It’s been years since BIPOC writers have heard the call for more diversity, more stories “from the other,” and other marginalized perspectives. And it’s wild how one of the takeaways for many of us is that even when they ask for it, they don’t get it. So many of these “calls for diversity and marginalized perspectives” become the equivalent of people going into a restaurant, ordering the dish that to them, sounds the most ethnic, and then getting a little peeved it looks nothing like a burger.
I’ve been doing this writing thing for more years than I care to count. Certainly more years than I’ve been a mother and a wife. I’ve wasted a good number of those years trying to write like “everyone else”–stifling my voice, trying to smooth out what to me looked like rough edges, simply because I don’t see something like it elsewhere. Once I realized that was wrong, I started to write from the heart. I started to write my own truths, the observations that mean the world to me and push me towards a deeper understanding of myself, my universe, and where I came from. And why not? Almost every book you’ve read that’s been designated as literature and classic are nothing but an exploration of those authors’ lives, too. And the reception has been good, for the most part.
But even this was not foolproof, because writing from the heart inevitably resulted in people reacting to elements that are in my books by design. When my characters react unlike how the reader might have reacted, the stories themselves are judged as if this is somehow wrong. It’s frustrating, from an artist’s perspective. It is easy to tell someone what they did was wrong. It is hard to figure out what exactly is wrong, and how to fix it while remaining true to the artist’s vision. And that last part, I find, is something most people–even people who think they have some experience in this endeavour–get wrong.
My voice isn’t yours. To use your experience to judge the merit of my work is, in my opinion, inconsequential to my growth as an artist. I don’t care how much experience you have reading other stories. Unless your criticism of me is in relation to my own work and what I am trying to achieve, it is irrelevant. (This is why it’s so important to pick the right editor for your work. You need editors who have enough sense of storytelling theory and structure so that they know what you’re trying to do–even if it doesn’t match their own personal preferences. “This is how you become the best version of yourself,” not “This is how I would have done it.”)
What do I try to write about, for example?
Well, I’m knee-deep in a WIP right now, the direction of which has taken me a while to figure out. I went back home to Bicol in 2022, and the pieces just clicked. The last time I’d been back there was 14 years ago. In those 14 years, little kids I barely even noticed were now taller than me, taking up presence. Somehow, within those 14 years, I’m suddenly on the road to becoming an elder. There are now grown ass adults looking at the life I’ve lead and wondering if I have some experience or guidance to share, because if life had been rough when I was young, it’s even rougher now.
I have nephews just entering the workforce who realize there was no chance in hell of them ever finding work that paid enough for a decent life, let alone a good life. It took a month’s salary to pay for a good meal for a family at a restaurant. That’s not even enough to pay rent with. (Remember this every time you encounter people who want to grow their businesses in First World countries while using labour from the global South–what you think is ‘big money’ is not really, unless you’re fine with saying some people don’t deserve the quality of life you’re used to). Many of those kids have decided to go abroad, like our parents before us. One of my nephews works at sea–he spent at least a year stuck on a boat during the pandemic. The last time I was there, he was just a little boy we teased a lot.
It makes me angry to see those kids robbed of the chance to live a good life without having to wrestle with a lifetime of hard labour and homesickness. What went wrong? They’re smart. College-educated. But the home I had left, the home that had tried so hard to kill me, is squeezing our youth even harder. Nothing had changed; things had just gotten even harder. The other day, we got to talking with one of my nephews (who followed us here to lonely Canada as a student) over some glasses of whiskey, and I told him “I’m sorry, but it’s time to wake up.” I know what he’s longing for: a good life in Bicol, in our home in Albay, with those mountains and black sand beaches and waterfalls and the sound of monsoon rain, the way it crashes hard enough to wash your worries away. I know, because I’ve longed for it too, for nearly as long as he’s been alive. I have yet to find a way to reconcile what I want with the reality that I can’t have it, but at least in this last decade, I’ve learned to talk about it.
And so that’s what you’ll get in that next book. My reality, my fears, my anger. My hopes. Perhaps it doesn’t match what you know about life. You’re not going to see the bits and pieces because they mean nothing. You’re left with a few choices. Maybe you’re going to say it’s not compelling enough for you, even when I’ve laid my heart bare (I didn’t do it to insult you, believe me. It’s just not for you and I’m sorry I can’t do anything about that). Maybe you’re just going to move on.
But maybe you’ll learn to listen.
