Race, reviews and children’s literature: some reflections on recent developments in the US - Guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Race, reviews and children’s literature: some reflections on recent developments in the US

There’s been a conversation happening in the US in relation to a YA book titled When We Was Fierce (author: e.E Charlton-Trujillo). When We Was Fierce (WWWF) is a verse novel that tells the story of a group of Black teenagers, written from the perspective of one of the youths – Theodore (aka ‘T’) – in a vernacular invented by the author, who is not Black. Advance copies received glowing praise from White reviewers, and starred reviews from Booklist, Kirkus, and Publisher’s Weekly. But African American critics and commentators (including Jennifer Baker, Edith Campbell, and Zetta Elliott) have challenged the narrative as presenting an inaccurate, stereotypical and harmful view of Black realities. Publication of the book has now been put on hold by agreement between the author and publisher,making this the second time in 2016 that a kids lit book has been withdrawn due to concerns over (mis)representation.

What is the relevance of all this to the Australian literary industry? First, conversations surrounding WWWF are part of the larger dialogue taking place across kids lit in the US that I’ve previously described as the twenty first century diversity conversation. This conversation should not be ignored by any Australian writer with aspirations to being published in the US, especially since we do not – yet – have the dedicated cyber-spaces in Australia that will critically examine representation issues.  This means books that are not challenged (at least not in publicly available discussions) in an Australian context may well be challenged in the States. Second, I believe that many Australian authors who write to experiences of exclusion not their own are doing so out of a genuine desire to support marginalised peoples. But I also believe that most authors lack the necessary knowledge to manifest that intent into reality – and in the absence of such knowledge, authors are all too likely to produce narratives that do the exact opposite of what they intended to achieve. Thus, an understanding of the twenty first century diversity conversation is essential knowledge for any author seeking to write of others with integrity and respect.

What, then, were the issues identified with WWWF? For starters, the invented vernacular in which it was written, which both Library Journal and Kirkus found to be Shakespearean, although the Kirkus reviewer also sounded a note of doubt: “only the free verse’s frequent apostrophes connoting a dropped letter are stereotypical and distancing.”One of the reasons the language matters is because, as White commentator and kids lit expert KT Horning pointed out, it formed part of the overall reality created by the narrative that was being so highly praised. But who was judging whose reality? Jennifer Baker, founder of the Minorities in Publishing podcast, characterised the invented language as not only inconsistent but “abhorrent without much understanding or even consideration for the structure of Ebonics (aka African American Vernacular English, AAVE).” Librarian Edith Campbell similarly found the language to be inconsistent with her lived experience: “Typically, when I read black vernacular, I can hear it in my head as spoken by someone in my life and it resonates as a home to me. The language in this book jolted me, caused me to pause, re-read and wonder what meaning was being conveyed.”

Related to the language in which the story was told was the overall picture the text painted of Black realities, which Edith Campbell summarised as “a monolithic urban African American neighborhood where everyone is low income and everyone is broken or damaged. Single homes, abusive parents, criminal records combine with neighbors who have little more than bad history between them.” It is a depiction which read as ‘truth’ to the initial reviewers – but whose truth? Campbell noted that: “e.E Charlton-Trujillo levels condemnation on this space that so many African Americans call home. Outsiders writing about a community often do this … rather than seeing through to the ebb and flow of life that make the city blocks a vibrant community.” Stories told about marginalised peoples have a weight and a cost. When such stories are measured solely through their perceived value to cultural outsiders, it can be forgotten that this weight is not one that outsiders carry, and this cost is not one that they pay. As Jennifer Baker wrote: “I’d like someone to sit back and consider work created by so many marginalized artists that seeks to show an alternative while also showing truth and tell me if you would actually feel comfortable showing When We Was Fierce to a group of Black children and saying, “This is how I see you.”

