Welcome Bookish Brew friends! Today I have a very special guest with me to talk about Olaudah Equiano and how his story can inform our own, even now. When Andrew K Hoe researched Olaudah Equiano in graduate school, he had no idea that Equiano’s 18th century ideas would still impact him as an emerging author in 2022. Today he’s talking to us about how BIPOC authors often have to portray themselves strategically, as did Equiano. I’m overjoyed to have Andrew with us today so please give him a warm welcome and enjoy this wonderful piece!
Olaudah Equiano—African or Carolinan?
Olaudah Equiano was an 18th century former slave who was a master of manipulating his readership’s perspective on himself. Equiano’s great work was The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African—his autobiography. Detailing his birth in an African village, his abduction by slavers, his horror on board a slave vessel headed for Eurocentric shores, and so forth, Equiano’s text is thought to have started the genre of the African American slave narrative. Luminaries like Frederick Douglass and Harriet Jacobs would use Equiano’s techniques in their own Abolitionist writings.
One way where Olaudah Equiano manipulated his writerly presentation was in his frontispiece images—the equivalent of modern day author photos. Equiano physically posed and dressed himself as a free white man. He faced the viewer directly, rather than present himself in side-profile. Further, Equiano made clear that he didn’t use an amanuensis—a white male of influence who acted as a dictation secretary (the idea being that Black people were illiterate). Indeed, Equiano made literary allusions to the Bible, Paradise Lost, imitated travel writing, Abolitionist arguments, philosophical treatise, etc, and even included his own poetry. Scholars believe this versatility in writing style was to refute racist beliefs that he, a Black former slave, was intellectually incapable of writing his own letters.
Olaudah Equiano’s terrifying sea journey to the West is one of the few first-hand accounts we have of what African abductees endured during the slave trade. His account has become of especial interest since scholar Vincent Caretta argues that Equiano was really born as a South Carolinan slave—and not abducted. It’s still being debated today whether Equiano fictionalized his African childhood, but his autobiographical name, Equiano, is how he chose to byline himself and how we still refer to him today. He was Gustavus Vassa before his book was published.
Pitch Perfect?
Here, I’ll depart from Equiano’s story to confess that I’m querying a novel.
My query letter, as advised by multiple writing websites and helpful writing friends, contains a two sentence pitch, a one paragraph summary, a short bio of myself, and so on.
But since I’m an author of color—and my middle grade novel was inspired by the current rise of anti-Asian hate in America—how I market myself to prospective agents really matters.
So, here’s Pitch #1 for my novel: A Chinese American girl must help her returned-as-a-ghost friend find five special items so he can go to his eternal rest… before an evil entity finds him.
Here’s a revised Pitch #2: A Chinese American girl must help her returned-as-a-ghost friend find five special items so he can go to his eternal rest… before the racist entity that murdered him returns to destroy his soul.
Pitch #2 emphasizes racial conflict, the reality of anti-Asian racism in present day America, while the earlier Pitch #1 only states that the protagonist is Chinese American. One emphasizes “race politics” while the other emphasizes “culture” or “identity politics.”
Both pitches are true, but as you can see, for Pitch #1, I was de-emphasizing the anti-AAPI hate—the “evil entity” is ambiguously bad. There’s no murder mentioned. Further, the “Chinese American” in Pitch #1 was meant to signal to the prospective agent that my novel had Chinese cultural elements—what I hoped the agent would be tempted by. In short, I was clouding my sorrow and anger at anti-Asian racism with Pitch #1. I didn’t want that agent, most likely a non-AAPI person, to think my novel was an exercise in pontificating about racial injustice.
But you know what? That’s hiding. And after reflecting on the Atlanta spa shooting, after reading about daily continued attacks on the AAPI community, after worrying over my elderly and very visibly Asian parents leaving the house on their own, I realized I don’t I have anything to be ashamed of. I’ve since decided to gamble on an agent seeing that my novel is worthy—race politics and all. Why should my novel—based on the reality I undergo as a Chinese American in 2022 America—be considered inherently weaker? Shouldn’t it be that much stronger? So Pitch #2 it is.
Olaudah Equiano’s Lessons for 21st Century BIPOC Authors
Returning to Equiano’s case, I don’t mean to claim that he was a liar, especially when there’s not enough historical evidence to say so. Yet I wish to point out the reasons why Equiano would make his choices of self-presentation—because they’re the same reasons that influence how 21st century BIPOC authors portray themselves.
For instance, Black slaves in Equiano’s time were absolutely discriminated against. If he could shunt some of the racist assumptions that he was an uneducated savage, why not? It would’ve been completely understandable to say he was from Carolina rather than abducted from abroad. In fact, in legal matters, it would’ve behooved him to be Carolinan: If he was abducted as a child, it’s unlikely he would’ve remembered what exact state or province he was from. Further, there was the question of whether that region was a legally recognized entity in Western courts of his time.
