? Because fuck you, that’s why. This little moment of gut-feeling is all we get for an explanation, and soon our heroine is leveraging slave labor as though she’s been doing it all her life (but she’s really nice about it, so that’s okay, right?) and boinking the slave-owning hero.

You know what else is like slavery? Dirty talk during sex:

  • She moaned and nodded, a willing slave to his graphic questions. (5394)

But then James’ dead wife turns out to be alive — and an addict! and our villainness! and she uses the n-word! which is how you know she’s evil, because good people obviously feel terrible about forcing black people to work for them for free. Upon seeing how difficult opium withdrawal is for the not-dead wife, Selene is seized with angst and remorse. Because you know what’s worse than slavery? Adultery:

  • Selene had trouble reconciling her morals and making love with a married man. (6155)

Sure, keep a hundred human beings in perpetual bondage for your own material gain — but no consensual sexytimes with another white woman’s husband! That’s immoral.

Lest you think I am being petty by taking a rocket launcher to the fish in this hapless book-barrel, I should point out that as of press time this staggeringly heartless novel, though first published in 1996, was reissued this year in both print and digital by Avon, and currently has a 4.02 star average on Goodreads, from a total of 480 ratings. That’s not too far from the same average as Octavia Butler’s Kindred, a time-travel sci-fi classic featuring a black woman who gets pulled back in time to save her white slave-owning ancestor in 1815, which was published in 1979, and which is much, much better by any legitimate metric.

Granted, Frankly, My Dear‘s high ratings are partially the result of self-selection, as anyone cognizant of the subtler omnipresent forms of modern racism (microaggressions and benevolent prejudice ahoy!) would run screaming away from this book’s blurb. The most common reason the 33 text reviews give for their scores is this: the book is funny, hilarious, an escape. One reviewer describes it as “pure fantasy,” and even a few of the negative reviews mention how much they laughed, especially at the blond jokes, because the parts of this book that aren’t about racism are about how stupid and slutty blond women are. Hi-larious. I’m sure all those five-star reviewers would hasten to say that I am overthinking things, that it’s all just a joke. I have been told such things before.

But it begs the question: precisely whose fantasy is this?

Merrian Weymouth‘s idea that romance reading functions as an escape into privilege has never been more clearly illustrated. Heroine Selene and presumably plenty of this book’s readership want to ‘escape’ into the romanticized Scarlett-esque version of the Old South. Big (white) ballgowns. Aubusson carpets. Hepplewhite, Duncan Phyfe, Hitchcock and Seignouret furniture. All of these are explicitly name-dropped to underscore the desirability of Bayou Noir as a home, in the same way that plantation tours today emphasize the luxury  and emotional content of the enslavers’ lives but soften their treatment of slaves. It’s presented as simply an unfortunate accident of history that this particular fantasy comes with a genocidal price tag. It’s not like we mean to say that we wish we could get slavery back, you know. We just want everything else from that time. Oh, and also not to do our own housework, because nobody likes housework, amirite? Come on, it’s just a joke. It’s not like most modern domestic service workers are people of color or anything like that, right? I’m sure that’s just an irrelevant coincidence.

This is the petty tyranny of inconvenience — just as the heroine believes that her individual comfort somehow justifies the enslavement of roughly a hundred other human beings, romance readers feel it’s inconvenient and uncomfortable to reflect on the ways the genre not only has marginalized but continues to marginalize not only characters, but also readers and authors of color. This book was not written by an obscure self-published writer with a small niche audience. Sandra Hill is a New York Times bestselling author, a genre mainstay for the past two decades; she is still writing books set in the contemporary South, though I am certainly not going to read them. And lest you think maybe she has rethought some of these depictions and dynamics in the years since this book’s publication, let me tell you that not only is this ebook a recent release, Sandra Hill and Avon are reissuing the sequel next month. Interracial romance doesn’t sell, they’ll tell you, but racist books apparently do;  there’s nothing troubling about an HEA for a slave-owning couple in the antebellum South, but you’ll get called out for depicting anything close to adultery, even if it’s clearly consensual and the wife is cool with it. Because adultery is too immoral to stomach but owning slaves is not. Because fuck you, that’s why.

Are we really supposed to believe this is all just an enormous coincidence? That there’s nothing to interrogate about our readership, our genre, and our cultural history of systemic anti-blackness?

Whether or not you consider Gone With the Wind a ‘real’ romance novel, there is no doubt that it is part of the genre’s discourse. The plantation has been a stock romance setting for half a century, from Rosemary Rogers to Kathleen Woodiwiss and onward. It’s still fairly easy to find romances with Union or Confederate Army soldiers as heroes, especially when you add Weird West and steampunk stories to the mix. I chose Frankly, My Dear for this blog series because I thought it would help showcase a particularly troubled thread of the romance genre’s history — Margaret Mitchell would be worse than Sandra Hill would be worse than some imagined novel yet to come. (I didn’t trust Sandra Hill not to have a few broad stereotypes, after all — I’ve read her before.) As they say, be careful what you wish for: a feminist reading of this book only shows how deeply the genre continues to fail in matters of race and ethnicity.

Where is the Save the Pearls-type backlash to this book and others like it? Or the thoughtful critique, as we see with depictions of rape and dub-con? Is the book’s light tone really a good enough cover for the steamingly obvious racism at the core of this premise? Is it really enough for so many readers that our hero and heroine pay lip service to the idea of racial equality, while continuing to perpetuate a violent, degrading institution? Slavery is wrong, unless you’re polite and/d or angsty about it. How is this an acceptable position for a character we are expected to sympathize with and root for?

Is it really so difficult for us to do better?

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I haven’t even touched on all the other problems with this book — such as the moment when our heroine gets twisted up with sexual jealousy over a THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD girl she describes as moving “with the body language of an oversexed Sharon Stone” (2029). Then she calls the girl a “Lolita” (2047). We never see this girl again and she’s not important to the plot: her appearance is just a cute narrative trick to artificially raise the sexual stakes between the hero and the heroine. Or the highly racist use of dialect to Other all the black characters. Or the scene where our heroine sits down with a copy of Jane Eyre two years before Jane Eyre was actually published — which is not at all on the same level as the other things but which does speak to the idea that the author cares very little about the actual facts of the world she is trying to reflect in her fiction. Or the moment at the end when two slaves announce they’re getting married, and everyone congratulates them, when in fact slaves had no legal standing to marry and the idea that they could have happy and undivided families is a pernicious way of recasting slavery as both beneficial and inevitable. I don’t think a single page goes by without some obviously racist or sexist fuckery that should make any author ashamed in the year 20-fucking-14, and I need to stop talking about this since my fingers are shaking too hard to type.

In this keen and necessary post, Olivia Cole discusses 12 Years a Slave and its resistance to myths about white women’s role in slavery and violence in the antebellum South. There is also a romance-focused discussion of whiteness-as-default in this post at Heroes and Heartbreakers.

For fiction, if you value yourself and your blood pressure, do not read Sandra Hill’s book. Instead choose anything else from Fuck Yeah Interracial Romance Novels on Tumblr, or one of the books recommended in this post from The Toast, or if you really must read a romance novel that deals with slavery, please try Beverly Jenkins’ Indigo instead.

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Hill, Sandra. Frankly, My Dear. New York: Avon, 2013. Ebook.

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