Nor, of course, do experiences of marginalisation equate. WWWF was written by a Mexican-American author. The same structures that consistently work to privilege white voices over those of Indigenous peoples or people of colour also work to some degree to privilege outsider voices over insider ones. Outsider voices will often be easier to read; certainly less challenging than the insider ones that seek to express the complexities and contradictions of existence within any marginalised community. I’ve written before in relation to Indigenous books that one of the things reviewers must be wary of is judging our worlds against the ‘one story’ they know about us or by reference to a Western literary canon that has historically excluded and stereotyped non-white peoples. Zetta Elliott, responding to WWWF, gave voice to the frustration experienced by many: “There’s the actual annihilation of Black bodies that’s reported on the nightly news, and then there’s the symbolic annihilation where White editors and agents show preference for non-Black writers and their narratives that distort our image/voice. When I spoke to the TYWLS [The Young Women’s Leadership School] teens last week, I wrapped up with a warning: “If you don’t tell your story, someone else will.” But the truth is, even when you DO tell your story, there’s a good chance it will be dismissed while an outsider’s story is celebrated for its ‘authenticity’.”The Publisher’s Weekly review of WWWFcharacterized it as giving “voice to the unheard.” The problematic nature of that comment was not lost on White librarian Angie Manfredi, who wrote: “It is wrong to assume that this book is an authentic representation of the voices of African-American teens. And it is wrong to assume that these voices are not part of YA and children’s lit – they are and always have been...Are these voices “unheard” because they don’t exist or because the majority culture simply refuses to listen?”

Representation issues are magnified by the make-up of the literary industry. As KT Horning commented, “the majority of children’s book reviewers are White, as are most members of book evaluation and awards committees. Our experiences as White people are limited. How can we discern if a book about a child of colour is authentic?” The literary industry in Australia also (largely) white. In conversation with Zetta Elliott, I’ve said that one of the problems of being a minority writer is not being able to rely upon the people whom writers are supposed to be able to rely, because most agents, editors, and reviewers don’t know enough about us to be able to give us meaningful feedback on the ways in which we are representing our worlds. I would add to that nor can we rely on those to whose opinions we are supposed to aspire. An assessment by a reviewer (or awards judge) that expressly or by implication criticizes as insider story for failing to comply with outsider expectations is probably a testament to a book’s value rather than the reverse.  Except of course that books with poor reviews and no award nominations won’t sell, while the outsider stories lauded for their ‘authenticity’ will appear on every shelf. One of the things the WWWF dialogues demonstrate is a lack of process that is common to both the US and Australia. As Jennifer Baker wrote: “throughout the whole creation and production process not one person recognised, or sought counsel/feedback potentially, from Black people to see how this would make members of the community feel.”And process includes an ability to interrogate one’s own position and privilege. White American-Australian Justine Larbalestier author has recently posted a frank account of her own journey, from believing she was making YA more diverse (by writing from the perspectives of people of colour) to seeing herself as part of the problem after one of her books was criticised by a Black blogger. She now takes a different approach: “To help diversify YA, we white authors can support Indigenous authors and Authors of Color by reading their books, recommending their books, blurbing their books, and recommending them to our agents…These are by far the most important things we can do personally to increase diversity. However, I keep seeing white authors getting hung up on whether white people are allowed to write from points of view not our own. Spoiler: we're allowed. No one is stopping us. Will doing so make YA more diverse? No, it won't.”

In 2015, Corinne Duyvis (a writer with a disability and one of the founders of Disability in Kidlit) invented the hashtag #OwnVoices to reference books about marginalised peoples written by authors of the same background. I myself believe that the first and most fundamental question any outsider author should ask themselves is this: should this story be told by you at all (which includes asking whether it should be told by you alone). I see many lost opportunities for equitable collaborations between outsiders and insiders (and by equitable, I mean that royalties, copyright and credit are shared). And for anyone who believes that it is important to give voice to the unheard: start listening to, and supporting, the Own Voices of the unheard.

*** 

Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe.

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On women and violence in fiction - Guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

On women and violence in fiction

I love a love story. I love first kisses and lingering gazes. I love misunderstandings and shared laughter and a pulse quickening in passion. Or perhaps panic, as our hero holds onto our heroine’s arm just a little too tightly or loses his temper a little too often … wait. This is starting to sound like a different sort of story.  

