Can I write from the perspective of a woman? 

What about a black man? What about a lesbian? An eighty-year old woman? A ten-year old boy from New Zealand? I know I’m a white man, but can I anyway? I suppose I can, what I want to know is if I should. 

Oh look, another straight white guy trying to take what isn’t his, trying to steal from another culture. No, that’s not the case—if it were, I wouldn’t have asked for permission (evil laugh).

But I want to be serious about this. What I want to ask you about is writing from the perspective of another. 

Who can write what? Where do you draw the line?

What got me thinking about this topic was a Youtube video made by a channel called “Below the Fray” with a video titled “Who Can Write Whose Story?” If you want to watch a video version of this piece (a better version of this piece) I would highly recommend you go listen. What you’re reading right here isn’t a copy, but an adaptation and continuation of the questions he poses.

Anyway, the video tackles the subject from many angles, but particularly through the example of American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins. It’s the fictional story of a Mexican woman who flees to the U.S. as an undocumented immigrant. But Cummins isn’t a Mexican, she’s an Irish and Puerto Rican who hadn’t experienced anything like this, and it led to backlash.

Jeanine Cummins’ novel had an unbelievably strong start. She got a seven-figure advance on the manuscript and glowing reviews from Stephen King, Oprah Winfrey, The Washington Post, and sold millions of copies. Then it received huge backlash. Critics and the public deemed it cultural appropriation and exploited the struggle of Mexican-Americans by reducing them to harmful stereotypes.

I have not read American Dirt, but based on the reviews and my personal intuition is that the book—line for line—is probably mediocre. Maybe just plain bad. A good story makes you forget it’s a story for a little bit. What I’m a little confused about is what exactly triggered the outrage; is it more that a woman of her background wrote something she does not have authority on, or that the poor writing perpetuates stereotypes?

It can be both. Let’s go back to the beginning: where do we draw the line?

Here’s another example: “Going to Meet the Man” is a short story written in 1965. It’s dark, so here’s both a spoiler warning and a trigger warning:

The narrator is a white sheriff deputy who can’t get an erection for his wife, but does get hard when he beats up a black man.  

The story was written by author James Baldwin, a civil rights activist, and a black man. (He also had relationships with both men and women, but disliked having his sexuality labelled with “gay” or “bisexual.”)

Baldwin! How dare you appropriate white, redneck, Jim Crow, degenerate culture! 

Notice how no one cares. Neither do I. Look at how I’m able to make a joke out of cultural appropriation. 

What if, today, a black author wrote from the perspective of a white person. What if a Mexican wrote from the perspective of a white Puerto Rican? Would they have received as much criticism for American Dirt as Jeanine Cummins.

Yes, I just did a “what if the roles were reversed” on you. I’m not trying to tell you that there’s a war on white people or that prejudice, in this scenario, isn’t justified. Baldwin was an oppressed minority standing up to the evil of segregation. Cummins got a recommendation from Oprah. 

Seriously, though, I want an answer! A calculated, thoughtful answer. Is cultural appropriation sometimes okay?

This would be tough to say to a crowd of people. As a white person, there’s a voice in my head that only knows two words in one order: “you racist!” It’s why I’m compelled to add prefaces and asides. I hate prefaces. I hate asides. But I don’t want to seem racist. I’m a straight white man—I’m on high alert for any racism, sexism, homophobia. People of my demographic have a track record for those things. I’m part Austrian, too.

What I think is bad, though, is going around apologizing for who I happen to be. Or worse, hiding my true thoughts and masquerading as some altruistic saint. Here’s what I think: in Baldwin’s case, cultural appropriation in “Going to Meet the Man” is totally fine. He’s trying to make a point about racism, brutality, and even sexuality in a striking way. From an artistic standpoint, telling the story through anyone but a despicable, racist white man would be to soften the impact.

So what’s the difference between American Dirt and “Going to Meet the Man”? The difference between Anna Karenina and The Help?

Quality. Maybe people would have hated Leo Tolstoy if he weren’t such a good writer. Maybe people would have liked Jeanine Cummins more if she were better. Maybe it’s fine to have some cultural appropriation, as long as it’s good. As long as it resounds with the experiences of real people. As long as it has a stamp of approval from the subjects themselves.

I almost to got on board with this. Then something else crossed my mind:

Is identity just performance?

No, right? 

Let’s think about it for a second, though, you and me. Ever heard of a “no sabo” kid? It’s someone of Latin or Hispanic descent that doesn’t speak Spanish, typically reserved for people who grew up in America. Now I can speak Spanish pretty well. I’m on track to become fluent. Does that make me more of a Latino than an actual Latino?

No, right?

