I Finally Read American Dirt
from my email newsletter | issue no. 13 | March 11, 2023
Remember when a little novel called American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins was published in 2020? It was a much-anticipated work of fiction that was meant to shed light on and give voice to people who found themselves in the crosshairs of the migration crisis happening at the border between the United States and Mexico. Oprah selected it for her book club. Stephen King provided a blurb and called American Dirt “Extraordinary.” Sandra Cisneros (family roots in Mexico) and Julia Alvarez (family roots in the Dominican Republic) both praised the book.
And then all of sudden everyone thought Cummins had done a terrible thing by writing about the Central American migration crisis since she is only “nominally” Latina. (Her grandmother was Puerto Rican.) And then she — and her grand opus — were “cancelled.”
At the time, I had some thoughts about this whole controversy, but didn’t feel like I could truly have an educated opinion because…I had not read American Dirt. I’m not sure “reading the book” or “doing research” actually preclude people from having a passionate opinion, so call me old school in that regard, I guess. And truthfully, I didn’t really have an interest in reading American Dirt given the fact that some whose literary opinions I respect found it kinda meh, subject matter notwithstanding.
But now, in the year of our Lord 2023, I have read American Dirt.
If you’d like a quick primer on the whole situation, here is the blog post (which was originally a piece assigned by Ms., but the magazine killed it) penned by Myriam Gurba that started it all. And here is a January column from Pamela Paul, former NYT Book Review editor (and now an Opinion columnist at the paper) that provides a rebuttal.
I actually think both pieces have very valid points, although I would also like to point out that Paul works for arguably the most influential news publication in the US and intentionally refers to the online journal that ultimately published Gurba’s takedown as “a minor blog” and also makes sure to mention that Gurba’s critically acclaimed memoir, Mean, was published by “a small press.” (Well, excuuuuuuuuse me, but how interesting that “a minor blog” and someone who was published by “a small press” caused such an uproar. Is it so far-fetched to believe that people who aren’t affiliated with traditional power sources MIGHT have something worthwhile to convey? Just sayin’.)
About 10 years ago, my husband and I became obsessed with the US version of a television series called The Killing. It’s an adaptation from a Danish series, and the producers set the US version in Seattle — which just so happens to be my hometown. It made me BONKERS the way they portrayed the main family of this series: A tough-talking (but still teddy bear-ish in a James Gandolfini kind of way) dad and his Polish-American family who lived in a “gritty downtown” loft-like apartment above the auto body shop they own. Sorry, no. I’m not saying that Polish-American people do not live in Seattle (obviously) or that people don’t have auto body shops in Seattle (my grandpa did!), but this whole picture is really, really not a Seattle-like characterization or vibe. Seattle is nothing like Greenpoint, Brooklyn in the 1950s, which is where this characterization would have really rung true. As someone who grew up outside of the Northeast, I'm telling you this was totally a trope of a Northeast industrialized city, not a former pioneering outpost. It felt like an outsider wrote it. I know that this is a really minor gripe and it’s not as if it changes the story or is offensive in any way (except maybe to people who wished they had an accessory dwelling unit above their business?), but it just felt so incredibly false to me.
Similarly, the conductor John Mauceri recently wrote an opinion piece for the New York Times describing how some conductors are upset about the movie Tár, starring Cate Blanchett as a “fiercely ambitious conductor.” The conductor Marin Alsop is quoted: “I was offended as a woman, I was offended as a conductor, I was offended as a lesbian.” The letters to the editor after this column’s publication can be read here and explain why some find the way role Blanchett’s role was written to be “ridiculous.”
To be clear, auto body shop owners and classical conductors are not oppressed groups. My intent is not to equate these examples with groups that have historically been reduced to stereotypes in the media — and in real life. But I hope these examples help illustrate how frustrating (at a minimum) it is to see a life or a culture depicted inauthentically.
*****
For an example of how beneficial it can be for someone to write “what they know,” let’s look at the Oscar-nominated film Women Talking, based on the novel by Miriam Toews. I hate that I can’t speak directly to the original source (the novel) because although I’ve read two other novels by Toews (All My Puny Sorrows and A Complicated Kindness), I haven’t yet read Women Talking. (But I do own it, and here’s a picture from our guest room to prove it. So stay tuned?