But it must be a love story, because I’ve certainly read this kind of thing in some romance books or as part of a romantic subplot in books of other genres. I’ve found these tales in novels for adults, and I’ve encountered them too in books published in the Young Adult field. These stories generally end well, with a satisfying ‘happily ever after’. But what if our couple walked off the page and into the real world? Where might the heroine be, one year after that final chapter?

The book contains the clues we need to work it out. The controlling behavior of the hero (although he only acts that way to keep his beloved safe, for it’s a dangerous world and she is poorly equipped to deal with it on her own). Perhaps he even struck her once (but was immediately and deeply sorry, and apologised with an extravagant gift). Besides, he might not have hit her at all. Perhaps there was only the threat of violence, an instinct which he nobly restrained (because that is how much he loves her). And if the weakness she feels in her knees as she gazes up into his brooding features is partly caused by fear – what of it? Drama is part of all great love stories. Besides, small behaviors and one-off incidents are nothing to worry about. Except that that behaviours escalate. And the things our heroine would have run from in the beginning aren’t enough to send her running later, not after she has lost herself a piece at a time.

So where is she, on the one year anniversary of that final scene? Smaller than she was – no. She is exactly the same size. But she hunches in on herself to take up less space in the world. She pulls down a sleeve to cover a bruise on her arm, then laughs about how clumsy she is when she sees you notice. Perhaps you laugh with her. Or perhaps you don’t. There might be something in her eyes that’s starting to worry you. But it’s hard to interpret her reactions when you haven’t seen her in such a long time. She lost contact with you, and all the other people she used to know. But that’s as it should be, because she doesn’t need anyone except her hero. He is the one who is there when she cries, or when she cries out. And he always knows what to do.

I don’t think I was reading a love story, after all.

*** 

Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe.  

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Some thoughts on editing YA and kids books containing Indigenous content - guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Some thoughts on editing YA and kids books containing Indigenous content

A few people have asked me recently about the kinds of things editors need to know in order to appropriately edit YA and children’s books that contain Indigenous characters/content. So here’s a few thoughts on some of the things that editors might find it useful to inform themselves about.  

A Lack of Sustained Engagement

It should be noted at the outset that a lack of editorial knowledge regarding Indigenous peoples and realities in part arises from the fact that most of the Australian publishing industry – and the literature industry more generally – lacks any history of sustained engagement with Indigenous peoples. Engagement has tended to be on a one-off, ad hoc basis with all the failings that can entail – inconsistencies in approach (including inconsistencies within the same publisher); a lack of retention of corporate knowledge (because knowledge resides with one person and is lost when they leave); and a lack of meaningful, sustainable connections between a publisher and Indigenous peoples.

The obvious framework through which publishers can foster engagement with Indigenous peoples is a Reconciliation Action Plan (RAP). RAPs are increasingly a feature of the public and private sector, including the schools sector. A RAP – which is a business plan that details how an organisation/corporation will achieve reconciliation – is built around three core elements: fostering respect for Indigenous peoples and cultures, building relationships, and creating opportunities (both through Indigenous employment and through supplier diversity). Detailed instructions on the development of RAPs are available at the Reconciliation Australia website.

Best Practice Standards

Best practice standards are contained within the AIATSIS Ethical Research Guidelines, the AIATSIS Ethical Publishing Guidelines, and the Australia Council for the Arts Indigenous Writing Protocols. The research guidelines are relevant because there is an intersection between literature and the extensive work on working ethically with Indigenous peoples that has emerged from the research field. This is especially so in relation to non-fiction or fiction that draws heavily from fact (eg from historical events); and to collaborations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples. Editors should be well familiar with all these documents. In addition, every editor should have read Murri lawyer Terri Janke’s recent publication Indigenous Cultural Protocols and the Arts, which relates to the Australia Council protocols and sets out a series of questions that any arts practitioner should ask in relation to projects involving Indigenous peoples/knowledges/cultures. These questions are equally relevant for any editor to ask when seeking to ensure a best practice approach has been followed.

