Diversity in Literature
By Yusun Ingoshi“So, what are you reading today?”
“Just another one of R.L. Stine’s books.”
“Is it any good?”
“Yeah, it's okay.”
I grew up reading a lot of novels, comics, and magazines. Most, if not all of my book selection, was by American authors. Between the ages of eight and twelve, I had devoured most of R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps collection, Ann M. Martin's The Baby-Sitters Club, and the Archie comics. I always looked forward to library sessions as they were the peak of school time. I did love Math and the Sciences, but reading time had this spark. It was like wrapping oneself with a warm blanket, sipping a hot cup of tea, and watching the rain kiss the window sill. It was beyond relaxing.
On the one hand, R.L. Stine’s books allowed me to be more imaginative as his unexpected twists and turns kept me on my toes. I fell in love with the madness of his horror depictions, and I learnt to translate his sense of the unexpected into my writing classes. On the other hand, Ann M. Martin showed me the importance of close friendships and the adventures a simple idea can bring. During my primary school years, reading was simply for leisure; a luxury I was happy to indulge in.
However, when I joined high school, my English and Swahili classroom teachers required me to read specific books in order to write essays and pass language classes. Literary studies became more tasking as I had to re-read the books a couple of times, and frankly, they weren’t that exciting. Although I was exposed to a range of backgrounds through the various books I read, I would steal some time during breaks to read less tasking books in order to unwind.
My school community was composed of well-read individuals who considered literary studies a plus in supporting one's extracurricular activities. I loved reading, but I shied away from debate clubs or writing competitions. I knew that my book selection pushed me towards a certain corner as I was considered more versed in "white people knowledge" than my fellow classmates. My love for books was beginning to isolate me as I was developing a literary blind spot.
However, one Friday afternoon, one of my friends slipped a book into my hands and smirked. I knew what that look meant; she had snuck out a book from the library’s back storage that would never rest on the shelves as it was considered adult literature. That day, I fell upon Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight. I know what you are thinking. Refrain from rolling your eyes and whatever emotions you have at this point, conceal them. I need you to bear with me without judgement.
My teenage self was completely drawn to the weird romantic tropes and the tension between vampires and werewolves. I re-read the novel so many times I could narrate lines and pinpoint the pages for reference. Sadly, I could not do the same with my required course books but who cared, I was supporting one of the many female authors of the YA industry. Regardless of my undying love for Edward Cullen, I slowly moved away from that franchise when I enrolled in university, but its effect was still on me.
Being an English Literature student awakened in me a sense of dread as I had never fully appreciated authors of colour. The more my English teachers gave us recommendations for books to supplement our semester readings, the more I shifted my focus towards multicultural literature. To push it further, I rewatched the Twilight Saga with my roommates to gauge whether my opinions had changed.
My sixteen-year-old self was thrilled to return to her fantasies, yet my twenty-five-year-old self saw the lack of cultural diversity and the stereotypical romantic tropes being woven into the story. I was livid with myself for believing in a world that was far from the everyday lives of teenagers and also for the lies I had fed my young mind in reference to healthy relationships.
Of course, I did acknowledge that it was merely fiction, but having that as a reference growing up made me uneasy. I do appreciate good fiction but having limited relevant literature growing up forced me to be more attentive to the kinds of books my younger siblings read.
I also reflected on the books I read in high school and became more aware of the relevant literature my English teachers had handed to my unconcerned teenage self. The books that had excited me did not represent where I came from, and those that represented where I came from made me feel unsettled. I was torn because I had been fighting against the beauty of being part of a minority.
Consequently, I became more critical of the books I would spend my time and money on, including those that my friends would recommend. It became harder for me to enjoy a book simply because it was a New York Times Bestseller. I needed to find a sense of home in the range of backgrounds offered by authors of colour. The cultural backgrounds represented in the books I devoured made me feel closer to the kind of writing I wanted to pursue.
Furthermore, my need for literature growth mirrored my class selections. I ensured that every class I signed up for was worlds apart from the others. I took classes in African Literature, Modern Canadian Literature, Quebec Writing in English, and Women Writers, among others. Although it was hectic organizing my classes, I felt that I owed it to myself to diversify not only my reading but also my understanding of what it means to be represented in literature.
I chose to educate myself in areas that challenged me. Instead of shying away from topics that made me uncomfortable, I researched the authors to better understand the angle their stories focused on. I paid keen attention to those who knew more about the topics I was still learning, and I asked for clarification whenever I was confused. More so, I allowed myself to make mistakes, be corrected, and learn.
My interaction with my peers reassured me of my opinions, as their acknowledgement and support of my ideas made me feel seen and heard. Even when we had disagreements over what was represented or misrepresented, I came to realize that what mattered most was whether we all took into account how much of a powerful tool human experience was when it came to writing. At the end of each discussion, my peers and I would ask each other for recommendations for books to read to better understand our opinions.
Furthermore, as a black author, my background in writing different essays has permitted me to take better steps in researching and preparing various characters for my novels. Whenever I am hesitant to write about a specific character in one of my stories, I would ask myself why it was hard to write about them, and whether they were necessary for the plot or were simply fulfilling the “diversity quota.”
Although representation matters, having diversity in literature should not be arbitrary. I want my stories to be part of the multicultural content on the online shelves, not because I am a black author writing to represent her views on cultural diversity, but because I want others to learn about human experiences through the daily lives of normal characters.
My relationship with literature has changed over the years because I came to acknowledge that I play a critical role in portraying my view of my little world to the rest of the world. Also, my growth in cultural knowledge has vastly improved because I exposed myself to more physical and intellectual experiences.
I pay homage to the writers who pushed my young mind to explore the possibilities of creating new worlds because now, I get a chance to spice up the literature shelves.
