Green Apple Books and beatrice.com have pointed out a glaring omission, from a somewhat unexpected source. I say unexpected because I sometimes point out these omissions, of folks like women, people of color, and queer people, and attribute them to the dominance of the publishing industry by straight white men. In this case, however, the omission comes from none other than one of the most powerful women of color in the world, Oprah Winfrey.

Apparently Oprah’s Book Club hasn’t selected a book by a female author since 2004, and none by a living woman since 2002. With all of the great books out there by female authors (Green Apple begins a list here), what could be the reason for this pattern? I hesitate to call Oprah a “misogynist.” Have women writers simply been overlooked?

Personally, I’m tired of being overlooked. Of all the times when these omissions occur, and because we can find no overtly malicious intent, we steer away from conversations including words like “sexism” and say “oh, they just didn’t think about it…” Why is it so easy to forget? To envision a world in which certain types of people simply don’t exist?

Maybe I’m focusing on all the wrong things. I can complain until my last breath about arenas like the publishing industry and best-of lists, dominated for centuries by people who often have a particular ideal for literature in mind. But when I interviewed poet Camille Dungy, for example, she couldn’t have cared less about what happens to her poems in publishing, as long as she is free to write. When I think about it I can definitely say the same for myself, so why am I so worried about what someone like Oprah has to say?

Well, I guess in Oprah’s case, I am disappointed partly because of her position as such a powerful woman. My secret hope, I didn’t realize until now, is that she would be the exception to the rule, someone in the position to do what others haven’t, to recognize the history of silencing folks like women writers and to help reconcile that by recognizing them now. Oprah’s Book Club is popular and mainstream and it’s helping keep the love of literature alive, so I hope it doesn’t simply enliven history’s emphasis on some voices over others.

Then again, maybe I should stop focusing so much on mainstream circles’ treatment of literature and just focus on writing, writing for me and for the folks who matter to me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the recent happenings of the San Francisco lit scene, it’s that you don’t have to wait for some main stage to offer you a spotlight to share your work. You make your own way to the stage, or you create your own stage, or you challenge what we all know of what a stage is and who can stand on it. And, someday, you will be heard.

Do you hear us, Oprah? Maybe someday you will. Then again, maybe you’re not the one who’s meant to hear.

I suppose I should comment on the Huck Finn / n-word controversy. If you’re not familiar with the latest race-related storm over publishing, here’s the story: Mark Twain scholar Alan Gribben has adapted Twain’s classic novel “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” for New South Books. The change he’s made that’s gotten the most attention is to use the word “slave” in every instance where Twain used “nigger.” Now, much of the media is paying just as much attention to the original story itself as they are to the bonus flap, critic Roger Ebert’s tweet that he’d “rather be called a nigger than a slave.”

I’m commenting on this in part because it’s an important issue, of course, though not because I’m particularly invested in the preserving the book as it is each time it’s published. I have to admit, too, that I’m joining this conversation here partly because I’m a black writer and so I’ve been getting those looks.

You know the ones. The looks you get from someone in a position of privilege, who wants you to give permission to speak on an issue by speaking up about it first. Those looks I complain about now, but that maybe Roger Ebert could have used with a person of color before he went and spoke up about an issue that has nothing to do with him. The issue of the tweet is simple enough – as a white man, Ebert wasn’t in any position to state his opinion on which term he’d prefer, when he’d never have to worry about being called either. He knows this now.

But the question remains about the use of the word itself, about censorship we’re demanding for not only modern spaces like Twitter, but for literature published as far back as 1884. I think it’s one thing to discuss what the n-word means to us today – to question whether modern hip-hop artists who popularize the term, for example, should be criticized for disregarding its history or praised for reclaiming the word. Personally, I believe that the word’s long, ugly history is enough that we should put it behind us for good.

I think of my position as a writer, however, and I know if I’d used the n-word as much as Twain had in a work of my own, I would feel it was excessive, I’d be uncomfortable with it, and I’d certainly try to avoid it. If I were writing a historical work in which the word has a role, however, to censor myself would be to deny historical truth. Avoiding the use of a word with a violent history simply to allow readers to stay in their places of comfort is dangerous, and not in a good way. Rather than attempt to rewrite history in terms we can all find on a page without spilling our morning coffee, we must face the truth of our past, even those uncomfortable truths we’d rather avoid.

The important part of this whole controversy is that it’s led to a discussion. We can ask ourselves and each other why these words feel so awful to us, so we remember their history and understand how we should move forward. These conversations should happen all the time, though – it shouldn’t take censorship to threaten to take away our words for us to realize their significance. But Mark Twain has already made his statement – I say let that remain as is, and let’s keep the conversation going between you and I.

I know I keep mentioning it and sounding like an amateur in the process, but I’m still settling into how it feels to share my creative work. In some ways it feels remarkably different to write for the possibility of an audience larger than myself. And in other ways, it’s not so different at all. 

I’ve found a few reminders lately that people are listening – Thalia Gigerenzer took note of my poem “Island Home” during her Litcrawl adventures in October, for example. And check this out – Michael Berger from The Rumpus shared some of my thoughts on danger in poetry! 

Before I become convinced that the whole word is hearing my words, though, I’m stopping to wonder who really listens to a voice like mine. Can my work really be a part of what most people think of as literature, or do I belong in an Other category?  

In this piece on The Rumpus, LaToya Jordan points out an idea that mainstream best-of literature lists often perpetuate – that stories about white people are regarded as universal, while stories about people of color are believed to be for people of color. Jordan is responding to this brilliant piece by Roxane Gay about the lack of diversity in Best American Short Stories 2010. Gay’s assertion that “segregation is alive and well when it comes to what we read” is unsettling. Am I just being naïve in thinking that I can set out as a queer writer of color to speak to universal truths? Should I simply set about marketing my work to “my people” and accept that it will never be read in mainstream circles? 

Being that my poems are my own, it’s impossible for me to read my work as someone else would. So I have no idea if it speaks to people universally or not. I know that I hope my work can speak to folks like me, say a young queer girl of color who feels misunderstood. I’d also hope, though, that I could reach some of the folks who misunderstand her, say a man of a different age who can’t see what it’s like to be her until he recognizes those universal truths the two of them can both hold. Ultimately, I aim for what Gay describes as great writing: 

“I believe great writing can and should transcend things like race and gender and class. Great writing should be writing that is so powerful it elevates us beyond the things that characterize us in our daily lives. And yet, I also believe that writing should tell us things we don’t already know and give us insights into the lives of people who are completely different from us or anyone we know. Great writing should challenge us and make us uncomfortable and push our boundaries.”

I’d never get a chance to challenge readers in this way, though, if my work was kept on those shelves designated Other. So, not just for my sake but for all those talented writers of Other whose work you may tragically never know, I hope we can all open our literary leanings to reach beyond what feels familiar.