Editors should further be aware of two intersecting areas that underlie the guidelines and protocols: Indigenous Cultural and Intellectual Property (ICIP), and the principle of free, prior and informed consent.

The leading Australian expert on ICIP is Terri Janke. I would suggest that editors read Terri’s presentation Who Owns Story (and the associated discussion on copyright on the AIATSIS website), and More Than Words: Writing About Indigenous Australia.

The principle of free prior and informed consent (FPIC) is an international best practice standard applied to projects and initiatives concerning Indigenous peoples, and will be especially relevant to collaborations with non-Indigenous peoples. In essence, ‘free’ means free from coercion, manipulation or pressure. ‘Prior’ means with sufficient advance notice, including allowing enough time for Indigenous consultation and/or Indigenous consensus decision-making processes. Informed – in the context of literature – means Indigenous peoples being comprehensively informed as to the nature of a given project/book, including (1) what ICIP issues arise and how ICIP will be protected (2) what return of benefits there will be to the Indigenous peoples/communities involved in the book/literature project; and (3) any potential risks for Indigenous peoples. For an example of an Indigenous FPIC protocol, refer to the Kimberley Land Council’s research protocol

Indigenous Cultural Competency

Cultural competency is often mistakenly understood as being something that is achieved solely through obtaining knowledge about Indigenous peoples. However, the research demonstrates that the achievement of cultural competency requires a person is aware of their own cultural standpoint and the limitations of that standpoint when it comes to comprehending the cultures of others. To aid in understanding the concept of cultural competency, I suggest editors read the summary provided in pages 37 – 50 of the National Best Practice Framework for Indigenous Cultural Competency in Australian Universities, and especially the models of cultural competency provided at pp 49 – 50.

In the context of the literature industry, cultural competency requires an understanding of whiteness. The industry itself is overwhelmingly white both in terms of its employees and in terms of the underlying structures and philosophies embodied within the institutions (including publishers) that comprise it. This includes unconscious but often deeply embedded assumptions as to the superiority of Western culture, cultural expressions and institutions over those of Indigenous peoples (and other non-white peoples). It also includes the operation of white privilege (although all non-Indigenous peoples who live on Indigenous lands are to some degree privileged in relation to Indigenous peoples, because everyone who came to Australia post-colonisation has gained in some way from the dispossession of those who were here before.)

White privilege was defined by US scholar Peggy McIntosh in her watershed work on the subject as an invisible package of unearned assets that she could count on cashing in on everyday, but to which she was meant to remain oblivious. In 2010, Black writer Zetta Elliott adapted Peggy McIntosh’s analysis to discuss the present day literary industry in the US; I’ve drawn on Zetta’s article to write about privilege in Australian literature. Other Australian YA/kids writers who have addressed privilege include Rebecca Lim and Justine Larbalestier. In the US, there is a wealth of online commentary on the subject of whiteness, privilege and YA/kids lit, including the following: Daniel Older, Diversity is not enough: race, power, publishing; Allie Jane Bruce, On Being White: A Raw, Honest Conversation; Zetta Elliott, It’s not me, it’s you: letting go of the status quo; Megan Schliesman, Lessons on Reading While White; Ellen Oh, Dear White Writer (and for some of the reaction to Ellen’s post, see hereand here). Any editor familiarising themselves with commentary in this area should also read Robin DiAngelo’s work regarding the concept of ‘white fragility’, as this concept is often referenced in US discussions.

What about gaining knowledge about Indigenous peoples? There are a range of online resources that editors may find helpful, including: Indigenous terminology guides (for example, the Flinders Uni guide); Reconciliation Australia’s Share Our Pride module; answers to basic questions as well as explanations of common myths about Indigenous peoples; resources on history including the 1967 Referendum, land rights, and the Stolen Generations; and the websites on culture and Country created by Indigenous nations, such as the Kaartdijin Noongar (Noongar Knowledge) website. Reading online materials is not of course a substitute for formal cultural competency training. But in the absence of publishers engaging Indigenous peoples to offer such training, editors should try to be as informed as they possibly can, and in this respect, there is one more source with which all editors should be familiar: Indigenous literature. There are a wealth of Indigenous Australian voices in Australia, and one of the best ways to learn about being Indigenous is through reading the works of Indigenous peoples speaking to our own worlds. And in relation to YA and children’s literature, begin with the extensive catalogue in this field of the Indigenous publisher Magabala Books.

