Segregation of books?

A debate has opened up on my comments page that I’d be really interested in sharing with others. The issue has to do with the segregation of books in American book stores by the race of the author and, to a lesser extent, the characters. Now, remember I’m not American, and in Trinidad the practice is almost unheard of. So I’m fascinated by the whole thing.

I’m inviting you over to join the debate and make some observations of your own.

What do you think of the practice of racial/ethnic segregation of books?

Also, I remember as a young girl reading romance, the only books available to us were written by white women, about white characters, as the African American romance genre pretty much hadn’t been invented yet. I cut my teeth on Janet Dailey, Kathleen Woodwiss and Barbara Cartland. Now we as black women have a genre of our own, and yet many of us still read “white” romances. My question is; do white women read black romances? What about black mainstream fiction?

In the world of rap music, a significant proportion of the consumers are white. What’s it like in the world of black fiction? Do we have a large white readership? And if not, why not?

I’d love to hear your views. Why not drop by and chew the fat a little?

I'm taking back Christmas

You know, for several years now I've grown more and more leery of Christmas. The cost. The obligations. The family pressures. The mega marketing. The strident music that's more and more about partying, drinking and pork and less and less about a little baby shivering in the hay.

It got to the point where even thinking about Christmas brought on a sickening feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I used to find every excuse to get out of as much as I could. What I couldn't get out of, I dreaded, had nightmares about, and trudged reluctantly toward. Then I'd come away grumbling.

No more. Having children who are just about old enough to know that something special's going on has changed everything. For their sake, I've decided that I'm taking back Christmas. I won't let the unsavoury elements get me down. Henceforth, here is my Christmas pledge to myself:

• I am not changing curtains or cushion covers. I am not painting or varnishing anything. My house is fine as it is and Christmas will come and go whether the house smells of new stuff or not.
• I will not buy presents I don't feel like buying, just because I suspect someone is going to get me something, or because it would be rude not to. If you get me something, and I got you nothing, I'm going to say a grateful "Thank you," and leave it at that.
• For those people I am getting presents for, I will not buy ashtrays, vases, or body lotion/perfume/hand soap sets. I will buy things that I think they want and need, even if that is something as mundane as a pair of pot holders.
• For those who will appreciate the gesture, I am making a contribution to a charity in their name, rather than buy one more useless thing they'll thank me for and never use.
• The kids (others more than mine) will get toys. Christmas is all about them, and they'll damn well enjoy it.
• I will not spend one minute in the presence of someone I don't like just because I feel obliged to. I will not pay courtesey visits to people who manage ask me at the very second I don't have a plausible excuse not to. I will not invite anyone over unless I really want them here. I will not make a single phone call to someone I don't like just because not doing so will piss them off.

Starting this year, I'm doing Christmas my way, for my children and for me. I loved it as a child, and I'm going to make sure my children have only happy memories of it. I'm taking it back.

Have I lost my edge?

My old editor from the Guardian has asked me to take up my old Sunday column. I asked her to hold that thought for a while. I need to think it through. I enjoyed my column for two years, although I can't say how many other people did.

For practical reasons, it might be hard; I have my new romance due in July, and I'd like to get back into the literary game, and I haven't even started on that one. Where would I find the time to turn out something weekly?

But that's just half of it, and the smaller half to boot. The thing is, I don't have enough confidence in myself to make that leap. What if my columns are no good? What if I've lost my edge? Did I ever have an edge?

I've posted a few old columns on my website here. See for yourself.

Universal mother

Trinidad can be hell sometimes. We just closed down our national airline and paid the pilots large sums of severance pay. Within days the wife of one of the pilots was snatched from her home, on her birthday at that, and held for ransom.

This woman has a 5 year old and a 7 year old. They're traumatised beyond imagination, and every day the poor husband begs for her release. The problem for me is that once children are involved in any crime or any tragedy, I internalise it to the point where I grieve as though it's happening to me. I lay awake in bed last night, thinking about her children. Feeling guilty because I was in a warm bed cuddled up with mine, and she's out there somewhere, chained up in a shack, if she's lucky. If she's not, she's buried in a shallow grave. She's been gone two weeks. It looks worse by the day. What will these children do? How will this poor man raise his children alone? Christmas will be just awful for them.

I don't know why I latch on to these things so. Maybe it's my writer's capacity for empathy. Maybe my imagination is just too acute. I wish I wouldn't torment myself, but I also don't want to lose the sensitivity. What good is a writer if she can't feel the emotions of others?

