Monica McCollough's Blog

This Black Indie Author’s Thoughts on American FictionClaire Folger/ Courtesy of MGM

First, I want to express how ashamed I am of just getting around to posting about Cord Jefferson’s wonderful film, “American Fiction,” an adaptation of the novel “Erasure” by Percival Everett. I actually ventured out weeks ago during the cold “monsoon season” in Atlanta, eager to engage with this art not only because of its rave reviews but because I’ll watch anything with Jeffrey Wright cast in it, even when I don’t know what the hell is going on in the story (cue “Westworld” intro music).

I was also determined to see this film because, well, as a new Black Indie author myself, I couldn’t wait to get into its nuances from my fresh perspective. To plunge into a course of what I thought would be a two-hour fare of delicious, raucous satire, razing the entire American publishing industry and the narrow scope of what’s deemed “marketable” with regards to Black art. What I got was some of that but also a lot of what I hadn’t expected at all — a subtle, reflective, multilayered examination of not only the perception of Black lives in art but also a showcase of the reality of those experiences and the way we view ourselves on the artistic stage.

My late review is due in part to many circumstances similar to what Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, Wright’s character, struggles with — marketing and visibility. I was putting in my allotted hours of “dancing” for TikTok, navigating Instagram Reels, and, in general, attempting to please social media’s overseers — Mr. Algo and Master Rithm — in hopes that one person would see my posts and regard them as interesting enough to hit “Like,” “Follow,” or, best case, “Buy.” So, I understand Monk’s frustration. I laughed louder than anyone else in the theater when he met flirtatious Coraline (Erika Alexander), who articulated how she was a fan, and his response was, “So you’re the one.”

Not that I’m attempting to compare myself to Monk’s situation precisely. He’s at least been traditionally published and is respected academically as a literary genius, even if that is the exact kind of work that makes him “unmarketable.” However, the point remains that most of the struggles of Black authors, whether traditionally published or not, are often very much the same.

The book publishing business is not for the faint of heart. In the U.S. alone, there are nearly 11,000 books published each day. This number includes traditional and self-published works and accounts for nearly 4 million books released each year. Try to gain traction in that mire of self-expression, and you’ll understand why many individuals quit attempting authenticity and cozy up to the warmth of the ever-sage advice: “Write to the market,” essentially meaning, write what sells.

As I’ve learned in my own journey, what sells when it comes to fiction is YA, Romance (the spicier, the better), Fantasy, and Mystery/Thrillers — genre fiction over literary fiction, entertainment over “deep meaning.” That’s no shade to anyone who writes in those spaces. As the numbers show, the competition is already fierce; good luck getting into the game at all if you don’t write in those areas. It’s even more difficult if you write from the perspective of a marginalized group.

This is where Monk finds himself. He’s a man who writes with depth and layered messaging, works that require an astute focus on what’s presented on the page, and works that probably would never fit into a single category thematically. However, his books are always relegated to the “Black” section of the bookstore, simplified for cataloging when they aren’t inherently “Black” or exclusively “Black experiences.” He struggles to even keep his publishing deal in this environment. Monk is also dealing with family issues that bring his shaky finances into the equation as he witnesses the ascension of Sintara Golden (Issa Rae), the new “it girl” of the Black literary scene. She’s written what Monk deems as just another Black “poverty porn” novel pandering to white audiences for a paycheck (see “Write what sells”). Her book is a commercial success while, in his opinion, dragging out every trope of the alleged Black experience.

So much has already been written about “American Fiction” that by now, we know how this story unfolds. Monk writes a more marketable “Black” book called “My Pafology” (later retitled “Fuck”) under a pseudonym. It’s a parody meant to illustrate just what the publishing industry thinks of Black literature. However, his spoof is taken seriously and is a massive success. During this venture, Monk eventually has an encounter with Rae’s character Golden who, to his dismay, has the same criticisms of “Fuck” that he also found to be true of her novel, “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto” (this title will never not be funny by the way). She calls out the Black trauma themes and how it feels like pandering to her. When Monk asks, “But doesn’t your book do the same thing,” a very interesting discussion emerges that I was happy to see on screen.