The 21C diversity conversation

There is a global dialogue happening around diversity in literature – or rather the lack thereof, and in particular, the massive under-representation of diverse voices. In the US, this conversation includes websites dedicated to providing thoughtful, in depth analysis of representation in literature. We don’t yet have the equivalent of such websites in Australia. But anyone with an interest in Indigenous peoples and literature should be regularly reading the work of Nambe Pueblo Indian woman Debbie Reese at her American Indians in Children’s Literature website. Editors should also be informed about the diversity conversation more broadly. The intersections between different experiences of exclusion are important, especially because anyone who belongs to more than one category of difference will be even more marginalised still (in this respect, Indigenous women are amongst the most marginalised on earth; Indigenous LGBTI Australians are at a particularly high risk of suicide, and Indigenous Australians are almost twice as likely to be living with a disability as non-Indigenous Australians). Diverse Australian YA/kids authors who have written to diversity issues in Australian literature include myself, Sarah Ayoub, Rebecca Lim, Gabrielle Wang, Will Kostakis and Erin Gough. US websites that address representation issues in YA/kids literature include: Disability in Kids Lit; GayYA; Oyate; Reading While White; Rich in Color and the We Need Diverse Books movement.

There are a multitude of voices in this space speaking powerfully to why representation matters, and to the many dangers and manifestations of mis-representation.

So if you want to be informed – listen.

*** 

Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe.  

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Reflecting on Indigenous superheroes, Indigenous Futurisms and the future of diversity in literature - guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Reflecting on Indigenous superheroes, Indigenous Futurisms and the future of diversity in literature

I cannot count the number of time I’ve been told it’s unusual to be an Indigenous speculative fiction writer who tells a story about an Indigenous superhero. But Indigenous superheroes are nothing new – at least, not to Indigenous peoples. We have always had stories of the Ancestor heroes, and through the long violence of colonialism, we’ve had other heroes too. These heroes include the resistance fighters of the frontier period; the undercover operatives of the protection era where intense government surveillance required Indigenous peoples to engage in a thousand hidden acts of defiance; and the child heroes who survived being members of the Stolen Generations.  In Australia and elsewhere, Indigenous peoples have also long been able to interact with the world in ways that the West might label as ‘magic’, but this is because the West often defines the real (and hence the possible) differently to the Indigenous cultures of the earth. There are many aspects of Indigenous realities that might be called ‘speculative’ by the West (such as communicating with animals and time travel). There is also much in Western literature that Indigenous peoples regard as fantasy even though it is labeled as fact, including the numerous negative stereotypes and denigrations of Indigenous peoples and culture contained within settler literature. In this context, speculative fiction has told many a colonial tale whereby Indigenous peoples become the ‘primitive’ populations of alien worlds, overcome by the equivalent of the colonial nation-states enacting their so-called manifest destiny across the stars. Spec fic has also told yet more iterations of the ‘white saviour story’ whereby it is only a white hero (and never an Indigenous one) who can ‘save’ the Indigenous peoples from their terrible plight (a plight that was itself created by white invaders). And it is a genre which has continuously engaged in the appropriation of Indigenous and other non-Western cultures, thereby causing much distress to the marginalised peoples of the earth.

But there is a growing Indigenous presence in speculative fiction. Indigenous Australian Young Adult and Children’s writers who write spec fic include myself, Teagan Chilcott, Tristan Michael Savage,graphic novelist Brenton McKenna, and the group of young Aboriginal people responsible for the NEOMAD comics. In the US, Anishinaabe academic Grace Dillon has coined the term ‘Indigenous Futurisms’ to describe a form of storytelling whereby Indigenous peoples use the speculative fiction genre to challenge colonialism and envision Indigenous futures. Since Indigenous cultures (and peoples) have long been relegated to the past in the mythos of colonial settler states, the very act of imagining Indigenous futures is one of resistance. There is therefore a degree to which being an Indigenous spec fic writer is to be part of what might be called, in Star Wars parlance, a ‘rebel alliance’, and it is an alliance that fights – of course – against the forces of Empire.  