I watched the film just the other day. It’s based on Toews’ “reaction through fiction” to a series of rapes that happened in a Mennonite community in Bolivia. Toews grew up in a Mennonite community in Canada, and although she is excommunicated from the group, she considers herself a “secular Mennonite.” I think it would be all-too-easy to compare Women Talking to the classic The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood since both deal with insular communities that demean women. But whereas Handmaid’s strikes a more “political” note (in my opinion), Women Talking is about faith and forgiveness (not necessarily toward the men). You can read this newsletter by the Vox writer Alissa Wilkinson (who, incidentally, was the first person to give me a “yes” when I started submitting my writing to The Curator many years ago) how most, if not all, of her fellow film critics missed some critical theological underpinnings and imagery in the film. But Alissa didn’t, because she’s familiar with a certain Protestant culture (shout out to my fellow youth group kids) as well as St. Augustine, and Toews acknowledged to her that, yes, she saw something a bit more nuanced than what was being portrayed. In a nutshell, I doubt a non-Mennonite would have been able to pull off something as subtly layered and accurate as Toews did.
On some level, you either “get” the nitty-gritty of a culture or you don’t. Minnie Pearl/Hee-Haw, Go Tell it on the Mountain by James Baldwin, The Sopranos…pretty sure one would argue that these “work” because their creators know the settings inside-out. They have lived it and breathed it, and that’s tough to replicate. Whether or not attempts to “learn” another culture well enough to create a story about it is offensive or not is up for debate. But can you see how the potential is there?
OK, are you ready to hear the counter-argument?!
Carol Shields wrote so masterfully from a man’s point of view (I mean, the male critics seemed to think so) in her wonderful novel Larry’s Party. Conversely, Wally Lamb did something similar in his massively bestselling novel She’s Come Undone (also an Oprah pick) with protagonist Dolores Price. Rebecca Makkai’s amazing novel The Great Believers (read it!) has many gay men as primary characters. (This piece by Makkai about how she "wrote across difference" is EXCELLENT.)
In the New York Times’ “By the Book” column this past October, Anand Giridharadas said this, in response to the question What moves you most in a work of literature? “In my world of narrative nonfiction, interiority: the writer’s ability to inhabit the character so that it is no longer just the character who is being described from the outside but also the world that is being re-described through the character’s eyes. Katherine Boo did this so powerfully in her Mumbai masterpiece, Behind the Beautiful Forevers. I still remember her description, through a low-income character’s eyes, of walking into a hotel and seeing rich women “carrying handbags as big as household shrines.” [He then shares other examples that I’m eliminating for brevity.] “Of late, we’ve had an important but also sometimes facile debate about who gets to tell what stories. My answer grows out of reporting like that mentioned above. If you are willing to do the grueling work to de-center your own way of seeing and bring the other’s way of seeing to the fore, then I say: Write about whatever the hell you want.”
Now, to be fair, Giridharadas is a journalist and writes nonfiction. His examples are all narrative nonfiction…not fiction. But I think his sentiment holds some water. Especially the last sentence — I mean the clause before the colon.
*****
I recently saw a little travel dispatch in the Boston Globe titled “Why does everyone love Charleston so much?” (The subtext, in my opinion, is “How and when did this city become so POPULAR?”) If you strip this down to basics, what the authors (two Massachusetts women) really mean is “Why does everyone in my circle all of a sudden love Charleston so much?” People in the Southeast US coulda told you for decades and decades what makes Charleston so great, but from these women’s vantage point, it’s all new. When we lived in New York City, people would talk about how “this neighborhood has become really popular.” Um, it’s New York City; I’m pretty sure every neighborhood is chock-full of people and therefore “popular.” What they meant is that certain neighborhoods were becoming desirable for people like them, even though people unlike them already called it home. These are examples of “centering” oneself in the story, like Giridharadas mentions.
I think it’s perfectly fine for anyone “to write about whatever they want.” But I also think it’s important to ask what the desired outcome is and who is at the “center” of the story. In my view, it is very clear that American Dirt is oriented toward a “majority” audience — probably white, but basically anyone who feels extremely removed from the border crisis. In fact, it read to me like it was written as a rebuttal to people’s criticisms and lack of knowledge, which is actually a very noble reason to write a book — to build understanding. But it does so with characters who lack the “interiority” that Giridharadas mentions as an important part of “writing the other.” Cummins created a stock character for just about every “angle” of the issue. The PhD student who is deported because he accidentally let his visa lapse. The Indiana youth group that is criticized for possibly “just want[ing] to make pancakes and take selfies with skinny brown children.” She even addresses how difficult it is to live in a border town: “Life is complicated for them, living so close to the line.” Maybe Cummins should be applauded for trying to explore this topic from literally every possible angle (I'm of two minds about this), but there’s nothing artful or challenging about it. Did any readers, upon closing American Dirt, strive to learn more about the deep-rooted causes of this crisis? How many readers decided to donate money to an aid group? I’m guessing most readers just finished it and thought, “I guess I learned something, but boy, I’m glad that’s not me.” (I welcome being proven wrong — truly.) This is because the novel was “centered” around “the majority.” If that’s what a publisher wants, then they just need to own up to it.
