Brothers on a Soapbox

Who's Listening?

In a world of popular commercial "fiction," how many readers are there for "nonfiction," essays, personal narrative and memoirs by African American male authors? Enough to recognize these authors are not all the same or doing or trying to do the same thing? I have been asked to pick some of them out--call them "brothers on a soapbox" and possibly answer this question: "Who's listening to them ?"

It seems to me that most of them are doing what they are compelled to do, which is to write. To sell is another matter entirely. It has been said that when selling becomes more important than writing, then you're in trouble. Sincere writing is not decision so much as compulsion. Notice we did not say beautiful writing, or good writing, or even readable writing. We said sincere writing. Notice quotation marks around "nonfiction." Why is that? Because the best "fiction" is based on real people and events; "nonfiction" is removed from pure reality by an author's perceptions and prejudices. The best "nonfiction" moves you just like "fiction"; the best "fiction" feels like fact. The poem your child wrote for Mother's Day or Father's Day, calling you the world's best parent? That's sincere. That's "nonfiction." Claims of "nonfiction" and categories of books (and people) are not to be trusted, and to unsuspecting readers, neither are these "brothers." Well, they may all seem to look (or read) alike, street-corner or office-suite philosophers haranguing us, telling us what we already know, lecturing us on our excesses, telling us how a game is run while running a game themselves. It does make me want to holler, the way they do our reputations as readers and our books as writers. Publishers categorize you before they read you. Publishers tend not to think of you as appreciating a well-turned phrase or a humorous and truthful passage or an emotional string plucked so it will reverberate just so. You as readers are said not to constitute much market in the first place. If you want to hide something from black people, put it in a book and label it "nonfiction." We'd all rather it be more positive, like an Easter Egg hunt. (Over here! Found six! The Death of Rhythm and Blues by Nelson George, The All-American Skin Game by Stanley Crouch, Faces at the Bottom of the Well by Derrick Bell, On The Real Side by Mel Watkins, Makes Me Wanna Holler by Nathan McCall, and The Color of Water by James McBride.)

If it follows that black male writers of essays, personal narratives, and memoirs would be best appreciated and supported by black male readers, and since black men in every American's mind have acquired the reputation for not being able to do anything right--then school's really out for these authors. Not only could the "brothers" not possibly be able to structure and compose good narrative, but guess who has the reputation for reading less than anybody? There are historical reverberations and environmental hazards that led to this, but it is still a fact--if there are 10 million African American readers, 9.9 million are women. So one decent Iyanla Vanzant buries the whole lot of black male essayists, commercially speaking. In order to do well commercially as a black male "nonfiction" author, you must tap into alternative markets while still utilizing your core competencies. Mr. McBride makes no bones of the fact that the reason his book became a bestseller was because it was mainly bought by white people, in particular, white women, specifically Jewish women. His focus in his memoir was his mother, a Jewish woman. His book is one of few "nonfiction" efforts that is a commercial success. Normally it's Iyanla's show--not so much about a book as about a feeling. Not to mention "fiction" authors like Terry and BeBe. You know them by first names only. If I say "Michael" you think of Jordan. Does that mean Michael Eric Dyson should not write a collection of essays like I May Not Get There With You: The True Martin Luther King, Jr. (2000) if he feels up to it and can get it into print? Who should stop? Should Ishmael Reed stop, or should Earl Ofari Hutchinson stop? Should either one stop? Should Tavis Smiley stop, or should Cornel West stop? Who decides? Some of the "brothers" are performing a public service, advocating, agitating, expanding theme. They have every other sort of human motivation there might be to write a book. Who should stop? Should Thomas Sowell, John Wideman, William Julius Wilson, Arnold Rampersad, Shelby Steele, Gerald Early, Anthony Walton, or Henry Louis Gates, Jr. stop? Should university-based authors stop? No, of course not. Sometimes they should be edited. Or challenged. Or critiqued. Or heard. Or enjoyed. But they shouldn't stop. David Bradley, novelist and author of The Chaneysville Incident--should he stop writing essays, though his The Bondage Hypothesis: Meditations on Race, History and America is bound to intrigue once it is released? Should the journalism-based authors stop? Should Ellis Cose stop? Keith Richburg? Clarence Page? Eugene Robinson? Brent Staples? What about Kevin Powell? Robin D.G. Kelley? James Alan McPherson? Greg Tate? Blair Walker? Haki Madhubuti? Mark Mathabane? Dennis Kimbro? What about Albert Murray? They defy category, and yes, a few of them write passable prose, while some of them write prose like the peace of God in that it passeth all understanding. Regardless of abilities, each would take it personally if told he should stop just because more folks buy E. Lynn Harris. And the ones who don't stop--they are the most sincere.