Indigenous superheroes are nothing new. Nor are Indigenous stories. But since colonisation began, our voices have been silenced and our knowledges and cultures appropriated. So what is new are the existence of spaces where Indigenous peoples can tell and control our own stories.  This is not to say the battle to protect our cultural expressions is over. It most definitely is not, and here in Australia, we don’t yet have what could well be the single most effective measure of protection – a National Indigenous Cultural Authority. But there is a greater awareness of the need to deal respectfully and ethically with Indigenous peoples than once there was. There is also an ever-growing cyber-space presence of many diverse voices who are challenging misrepresentations and drawing attention to the need to read the authors who are writing to their own worlds. In 2015, spec fic author Corinne Duyvis – a writer with autism and one of the founders of Disability in Kidlit – invented the hashtag #OwnVoices, to promote books with a marginalised protagonist written by someone from the same group. Websites such as Disability in Kidlit and, in an Indigenous context, American Indians in Children’s Literature, provide a source of critiques that interrogate (mis)representations in literature in way that is still generally not done by mainstream reviewers and award judges. So do ally websites such as Reading While White, which is run by a group of White librarians to support the struggles of people of colour and Indigenous peoples in literature. There isn’t an equivalent to these websites in Australia … yet. But questions of authority, legitimacy, appropriateness, privilege and power are increasingly being asked of literature and of the Arts more generally.

The way is gradually opening for Indigenous peoples to speak our truths, whether alone or in equitable partnerships with non-Indigenous peoples. We don’t yet live in a world where all voices have an equal opportunity to be heard, and where all voices are heard equally. But we are on our way to it, and therefore on a journey to the stories that will exist when we do.    

Welcome to the future.  

*** 

Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe.  

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Indigenous stories and non-Indigenous writers: some reflections on respect and process - guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Indigenous stories and non-Indigenous writers: some reflections on respect and process

I sat down to write this post a while ago; during the course of writing it, author JK Rowling released a story that inappropriately incorporates aspects of the cultures of the Indigenous peoples of North America. I have spent much of the last couple of days listening to Indigenous peoples from across the sea give voice to their distress. So before I begin speaking of process and respect in an Australian context, it seemed only right that I acknowledge those voices, and encourage everyone to read their words.

This is the second of two posts; the first examined myths caused by misdiagnosing a lack of diversity in literature as a diversity problem rather than as a privilege problem. The purpose of this second post is to reflect on a few of the issues surrounding non-Indigenous writers and Indigenous stories in Australia. In the 1980s, Indigenous publisher Magabala Books was established in part because of the retelling of Indigenous narratives by non-Indigenous writers in circumstances where there was no free, prior and informed consent from – or any sharing of copyright or benefits with – the Indigenous knowledge-holders. While it has become less ‘business as usual’ in Australia to see books published in this way, it still happens. I’m sometimes asked what I think about it. My view is that non-Indigenous writers should not be telling cultural narratives unless it is done in equitable partnership with the relevant Indigenous knowledge-holders. And for a partnership to be equitable, I think it requires that royalties and copyright be shared. An example of such a collaboration is the one between non-Indigenous historian Howard Pederson and Bunuba man Banjo Woorunmurra for the book Jandamarra and the Bunuba Resistance (copyright and royalties are shared between Howard Pederson and the Bunuba people). Further, there are some stories where copyright should remain entirely with the Indigenous person or people. Whether this is the case is something for the relevant Indigenous person or community to determine – but that decision has to be made free from pressure; prior to a project commencing: and on an informed basis. For example, the copyright in Woman from No Where – the biography of the late Hazel McKeller – is held by Hazel (and now her heir). Non-Indigenous academic Kerry McCallum, who worked with Hazel on the book, has her contribution credited on the cover. The process for writing this book is discussed in More than Words – Writing, Indigenous culture and copyright in Australia (a paper written by Murri lawyer Terri Janke).