I haven’t lived Olaudah Equiano’s life, but racism exists for 21st century Chinese Americans. I’ve been tempted many times to say I’m “American” rather than “Chinese American” or just “Chinese”. All three of these are truthful descriptors for me, but it’s arguably easier if I’m simply “American”. If I say I’m “Chinese” on my query letters, prospective agents might assume I’m from mainland China. If I use “Chinese American”, I’ll get the microaggressive question “where are you really from?” I do indeed have two names: Andrew and 光平. But since I write, submit, and sell rights to my stories to English markets, I choose to go by “Andrew”. It wasn’t until the Atlanta spa shooting that I saw other Chinese heritage Americans adding their Chinese names to their online profiles. It was solidarity in our identities. So, I started posting both my English and Chinese names side-by-side.
And when 21st century BIPOC authors represent themselves on author websites, they choose their photos with as much care as Equiano did. For example, on my author website, there’s my standard photo, where I’m dressed in a suit-and-tie and smiling for the camera. Side note: my central image on my author website is of a sleeping Chinese dragon—I’m clearly emphasizing my heritage. There’s also Xiran Jay Zhao’s photo (2021 Nebula-nominee for Best YA novel Iron Widow)—they’re rocking it in a cow onesie on their novel cover. And, yes, Zhao uses “they/them” pronouns, as stated in their author bio—another careful and meaningful choice in self-presentation.
Finally, BIPOC authors have no choice but to take the reins of self-representation into their own hands. Because if we don’t, white franchise makers will certainly do it for us. Speaking for my own Chinese American identity, I must say I’m an enormous fan of Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings. I also really enjoyed Avatar: The Last Airbender. But that being said, I must also wonder if people of Chinese heritage must always be represented as martial arts masters. Are these our only stories of value to American literary agents and publishing houses? It’s not that Chinese people aren’t Kung Fu experts. Not at all. I myself practice the martial arts style known as Choy Li Fut (which I advertise because I’ve published on martial arts). But it seems like Eurocentrically minded Americans are determined to only see Chinese people in this way: our martial arts, our language, our food. Was it a coincidence that Crazy Rich Asians featured a mini-documentary about Singaporean hawker stalls?
Perhaps it’s risky for me to bring up Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club here. Tan’s novel, championed by non-Chinese American agents, became a runaway success. But not without some controversy. The novel supposedly perpetuates anti-Chinese American stereotypes. Here’s Lillian Li’s story of how she felt represented on her first reading of Joy Luck Club, then angered by its cultural depictions during her MFA studies, then learning to love the novel again. Here’s an anonymous essay by a self-identified high school student as recent as October 2021 for this 2022 post, detailing why the novel pushes stereotypes. As you can see, Tan’s novel can be polarizing.
Whether we agree with Joy Luck Club‘s detractors or recommenders, we can’t help but acknowledge that market forces are at play: What was Tan supposed to do? Risk her literary career to try to appeal to certain groups? Tan’s novel helped pave the way for a Chinese American literary canon to be taken seriously… but then again, we have AAPI MFA candidates who tell sad stories about being criticized by their white colleagues: Why can’t you write like Amy Tan? In other words, things haven’t changed since Tan’s debut: Hopeful AAPI authors today still have to decide whether they’d like to style their image, their writing style, with Tan in mind… or risk being more independent.
Tan’s example is complicated. Did she sell out by exoticizing Chinese American diasporic culture to white gaze readers? Or did she own her truth and became rightfully celebrated for that bravery? We can’t forget that Tan—like Equiano, like BIPOC authors today—had to negotiate market forces. Tan knew that she had to present her image carefully. She was confident either way. She was brave regardless. You may have noticed that I’ve kept my opinions on Tan’s success quiet. Why am I giving both sides and staying neutral? I confess, of this entire blog, this section was the one I struggled with the most. You see, Amy Tan’s literary agency is one of the agencies I’m hoping will want to represent me.
And here we come full circle. I’m managing my image. My self-representation. To be sure, there’s also being fair to Tan. It’s not fair, in a post about BIPOC authorial self-representation, to espouse theories on Joy Luck Club. I’m here to point out that she had to think about her presentation and so do BIPOC authors today.
The Waiting Game
If we have returned full circle, then we should discuss the self-representation within my own author website, which features–by design!–a sleeping dragon. Not flying through the clouds as most Asian-styled iconography depicts. My little rebellion against Asian dragon stereotypes. My author bio depicts me in a suit-and-tie. It’s actually a repurposed pre-interview photo, not an actual author photo. Because I can’t afford to hire my own professional photographer yet. I’m okay with prospective agents seeing that my image is low-quality. I want them to see that I’m more focused on my writing than my physical image. But I want them to see that I’m Asian enough that my Chinese-based manuscripts have the authenticity of coming from an actual member of the community.
Will this work for me? So far, one revise-and-resubmit on my middle grade manuscript. One rejection. And multiple queries still sitting in agents’ mailboxes. Did I make the right call in emphasizing racial inequality? Should I have even written about Asian hate, or should I have been safer in writing my culture? It’s too early to tell other than this: it’s incredibly nerve-wracking, worrying about how your BIPOC self presents to the literary world, whether your self-presentation matches their pre-conceived images of proper BIPOC-ness.
