wrote for the Black community — as much as I idolize her work, it would be presumptuous to claim she wrote for me. Still, I found myself transfixed by the ways she wove stories from her rich heritage, the way that her own identity became fluid, and the way she unapologetically created characters so real you smelled their tears, in words so sharp they bit you back.
I suddenly realized I was the youngest person, and the only South Asian woman, in the room. I tried making eye contact with the brown woman beside me. I don’t know why, but I needed her to glance back. I needed her to see me. She didn’t, and I started to cry. The white man behind me — the one who previously asked me how old I am, as if confirming I don’t belong — wanted to know what was wrong. “My favorite author died,” I said, and it hit me all at once.
I’m only 18, but I remember a time when representative literature was a rarity, not the norm. I grew up on a literary diet of J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, avidly devouring stories of white children whose heroism I never once questioned. These stories awakened a hunger in me, a snarling brown girl with a big mouth, too much to say, too smart for her own good. When I was ready to harness that rage, I became a writer.
At first, I thought it would be easy to rewrite the book: that I could type Control+F and replace all the white names with brown ones, drizzle a bit of culture like masala on chaat. But I felt phony, cornered, the way I did as a child when teachers called on me to explain Indian things to the class.
thank you so much ✨