Another topic I’ve been asked about is the use of Indigenous advisors or beta readers. To begin with, I think the Indigenous person should be paid at a rate that acknowledges the value of their time and expertise. The expectations (on both sides) and boundaries of the relationship also need to be clearly established from the beginning of the process. In the United States, there have been instances where the advice of expert readers was ignored or used selectively. And there is a larger consideration here, which is this: when does an Indigenous advisor or beta reader become a co-author? When do they become such an influence on the story that their contribution should be acknowledged through a share in the copyright and royalties? This is especially the case where the Indigenous input relates to culture, because the incorporation of Indigenous culture into books by non-Indigenous writers is fraught with cultural appropriation issues. The massive imbalance of power between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples precludes any notion of cultural exchange (which requires equality), and the vulnerable position of Indigenous peoples is exacerbated by the lack of protection for Indigenous knowledge and cultural expressions under Western intellectual property laws.

I’ve sometimes been told by writers that their inappropriate use of Indigenous material is justified on the basis that it is part of the Western literary tradition to ‘borrow’ stories or cultural elements from elsewhere, to which I reply:But you’re not writing about your culture or traditions. You’re writing about mine – and my culture has rules about when and how stories can be told, and who can tell them. And if non-Indigenous authors are writing about us because they care about Indigenous culture (as many tell me they do), then I think they should respect it enough to know when it is not their place to speak, and what it is not their place to speak about. This is especially so given that Indigenous peoples are among the most marginalised peoples on earth; that our cultures have been subject to sustained efforts to destroy them; that we continue to experience discrimination; and that our living traditions are our lifeblood. Appropriation of Indigenous cultures and stories causes real harm to real people – and we have already been harmed enough.  

We live in the age of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which affirms the rights of Indigenous peoples to our cultures, heritage and languages (Articles 11, 12 and 13). Extensive past problems with the misuse of (and lack of protection for) Indigenous Cultural and Intellectual Property has resulted in the production of numerous protocols and guidelines, including the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies ethical research guidelines and ethical publishing guidelines, and the Australia Council for the Arts Protocols for producing Indigenous writing.

And yet.

And yet I have talked to non-Indigenous authors who have read all those guidelines and still believe that their use of Indigenous material is acceptable provided they acknowledge the relevant people, with issues of benefits-sharing and ownership being ignored. 

And yet I have talked to publishers who believe that consent to the use of cultural material is purely the responsibility of the non-Indigenous writer, and that the publisher has no obligation to ensure that consent was given on a free, prior and (especially) informed basis.

And yet I am often asked by writers why they can’t do something when they’ve seen another non-Indigenous author do it – and the book they are referring me to is ten, twenty, thirty or forty years old. The world has changed, and what was done in an era where understandings were more limited is not a guide to what should be done now.

We still seem to have a long way to go.

Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe.  

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Privilege and literature: three myths created by misdiagnosing a lack of Indigenous voices (and other diverse voices) as a ‘diversity problem’ - guest post by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Privilege and literature: three myths created by misdiagnosing a lack of Indigenous voices (and other diverse voices) as a ‘diversity problem’.

There is increasing attention being paid in Australia to the lack of diversity in children’s literature, sparked in part by the We Need Diverse Books movement and the current wide-ranging discussions around diversity in the US. The exclusion of Indigenous and other diverse voices is sometimes misdiagnosed as a ‘diversity problem’. But the origin of a body of literature that fails to reflect the actual make-up of the planet is not to be found within marginalised peoples. The fundamental disconnection between the world of literature and the real world springs from, and is maintained by, a set of structures and attitudes that consistently privilege one set of voices over another. In short, a lack of diversity is not a ‘diversity problem’. It is a privilege problem. In relation to Indigenous writers and writers of colour, it is a white privilege problem – although it is also worth noting that all non-Indigenous peoples who live on Indigenous lands are to some degree privileged in relation to Indigenous peoples, because everyone who came to Australia post-colonisation has gained in some way from the dispossession of those who were here before.