But it isn't just writing. It's motherhood, too. If there's one thing about me that has changed since I had children, it's that. I think in some way all mothers are linked by motherhood into a single universal entity. We feel each other's pain. I don't pray much, but I prayed for that woman last night.

UPDATE: I heard on the evening news that they found her and she's still alive! Oh, my god, I ached so hard for that lady. I can't help but wonder what the scene at their home is like tonight. Is she home or is she still in hospital? At least her children will still have christmas. Poor things. They'll never be the same again.

Oh, I haven't told you yet, but I have a new short story up on my website. It's called Playing Dead, and you can't tell it from the title, but it's a Christmas story. You might like it.

The Hypocritical Oath

A 72 year old friend of mine has been suffering from back pain and sciatica for the past few days. When it got too bad for her to move around, she asked me to drive her to the doctor. I dropped her off, popped into the office, and then picked her up again when she was done. I wish I'd stayed.

This doctor, who operates out of his sprawling mansion, didn't even look at her leg or back. He informs her that she's just got a little touch of old age, hands her an envelope with huge unmarked white pills, and writes her a prescription. Not even a pharmacist could identify the pills or say what they were for. The prescription? Its for vitamins. Ten days' worth.

That'll be $100 please. Thank you Ma'am.

First off, Doc, this lady is a pensioner, and that kind of money represents a huge chunk of her income. I don't even want to think of what she has to go without since she's paid you. Second, when a patient comes to you in pain, you damn well should examine her - and TRY TO HELP! Third, isn't it a legal requirement that all pills prescribed to a patient should be clearly labelled, and that patient should be told what they are, what they're for, and what sort of risks they pose? For all we know, that shit could be horse medicine. Oh, and you gave her a shot in the ass, but wouldn't tell her what it was. Saline?

Then there's those vitamins. You don't have to go to med school to know that 10 days worth of vitamins couldn't possibly have any effect on the body, much less improve leg and back pain.

So, wassup, doc? Is that that you're so busy that you don't think it's worth the effort to explain yourself to a little old lady? Or is it that you're so smart that you think anyone who doesn't have the letters MD after their name is just too stupid for an explanation?

Where do you get off treating an old woman like that? You treated her like a fool, and she left your office still in pain, bewildered and humiliated. She called you back, and you say "Well, I don't know what to tell you, but you can come back in if you like". Bam, another hundred bucks. Thank you Ma'am.

Didn't see that in the Hippocratic Oath.

Greater love

I can't tell you how sad I am about the death of James Kim. if you remember, he's the man who left his snowbound wife and two small children in their car last week in Oregon to try to get help. He was out there for about a week, wandering. I got up at about 4 a.m. this morning and lay in my bed, worrying about him, only to hear later today that his body was found. He'd wandered 8 miles in the snow, and died just 1 mile from the car.

I feel so sad. Rawle knew of him because of his work in the computer industry, but my only connection to him is the similrities between his wife and me. I can only imagine sitting in a car for days with my toddler and my baby, just like she did. (Hers were 7 months and 4 years old.) Freezing cold, lost, having to comfort two restless, irritable, cold, hungry children, wondering where your husband is, and hoping that he'd come back. I keep asking myself, what would I do?

She breastfed hers, as I would have. But oh, those long, dreadful cold days.

And I can't help but feel great admirtion for Kim. It is a commentary in a nutshell on gender roles and responsibilities, if you want to look at it like that. He did the manly thing. He did what a man would do. Step out, step up, and venture into the cold to save his family. Greater love had no man than this, that he laid down his life for those he loved.

The ugliest tree

We've got the ugliest Christmas tree in christendom. I let my 3 year old, Riley, decorate it this year, since it's the first time he's been aware of Christmas and all the trimmings. So I let him throw on everything but the kitchen sink. It went up on Saturday, and since then, it's had a dozen revisionings, with all the tinsel hanging at about three feet off the ground, stuffed toy ornaments roaming the house like the Roaming Gnome and the mercifully unbreakable ornaments being kicked around like footballs. I've got glitter dust in my bed.

I think this Christmas is going to be loads of fun, seeing it all through his eyes again. He's learning all the Carols, and lies in bed at night rehearsing his lines for the Christmas play on Thursday. He's the Wise man with the gold. His line? "I bring you gold." I can't wait.