But what makes someone Latino? Imagine someone born in Argentina with pale white skin and German and Scottish ancestry. Is that Latino? What if they don’t speak any Spanish? What if instead of using vos they use tú? Are they even Argentinian?

No, right?

Are these classifications, in the first place, based on anything beyond generalizing stereotypes? 

No, right?

Can a person just be whatever they want? They can be whatever they identify as? But that would mean the concept of identity dissolves into nothing, right? Every term would mean something different to different people. Someone who identifies as a certain ethnicity would base it off their ancestry & genetics, whereas another would base it off their culture. Are either of them wrong to decide their identity for their own reasons?

No, right?

Well, if that’s true, couldn’t Cindy, a white woman from Minnesota, say she is aesthetically polynesian.

No. Definitely not. 

But you just said…

No! Ugh!

This is complicated, isn’t it? Is the line you’ve drawn a swiggle?

I’m also getting slightly off-topic. Discussions and disagreements about identity will continue until the sun explodes—or maybe it’ll get tired of us and leave. What I want to talk about is art & literature (fake stuff). 

The rule I find dangerous here is this: don’t write it if you haven’t lived it. 

I try to stay away from this term, but damn, if that isn’t the most slippery slope, I don’t know what is. Let’s say that rule was universal and took effect right now. So I can’t write about outer space now? I can’t write about future technology? I can’t write about growing wings and flying over my hometown? 

This doctrine kills fiction. It kills imagination. I also think it kills empathy. “Put yourself in someone else’s shoes,” well, no, not anymore, because that’s appropriating someone else’s identity.  

I once wrote a short story from the perspective of a t-shirt. A plain white t-shirt. Getting tossed about it a dryer, folded, and put in a drawer, waiting to be chosen.

That winter, I had a really fascinating day with low low’s and high high’s. A week later, I watched as my laundry spun around and around and thought about how I could use that as a metaphor. An extended metaphor for my ENGL 401 Advanced Fiction draft due the next day. So the t-shirt, at least at first, was just a clever way to talk about that day at a distance. The t-shirt was me. 

And then, as I kept writing, it changed. It became fun to imagine the life of a t-shirt. The t-shirt started to pick up on things that a normal person couldn’t. The t-shirt felt its wearer’s rapid heartbeat and its sweating armpits. The t-shirt does not know these are indicators of nervousness, but the audience did, and that dramatic irony added far more than I expected. The t-shirt could recognize what a stain was—not the difference between ketchup or blood—but what a stain would mean. The t-shirt became lonely when its wearer did not choose it that day. 

When I presented my piece to the class, they felt much of the same emotions as I had begun to feel while writing it—as well as valid questions like “how does a t-shirt see things?” 

Then something fascinating happened: some of them said they’d started to feel bad for their own clothes and that maybe they would pick them out more often. Now, I tried to inspire pity for the shirt, that was my plan; but I had no idea it would spread. 

There was some element of being a t-shirt that was relatable. That’s because, after giving the t-shirt a voice, senses, and feelings, it was human in a way. 

It’s a tried and true method; look at Pixar movies. Talking toys, talking rats, talking cars—these supposedly terrifying monsters work white collar jobs and go to college. It’s just us. We all long to see ourselves represented so we can connect with the work. In some ways that’s what all storytelling is about. Literature, music, architecture, film, all art has something to do with what it’s like to be human. 

I look at my fiction writing, as of late, and that’s what I see. It’s just me. I like writing memoirs but what drew me to writing in the first place was the thrill of inventing. Making something out of nothing.

I don’t think I can definitively answer the main question of this piece, nor do I believe I get to decide. But I want to answer one of my many questions: 

Is identity just performance? 

No. 

I don’t think blackness or whiteness or any demographic needs to be performed, because performance implies an audience. Literature is a performance. The identities shown on the page are, in reality, a series of words in a certain order and nothing more.  

Literature, however, is also a way to connect. What I think makes for a compelling read, and what makes a skillful author, is the ability to enter the mind of someone or something else and make choices based on those new circumstances. Because in my mind, that’s what demographic is: circumstance. The author leaves themselves behind (mostly) and adopt the subject’s context as if it were their own. This leads to incredible realizations on both sides: On the reader’s side, they might feel seen by someone they never expected. On the writer’s side, they might realize—mid-imagination—why a person might have done something or felt a certain way. Thus appears a bridge to another, one that wasn’t constructed only now, but probably existed all along. 

Policing any and all prejudice is important. There’s no conjunction to that; I have no tolerance for racism, sexism, anything like that. A prejudice that I can’t stand is one that I think is overlooked: the idea that your demographic determines your identity more than your own personality and experience. 

I know what you’re thinking: “he’s just saying this so one day he can write as a minority.” 

Don’t tempt me.