Is Monk only critical of works by Black women that feature tales of the afflicted and oppressed? Is he as enraged by narratives from highly praised and esteemed white authors that depict the “downtrodden” within their communities?

Monk responds by saying no one believes those authors are representing the “definitive white experience,” but when Black people write those narratives about themselves, it reduces our entire community to one type of existence.

“Then it sounds like your issue is with white people, Monk, not me,” Sintara says.

Shots fired.

Monk admits there may be truth in that but is adamant about her type of representation in fiction being wasted “potential,” to which Sintara utters what could possibly be my favorite sentence in all of cinematic history pertaining to Black art.

“Potential is what people see when they think what’s in front of them isn’t good enough.”

Methinks she doth emptied the clip.

I often hear Monk’s viewpoint whenever a new Black film or series is released that features narratives from the more distressed corners of our community or from an even more challenging time historically regarding race.

One of the opinions expressed online on why the recent “The Color Purple” musical adaptation didn’t do better commercially was that our community was tired of seeing themselves in “Black trauma stories.” This was when I posed the question on Threads, “What exactly is Black trauma then?” Is it any story where Black characters experience hardship? Or, is it any story where Black characters experience hardship at the hands of white people? To be frank, as Sintara illustrated, most forms of dramatic storytelling feature some sort of trauma that its main characters are working to overcome. It’s the basic formula for a story arc — triumphing over tragedy or injustice and winning in the end. Even Disney animations geared toward children have left us with a slew of traumatizing acts. From “Bambi” to “Dumbo” to that agonizing parable of a father murdered in front of his son, his son then pursued by assassins only to have to spend his formative years lost in the wilderness while his mother and best friend nearly starve to death in his absence — straight trauma. “The Lion King” really did leave a ton of millennials wrecked.

Someone answered my question, stating that Black trauma stories were those where the hardship was at the hands of white people. However, that wouldn’t explain how that label was applied to “The Color Purple.” There’s no overbearing trauma placed on those characters at the hands of white people directly. There aren’t many white people featured at all. There’s the understanding that because the story takes place during a particular time in American history, Black people are enduring explicit racial injustices, but that reality is not heavily featured in the film. It’s simply an interpretation of the type of anguish that is unfortunately common among a spectrum of humans, specifically those born women.

Does this mean Black narratives from a particular time in history should be avoided because the reality of oppression will inevitably be a backdrop? Does this mean Black women can’t present art where a female protagonist suffers abuse from within her family dynamics because it too will be slapped with the dreaded “Black trauma” sticker? Where does this leave Black artistic expression? These people from these times and under these circumstances did actually exist, and they do have stories. Are we so preoccupied with how we are perceived under the white gaze that we’re ready to rid ourselves of all of these Black experiences of overcoming hardship because they’re too “embarrassing” to a particular Black outlook?

I remember a similar thought emerging around the movie “The Help.” Certainly, because that story was written by a white woman, featuring many white characters as oppressors with the stereotypical “white savior” trope, I understand the opposition considering those elements. What annoyed me with critiques from my community surrounding that story wasn’t due to any of those points but due to this notion that we’re “better” than maids and cooks and stories of painful vestiges from our past. The reason I took exception to that thinking is personal. My mother was a housekeeper… for white people in Alabama, during and directly following the Jim Crow era, doing so to pay for her way through college. She had ten other siblings and was extremely poor, and it was this sort of labor, along with other odd jobs, that allowed her to pay for her way through school and be one of only two siblings to achieve a college degree at that time.

Is that endeavor supposed to embarrass me somehow?

That reality has only ever filled me with pride and a push to achieve as much as possible because I never had to endure that to secure my education. It was a legacy that provided opportunities for me, and absent them, I’d likely not have had the solid path and trajectory I ended up on if my existence had been realized at all.

If someday I decide to honor my mother by telling her story, should I give second thoughts because her lived experience isn’t quite “good enough” to be portrayed by some people’s standards of how Black folks should look in front of white people?