I agree with Paul’s statement that publishing is frustratingly fickle: “[Publishing] is a business, and one in which most novels fail.” And American Dirt clearly ticks a lot of boxes that appeal to the bottom-line-focused industry: uncomplicated, dramatic, and — bingo — it addresses a hot-button topic. The perfect trifecta. Paul argues that publishers are now feeling wary about “taking a risk” on books like this. But as she also points out, “Here in America, the novel debuted at No. 1 on the New York Times best-seller list, where it stayed for 36 weeks...And significantly, the novel was translated into 37 languages, selling well over three million copies worldwide.” Wow, that's success! Do we really think publishers will have a problem “taking a risk” again?
*****
But here’s the thing: When novels that address weighty issues are treated primarily as “entertainment” under the guise of "raising awareness" (because American Dirt does read very "entertaining" in a cliff-hanger, movie kind of way), there’s a chance that readers might push back. Earlier this year, Atria Books, Colleen Hoover’s publisher, shared plans about a coloring book (!?) based on her novel about domestic violence, It Ends With Us. Publishing, like any business, is of course looking to maximize revenue streams. I don’t blame them, but in this case, Hoover’s very loyal readers called this out — big time. And the plans for the coloring book were quashed. As one Instagram user wrote on Atria’s post about its change of heart: “This was the right step to take. I’m not going to give thanks to y’all for not moving forward with the publication because it shouldn’t have been approved in the first place. All the people who gave their approval to this disgusting idea in the first [place] should be ashamed for continuing to glamorize and romanticize domestic violence for an easy cash grab opportunity.” This isn't "intolerant" or "woke" or "too easily offended" — it's just readers signaling that they will not financially support something that they disagree with. And they will tell you — perhaps forcefully. (If you go back to Paul's comments about all things "minor" and "small," you can see how this is a David & Goliath-type situation for readers and maybe that's why they're forceful.)
For lots of reasons, readers have a bigger voice in the literary ecosystem than they used to. And guess what? There is a rapidly growing cohort that, upon getting a whiff of inauthenticity or a solid sense they're being used or pandered to for their $$, may just revolt. And that's their right.
PS:
This is a major aside here, but I would like to point out that Cummins was a finalist for the annual Rose of Tralee competition in Ireland. (It's sort of like Miss America.) Our first year in Ireland, this contestant’s talent portion made everyone confused. Watch it for a good, yet bewildered, laugh because I don’t really know how it’s “talent” to dance like you’re at the club with your girlfriends? Anyway, because of Cummins’ family background and her sense of "closeness" with different aspects of it — and I do feel it’s genuine — she does actually represent something interesting in our global culture. As our society becomes less “siloed,” the boundaries of what constitutes a group — and who might identify with that group — may shift. Btw, I thought Cummins' author note in American Dirt that talks about her own family was interesting and worthwhile. Maybe she should have opted for the nonfiction route?
February Reads
If you're looking for an easy way to come up with ideas for your next read, you can screenshot or save the graphic below. And as always, I share more about the books I read on Instagram; see below for direct links to each post.
Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus
Easy Beauty: A Memoir by Chloé Cooper Jones
Now is Not the Time to Panic by Kevin Wilson
Growing Up Rich by Anne Bernays
The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell
Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid
Read This! (i.e. some quick links)
< "Books bring us into being: how writing about reading became an inspiring genre of its own." Author Lara Feigel describes how she tried to reinvigorate her reading life just as characters in novels turn to the pages for inspiration and guidance. (I guess this is a bit meta!)
< "Reading is precious — which is why I've been giving away my books." A treatise on "the cult of book ownership."
< "How to Get Published: A Book's Journey From 'Very Messy' Draft to Best Seller." I loved Jessamine Chan's debut The School for Good Mothers, which I read in January. Here's a blow-by-blow of how it came to be. (There's also a fun tidbit in here about how Chan's book inspired a course at William & Mary!)
Am Reading
“We read in bed because reading is halfway between life and dreaming, our own consciousness in someone else’s mind.”
— Anna Quindlen
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