We all like to think we’re fantastic allies. We sit back and champion books featuring Black charaacters, written by Black authors, or with characters of varied sexualities, religions, nationalities, or who appear on the autism spectrum. But how much of what we’re reading “diversely” is actually just performative? I know I’m not without blame here.
It saddens me that I need to write this. But given some revelations over the last few days, I wanted to make my stance clear.
Some girls grew up living for Saturday so they could head for town and spend hours at the MAC counter fawning over their latest eyeshadow. Me, I lived for Saturday mornings in Easons, perched in front of the YA book shelves, breathing it in.
Neither of us were doing it wrong. We were simply indulging in our passions.
I’ve made two previous posts about things here that I’ll find myself crying out for when I up sticks soon. But yet, there are a number of things I perhaps might not be too upset to leave behind me.