Myth #1: A lack of representation of Indigenous and other marginalised peoples can be solved by writers from outside those groups writing to diverse identities and experiences

Korean American author Ellen Oh (one of the founders of the We Need Diverse Books movement) recently said in an open letter to white writers: “Yes We Need Diverse Books. But that doesn’t always mean that we want YOU to write them. No, it means we want you to support them. We want you to read them. We want you to promote them, talk about them, buy them, love them. We want you to recognize that these stories told by authors in their own voices has as much importance as all the white ones that are published year after year.”

When a lack of representation of Indigenous peoples and people of colour in kid’s lit is misunderstood as a diversity issue, the focus tends to be solely on accuracy of representation (and it is of vital importance that marginalised peoples are accurately portrayed). But in order to begin to address the cause of the lack of diversity (privilege), the question writers need to ask themselves is not simply whether they can accurately portray someone else’s experience, but whether they should be telling the story at all. I’ve previously written that I don’t believe non-Indigenous writers should be writing Indigenous characters from first person or deep third. I’ve also said that I think the worst advice I’ve ever heard about characterisation is that anyone can write to any experience because ‘we are all human’. Indigenous peoples and other marginalised peoples have long had our humanity denied, and that denial continues to be the basis of discrimination against us. To suggest that writers have a right to put themselves in our place is often not to respect our humanity but to further deny it – especially when this is done by those who have inherited the benefits of our marginalisation. Ultimately, I believe that respecting the humanity of others means being willing to engage in a dialogue about the boundaries respect requires, not only as to what and how something can be said, but as to who can say it.

Myth #2: good intentions excuse poor outcomes

Privilege in literature is a systemic issue, and systemic discrimination of any kind can only ever be judged by outcomes, not intentions. An actual individual intent to discriminate is not necessary; discrimination will occur regardless unless the structures that cause it are named, challenged, and dismantled. A defence to poor representation framed in terms of someone’s good intentions can also carry an unspoken assumption that a desire to ‘help’ the marginalised is an act of charity or kindness for which marginalised peoples should be grateful. But I do not believe that I – or anyone else – should ever be grateful for having my dignity respected equally with that of other human beings. First, because equality is a right, and second, because it is a universal good. Genuine support for the struggles of others can only ever flow from a recognition that the denial of anyone’s rights – and the diminishment of anyone’s humanity – denies everyone’srights, and diminishes everyone’s humanity. This makes a lack of diversity everybody’s loss, and the inclusion of diverse voices everybody’s gain.

Myth #3: all that is needed to solve the ‘diversity problem’ is to ‘raise up’ the marginalised

Diversity conversations sometimes proceed from a deficient analysis whereby the dialogue becomes about the disadvantaged position of the marginalised without acknowledging the cause of that disadvantage (so that, for example, it is Indigenous peoples whose position of ‘deficient’ must be fixed). This is not to say that urgent action should not be undertaken to ameliorate the extreme disadvantage experienced by Indigenous peoples and other marginalised groups. But there will be no real outcomes with changing the structures and attitudes that cause and promulgate the exclusion in the first place.

I know I’m not the only Indigenous writer or writer of colour in Australia to have been told by people within the literary industry that addressing a lack of diversity is ‘too hard’ or that it is ‘not their problem’. But insofar as it is the privileged who sustain, reinforce, and benefit from the structures that are causing the lack of diversity, I think it is their problem. It is also within their power to fix, and not only because they are the ones who create/sustain/benefit from it. But because the level of anyone’s individual power (and therefore anyone’s individual responsibility) can only ever be meaningfully judged by measuring it against those who have less choices than they do, not against those who have more. And judged by that measure, the vast majority of people who work within literature have the power to transform the world.   

I’d like to see them try.

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Ambelin Kwaymullina is an Aboriginal writer, illustrator and academic who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia. She works at the Law School at the University of Western Australia and is the author of a number of picture books as well as the YA speculative fiction series, The Tribe. 

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