377 days, blog #123 - living is easy with eyes closed or how I will use my novel to open them

One of my greatest challenges in writing my novel has been getting inside the head of a seventeen year old girl in 1917.  I don’t think I will ever craft a perfectly authentic interpretation, as my world will be forever colored by my knowledge of a reality with cell phones, the internet, foaming face wash, wearing sandals to work, and being able to vote.  I did have the benefit of working in a house that was partially built in 1910 for several summers, so I think I have some more influence of information.  But it is still largely a work of my imagination.  An imagination informed very much by my knowledge of the present day and how we are presently as human beings.  The thing with which I struggle most about that perspective in the context of my novel is how this girl could fall in love with a black man without even thinking about the fact he is a black man.

She sees it.  Obviously.  I also struggle with describing how she sees it… because I don’t want the reader to only see him as a black man.  I want the fact he is studying to be a botanist to be as much a focal point as the fact he is working as a gardener.  Or that his crooked tooth is the captivating feature over the darkness of his skin.  Actually, the captivating feature for my Helen is that he listens to her.  He is the only one who listens to her.  Believes in her.  Sees the beauty of her mind not just the hereditary beauty of her skin.

I like to think it’s a very sweet love story.  An oblivious love story of teenagers, without the obnoxious whining of Romeo and Juliet.  Slightly aware of the conflict… but against the backdrop of a world war and an emerging modern century, it falls out of focus.  As does the color of skin.

Because all she wants to do is love this man.

She doesn’t want to see his color and the difference of their class and lives for a selfish, but ultimately pure reason.  And (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER if you ever intend to read this novel), it has a very horrific, tragic consequence.

My inner critic has been afraid of that perspective of my character.  That it would be unrealistic… or buys into some silly trope like they tried very lamely to approach on Downton Abbey last season.  But, as I keep going back to Facebook and reading posts or comments about Ferguson or in several past discussions on race, I frequently see the argument, “I don’t see race.”

I get so frustrated with that sentence.  So frustrated.  I mean… it’s a nice thought.  But really?  Is it possible to not see race?  Is it possible to see every human being as the same?  We see men and women differently.  We see people with piercings or purple hair or fat or disabilities or dirty clothes or expensive cars or an EBT card or an accent or a big nose differently.  It’s a basic fact that we notice things that are different from our regularity.  

What we don’t see is the problem.

I was raised by parents who think critically about these things.  My sister has a sense of social justice.  I worked in an organization with colleagues who were always eager to ask the questions and sigh over the answers… or lack of them.  So I don’t know exactly what put the problem into focus for me.  I know movies and books that have sharpened my awareness.  And maybe, maybe once upon a time I didn’t see race.  Because I get that argument.  I’m sure I’ve even used it.  I don’t want to be a bigot.  I don’t want to put myself in the same league as the KKK or the scared crowds who threw things at children trying to go to elementary school or slave owners.  I get that those things are bad.  So to say I see race with those lenses is an awful assessment. To say I don’t see it is a way to say I don’t believe in hurting someone, killing someone, denying opportunity because of the color of skin.  That’s how we want the world to be.  It is a good intention to not see race.  

And so I think of Helen again.  She just wants to be in love.  She’s a teenager and it is first love.  She sees only the possibility of good.  She is sheltered.  As is her beloved.  They both have the luxury of not knowing or experiencing the monstrous consequences of racial bias.  So without that experience, it is easy for her to disregard it and pretend it isn’t going to happen.  

Then it happens.

Does it happen because she was oblivious?  As one reads the story, certainly there are good things that end up happening that might not have happened if they didn’t fall in love.  Would the sacrifice of that happiness be a worthwhile price to pay for seeing the possible bad consequence?  Would she be a better person if she had seen it?  Is she a worse person for not seeing it?

The thing is, Helen has a very privileged life.  Very privileged.  I made her an heir to a steel fortune.  She is a stunning beauty with an old New England name.  She has a lot of luxuries that I don’t have in real life.  She has health and lives a full century.  She is white and lives a life where she can choose to see race or not.  In fact, she sees it but chooses not to own the consequences or openly acknowledge its problem.  Not out of malice.  Out of fear and shame.  I still think that makes her unlikable.  My beautiful, vulnerable seventeen year old heroine becomes a very flawed human being.

Part of me has always been ashamed of creating her and making her a centerpiece of the story.  Because… I’m not like that.  I don’t want people to read that she has brown hair and brown eyes and assume that she is me and I am like that.  

And yet… today… after almost a week of reading these posts and searching my brain for some sort of understanding, I realize I have to write her.  As a white person, as an ally, I have to own my blindness.  Maybe through her I will be able to see more.  Maybe  - even if it is just one – a reader will, too.