#issues have a fair point in wanting those histories to be accurately represented and resenting american cultural hegemony's

[cheesey-rice]

I've been getting a lot of vids from international YouTube channels bc of my foreign language interests and I see a lot of international poc complaining about American poc being in historical shows and calling it the same ahistoricality as someone casting a white person to play a poc, and I've felt that I disagreed.

Just trying to articulate this from my perspective as a 2nd gen kid... I think that folks saying poc being in like British historical type shows in positions poc definitely wouldn't have been in at that period have a point when they say studios should just produce movies/shows that tell the history of actual poc instead of misrepresenting history of predominant white countries have a point in that yes, American culture and media definitely has this huge Blindspot to history outside of a certain sphere of white American culture influences... But I still feel like there is a definite difference between a white person being cast as a historical poc vs a poc being cast as a historically white person.

Bc when it comes down to it I feel like the perspective some non-americans might not have is that when you grow up in America you are raised as an American. Poc are not exempt from the American cultural concept of what our history is. Like regardless of how u feel about the musical itself Hamilton is a good example of how something that exists in our culture as American history is something that a poc creator was able to retell as their own history as an immigrant. Regardless of the quality of the piece, one wouldn't say that the people of color in Hamilton's production are talking about or reenacting American history in an unfaithful or inaccurate way because American history is their history and an immigrant writing a view on that history from an immigrant's perspective adds a level of nuance to the piece rather than taking it away.

But in the case of a white person playing an important historical figure of color, it's completely different. Like in the instance of that famous harriet Tubman case, a white person could not play the black woman who fought the white institution of American slavery her entire life. Because victimization at the hands of the institution of slavery on the basis of race in America is a history that cannot be said to be the history of all Americans. Non-black Americans and (also most black non-americans) are not going to grow up being continually affected by the social, financial, and legal ramifications of the institution that remain in this country. A person who has never experienced a life that continues to be affected by racism is not going to be able to accurately tell a story about race. And because America has relied on racial dogma to excuse free labor and human rights abuses used to build the agricultural basis of our society from the very inception of the nation, there is never going to be a story about a black American in our history that was not in some way affected or influenced by the experience of racism.

I understand that from an outside perspective seeing an American poc just say a casting choice is "racist" can sound like oh they're saying a white person isn't allowed to play this role what about creative freedom etc etc. But like, ignoring the knee jerk reaction to call everything 'cancelling' these days maybe realize that they're saying a white actor is going to do a worse job representing a character who experienced racism than a person of color and that's just a fact. It's not restricting art to criticize that the choices behind it make the actual piece worse in the long term for very obvious reasons.

[allthebest20]

Butter Honey Pig Bread by Francesca Ekwuyasi

8/10.  A joy to read and a great debut novel. I think the author has even better work ahead of her.  The characters are complex and unique, and the book explores modernity, pain, and generational spirituality in a very readable style.  I couldn’t help but make assumptions about the author as I read the book: definitely Nigerian, definitely a cook, definitely spent time in London and Canada, definitely queer, definitely raised in the Church, but also definitely spiritual.  The authenticity with which she writes, especially in regards to being queer in the modern world and the cultures of different places, is what makes this book great.  The story dances between the gruesome details of reality in the twenty-first century and romanticized views of youth and love. It raises a lot of questions in me about the international class system, wealth, and privilege.  

The only real complaint that I have is around one of the main plot points: the rape of Kehinde when she is 12.  While this is a turning point in all their lives, I feel as though it is also simultaneously underappreciated, as if the author choose this event simply because it was one of the worst things she could think of.  I think this is a common pit fall for authors.  A lot of traumatic things happen to this family: Kambi, the mother, is very mental ill, Banji, the twin’s beloved father, is murdered, Taiye, the queer twin, struggles with her own mental health.  Yet, the rape is regarded as the primary Bad Thing and all the other traumatic events are hardly discussed.  I appreciate how the author takes some time, maybe 1 chapter, to discuss Kehinde’s relationship to sex and her body.  Yet, Kehinde’s life seems to be mostly unaffected by this event, except in the way she punishes her family with her silence.  She is in a healthy relationship.  She does not abuse alcohol or drugs.  She has a successful career.  Ultimately, it’s not a book about overcoming childhood sexual abuse.  It’s a book about mending a family after years of pain, resentment, distance, and silence.  I almost feel as though the book could have been stronger if it focused more on the effects of Banji’s death and Kambi’s violence and depression on the twins.  Ultimately, though, sexual abuse is just a thing that happens to a lot of kids, and perhaps it serves a purpose to write a book where it happens, it’s horrible, but it doesn’t need to be put under a magnifying glass.  It just reverberates.

This book could have been about a lot of things.  When I picked it off the shelf at the library, I barely read the entire description, immediately caught by the spiritual nature of Kambi’s being and the brief mention of “reckless hedonism.”  I was pleasantly surprised to find out that Taiye was a lesbian, and I saw a lot of myself in her: the serial string of intense relationships, always slated to go nowhere, the indulgence in food and weed and dancing and occasionally other drugs, the loneliness and missing family but not being able to connect with them, the exploration of religion and spirituality and non-monogamy, seeing and feeling things you don’t know are real.  I feel like a lot of modern young adults live like Taiye does, unsure what to look for except comfort.  I love how the author mentioned the chaotic draw of dating apps.  I love how Taiye is a stoner.  I love how Taiye loves organic butter and fair trade chocolate and cooking extravagant meals for anyone who will eat it.  I LOVE how the author includes recipes for what Taiye is cooking.  Although I probably won’t use those recipes, I did want to cook what Taiye was cooking, and it reads just like my brain reads when I am absorbed in a culinary project.  This book could have been more about what it means to be a lesbian, but it only barely describes her formative romantic and sexual experiences.  The author details the first time Taiye calls her self gay out loud and has queer sex, but this is long after she has had gay feelings and gay experiences.  The author does not explore Taiye’s inner turmoil, and it is unclear if Taiye struggles at all with her sexuality in the long term.

