The topic for this post has been kicking around for a while, as some of you know from my last post. And I doubt it's going to take the shape it was originally intended to have. But it's my story and I'll say what I want to.
The winner writes the history books.
This statement is a cliche at this point. It speaks to the power of controlling a narrative, which to me points to the power that a narrative has.
Why, when we no longer encourage participation in the study of the humanities? Why, when we laugh at people majoring in literature, film, music, and say that they should learn how to ask, "Would you like fries with that?"
Why else have we created a culture where it is almost impossible to live as an artist, an author, a musician? Where those who choose these things are forced to take "day" jobs to make rent? Stories matter. How they are told matters. Who is the protagonist matters. How the plot is framed matters. How the resolution unfolds matters. There is a reason that Mario Vargas Llosa was both a writer and a politician. There was a reason that so many actors and filmmakers were blacklisted or jailed during the Red Scare. Suppressing narrative is one way of maintaining the status quo, of controlling people.
What story have I been thinking of lately? The Watsons Go to Birmingham. I don't know how many of my readers have read this book, but I suspect a lot. It's an incredibly compelling tale of an African American family during the Civil Rights Movement doing something that I would suggest most Whites take for granted - taking a family road trip. The considerations they must make along the way, in terms of where it is okay to stop, struck me, as a White adolescent who had never really experienced discrimination. I had never experienced anything like that. I didn't think I ever would. I was glad I had read it, but I can't say that I understood why it was so important that this book existed.
Just like, until 2009 or so, I didn't think I would experience the feelings as they unfold in Annie on My Mind, the story of an adolescent discovering that she identifies as a lesbian. I will be honest at this point: when I was assigned to read Boy Meets Boy in my diversity in children's literature course my senior year of college, I didn't even purchase it. No, I sat in the bookstore and read the whole thing in an afternoon, collecting sticky notes so that I could write my analysis later. This wasn't a typical reaction to the high price of textbooks in college. It was an attempt to avoid paying money to a gay author. To avoid rewarding a gay story with my straight, evangelical money. I still think there's better work out there than Boy Meets Boy, for very different reasons than those. But I'm sharing this behavior in case some of you haven't grasped yet how very anti-gay I was, until I realized that I'm . . . gay.
I believe that Rebecca's reaction to Annie on My Mind was that a book had "never spoken to" her as that one did. I have to say that at the time I agreed. I had never truly felt marginalized before. I'd been able to identify with a lot of characters in books. I'd felt, until then, that my story had been told, more or less. Then suddenly I noticed a plot twist in my personal narrative, just as the protagonist does, and my life changed, permanently, and I needed there to be a story like that. As a book worm, seeing a story at least somewhat like mine was soothing. It was comfort. It meant that I, too, could have a resolution, maybe not the same as the character's, but a resolution of the turmoil and conflict I faced.
Why is The Watsons Go to Birmingham on my mind right now? Because I suddenly feel that I might have to plan out road trips. Indiana passed a bill licensing businesses to discriminate against Rebecca and me for being a gay couple. They say it's about religious freedom. All I know is that I feel the need, now, if I were ever going to work an event in Indiana (which is possible - I almost did this past winter for my office), I would feel the need to ask the hotel I was booking if I would be turned away upon arrival if I showed up with my wife. I would be unsure where I was allowed to eat dinner. I would want to check what facility was hosting the event in a way that I really never have (sometimes, honestly, I feel like I work for the CIA - info is on a need-to-know basis). I wonder, perhaps, if I would feel like checking with my employer to find out if it is a good idea for me to teach there, even on a substitute basis. I would worry about going to my mother-in-laws antique booths in Amish country. I suddenly see my former straight privilege in a completely different light.
I'm not saying that I anticipate that my church will be bombed as one in The Watsons Go to Birmingham was. I generally don't fear for my life, and my concerns, I suppose, are details, inconveniences. For now. Unless Michigan passes similar legislation, which it is considering. But they are details, inconveniences I didn't face, until now. I thought that perhaps we were inching toward equality. I thought, perhaps, that the Civil Rights Movement had taught us something. I worry now that I am wrong. I worry that the story wasn't told correctly, or to enough people, or that maybe people didn't care enough about it.
I guess, for now, all I can hope is that sharing this story is more powerful than I realize.
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