Limited Options

Sometimes I chat with the old lady who seasons the fried chicken at my grocery's take-out deli. Recently she asked me, “What do you do?” “I'm a writer,” I said. “Is that right?” she asked, a grin crossing her face. “A writer?” She was impressed, I could tell. Most people aren't. Many days, neither am I. Because I'm an African-American writer. And for a lot of people that means my books probably consist of tales from the 'hood—drug dealing, prostitution, gang violence and all the threesomes a reader can stand.

This flies in the face of everything I stand for, as a writer who has spent her career trying to debunk stereotypes and show that we are much more than the stars of the perp walks on the news and the predators who rape and pillage without a care for their effects on our most vulnerable. None of my lofty ideals matters now. Books that do the opposite of what I and my contemporaries did for the genre flood the African-American sections of bookstores and libraries and the acquisition budgets of the major imprints. Some black authors have given in to it. Others have just stopped writing. Some, like my coauthor, Mitzi Miller, and me, are seeking other avenues for our writing. Our transition from adult to teen fiction began this spring with our book Hotlanta, the first in a series we created when we learned that black teens were hooked on street and erotic fiction.

The dearth of books written specifically for African-American teens is glaring. Very few prolific authors have enjoyed consistent, successful careers writing about black teen life, and only a handful of publishing houses have dedicated their resources to publishing black teen books. And once those books are released, good luck finding them in bookstores or reviewed in the media.

That means 15-year-old black girls from Harlem; Detroit; Compton, Calif.; and Atlanta are stuck reading Gossip Girls books (about rich, vodka-swilling, prescription drug—downing, Upper East Side white girls) or, you guessed it, adult fiction. Specifically, urban fiction. So prevalent are these books on the shelves—and in the hands of African-American teen girls—that the people responsible for putting books into the hands of “reluctant readers” are reluctant to have black girls read a book that even looks like it was written about and for black people. At a book conference for teachers, librarians and booksellers, many attendees cast a dismissive eye on Hotlanta, with its pretty brown girls on the cover, wearing cute dresses and fresh makeup, posed against the Atlanta skyline. “This,” one teacher huffed, “is street fiction—like Zane, right? I'm trying to get my kids to expand their reading tastes.” Mortified, I explained to him what Hotlanta is—a juicy commercial read that speaks to teens but gives them content that they can handle, that respects them and the African-American experience. Only then did the teacher—and many more like him—agree to give Hotlanta a chance.

But I can't explain that to every librarian, teacher, parent or bookseller who might be inclined to pass our series by. We need help. Not just for Hotlanta, but for every author who shares our goal. Houses should be publishing more books about and for African-American teens, and not tomes about slavery, the ghetto and growing up in impossible conditions. I'm talking books with modern, hip stylings and everyday stories that address teen issues in a way that speaks to the audience in their own language.

Bookstores and libraries need tools to keep kids from buying and checking out material they're not ready for. Movies, music and TV shows have ratings that warn when material is inappropriate for teens. It's not a perfect system, but at least they're trying.

These steps will go a long way toward helping us save a generation of African-American readers, but I'm not as confident about what can be done to improve the morale of authors like me, who are weary from the mess that has become black fiction. I can't tell you how painful it is to have my books—particularly a teen book—dismissed as street fiction because the cover features black girls. This is what I want to tell the lady at the grocery store, who tells me, “I'm proud of you, sugar. A writer, huh? That's something else.”