I also like how the book explores mental illness.  It doesn’t shy away from both the good and the bad parts.  It doesn’t shame medication use.  It explores the spiritual powers of those who’s brains work differently.  Kambi’s voice explores suicide in an interesting way: both from the frequent pull of the voices, asking Kambi to escape the pain of living, and Kambi’s own knowledge that she wants to remain here with her family.  Although I have perhaps 0 hard examples of mental illness being spiritual, I still want to believe that those who hear voices, who see things, who feel things, are connected to the spiritual in a way that those who live entirely in reality are not.  This book explores one such case.  I also found it interesting how Taiye inherits some of Kambi’s crazy (struggles to speak as a young child, depressed, sleep walks) and some of Kambi’s magic (draws people to her, sees and hears beyond).  This make Taiye feel closer to her mom as she ages, while Kehinde remains unsure.  This book could have been more about generational mental illness and the pain and distance it causes, but instead the author focuses on the magic of it all.  It asks, quietly, if the girls should be mad at their mother, can they be mad at her?  From the outside, Kehinde knows that Kambi is respoinsible for the scar on Taiye’s face, but yet we, the audience, know that Kambi had to do this to prevent Taiye from killing the rapist, Uncle Earnest.  Does Kehinde know this?  How can she understand?  In a family, we have no choice but to forgive and let live if we cannot understand, or else remain alienated.  This is the underlying message of the book.

The book has a complicated timeline: the main story line follows the events of a six month period in which the three main characters are united again in Lagos, after over a decade apart.  Slowly, in tangents, the three characters’ backstory is explained.

The book features a few key locations:

Nigeria (specifically Abeokuta, where Kambirinachi is born, Ife, where she spends her youth, and Lagos, where she raises her family),

London (where the twins were born and where Taiye lived for 9 years during and after university),

and Canada (Kehinde lives in Montreal since attending university there and Taiye lives in Halifax after London). 

I’ve never been to Nigeria or London, but I love the way the author writes the dialogue and the characters from each place.  I cannot say if they are accurate, but they have a clear and unique voice, not homogeneous but also representative of those place-based qualities that unite an area.  The characters give me a glimpse into what it feels like to be Nigerian abroad vs. Nigerian at home.  She rarely writes about interpersonal incidents of racism: the characters are mostly well liked, treated nicely by the people in their life, given opportunities.  I think that contributes to the feeling of romanticism in the story.  Racism is discussed on a more systematic level: they have problems at the airport, Taiye learns about the history of racism in Canada. As someone who has been to Canada, knows about the history of Canada, and lives very close to Canada, I enjoyed hearing about Taiye learning about Canada’s dark side, something that is so rarely discussed by the general public.  However, for those of us who are interested, the evidence is everywhere.  The history is just waiting to be explored by anyone who is interested in looking just slightly beyond the state-issued textbooks.  I thought the way the author wrote about Canada was really authentic, which convinces me that the way she writes about London and Nigeria must also be accurate.  What it must be like to be Ekwuyasi, so intimately familiar with places so far apart.

There was one line in the book that really stuck with me: as Taiye is traveling home, she passes through the busy streets of Lagos, crowded with street children, and she is reminded of her privilege in a very visual way, something she doesn’t get in Canada or London.  This is the view the West wants us to have of Africa: a whole continent made of dirty huts and begging children on busy urban roads.  Yes, poverty looks different in Nigeria than it does in Canada, but that doesn’t mean that everyone in Nigeria is somehow poorer.  In fact, this family has a beautiful compound and a trust fund.  Despite having a trust fund, Taiye still makes decisions on a strict budget and denies herself luxuries to save money, the way I do.  I don’t really know a lot of people with trust funds, so I can’t tell if this is an international thing or if there are American kids who act like this.  It kind of annoyed me when Taiye wrote to the culinary program saying she didn’t have enough to pay for the program, when in reality she just didn’t want to dip into her trust fund.  I don’t know if there were limited spots/funds available for people who couldn’t afford to pay full price, but I hate when rich people forget what it means to actually not have money.  Being cheap and being poor are two different things, often way more opposing than people think.  Rich people are often the ones who know how to exploit the system to get what they want for less, while the poor are left with less connections and less time to work it.

Still, I refrain from delivering too harsh judgement on Taiye. I do not know the size of the trust fund.  I know their family home was a gift, so perhaps the fund is to be saved for medical emergencies and property taxes.  I’m not sure how insurance or taxes work in Nigeria, although I know the government is very unstable.  How did they pay for international university?  Did that come from the trust fund?  The whole plot line has me thinking a lot about wealth and class on  an international level.  While I grew up comfortably, I often felt like my family was poor because of how rich everyone in our town was.  I wonder what it would have been like to grow up in a compound and see homeless children often, but also ingest international media that cast your entire country as poor and to know your government is unstable.

All in all, the book touches on many of the central issues of modern life  While it only brushes the surfaces of these topics, it had me thinking for days and wanting to know more.  Perhaps I will search out an some Nigerian autobiographies / memoirs in the future.