I enjoy stories that feel deeply consequential about people who feel real and express the fullness of the human position — flaws and all — as they face difficult circumstances. They can be physically resisting forces in some dark dystopian “future” like Lauren Olamina in “Parable of the Sower,” where there are slavers, racial tension, and dire conditions. Or indeed, the reticent and modest way that Celie gradually rises above both inner and outer monsters in “The Color Purple.” We should be allowed as artists to offer that full expression of the mortal experience just like our white counterparts are allowed to do without the albatross of “how it looks to white people” constantly hung around our necks.

There must be room for all of our stories, for us to freely tell our jolly, Black romcoms, tragic romances, our sad orphan dramas, and our interpretations of deeper societal issues like every other Shakespeare, Dickens, or Poe that gets celebrated in the literary world and in other artistic mediums.

My novel has been summarized by the modest few who’ve actually read it as “raw,” “realistic,” and “portraying generational trauma.” However, I didn’t “write to market” either, as Monk believes Sintara does in some attempt at pandering or vesting in “poverty porn.” The only thing I “wrote to” was a principle of authenticity. And that should be the only thing that ever actually matters.

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Photo: Netflix/Courtesy NETFLIX

I need Sam Esmail, the writer and director, and the Obamas, the executive producers of “Leave the World Behind,” to get out of my streaming history.

I’m a voracious consumer of all things historical and political. When I rise in the morning and hit the power button on my Sharp Smart TV, it knows to lay before me the cornucopia of options from my most frequented courses: CNN, MSNBC, The Lincoln Project, NPR, Things Explained, and my local news broadcast. Always placed on about row two after this buffet of exposition on war, climate change, coup d’etats, the upending of civil liberties, and despair, it is the icon for my other most frequently watched show, “Friends.”

“Friends,” or the “White Living Single,” as I call it, is what I usually turn to when overwhelmed by the real world and news coverage I drown myself in. It’s in heavy viewing rotation not only due to syndication but also because the news these days, especially these last five years, has been almost oppressive.

I like to be aware and informed, but after hours of watching what real people do, I often slide into the shoes of Julia Roberts’ character, accept that “I f’kin’ hate people,” and simply want to watch “The One with the Jellyfish.” I do this especially because, like many people, I feel hopeless about finding answers for it all, or any of it, to be honest.

I need an escape from reality. And if there’s anything “Friends” is not, it’s reality.

As Ruth’s character said, it’s like we’re nostalgic for a time that never existed, where there’s no racism, no politics, no real sexism, no poverty, and every crisis can be resolved in a half-hour with a quick Chandler quip, “Wah-pah!”

Since “Leave the World Behind” dropped on Netflix and the buzz crescendoed around it, I’ve seen several takes on my social media feeds. The one most surprising to me was the plethora of people who said they hated the film and especially hated the ending. Where it seemed most people were frustrated by the lack of answers, the lack of some distinct enemy to blame, the absence of real heroes, and the seeming nonsensical continuous adoration of a 1990s sitcom is where I found the movie to thrive and be completely aware of the times we’re living in and our authentic reactions in these scenarios.

If there’s anything we should all be aware of since the pandemic and the George Floyd events, it is how weird humans can behave in times of crisis. There were those who were doomsday prepping, those who laughed at all of it, people who looked at both of these extremes with cynicism, people invested in conspiracy theories about who “the real culprits were,” and those who posted cat videos and recipes as though all hell wasn’t breaking loose in some capacity just beyond their front steps. All of this happened simultaneously. We could watch the broadcast of these contradictory and often confounding reactions to world events happen in real time from a device we carry in our pockets and have constant access to.

This same sort of surrealism still exists even in the aftermath of what’s largely a neutralized global pandemic. We’re inundated with content — content with skewed data, embellished messaging, actual facts, and purposeful disinformation. It’s too difficult for many to decipher. So, they disengage. They walk around TikToking and posting selfies or dive headfirst into the wild world of conspiracy theories (which is escapism of sorts by another name). We feel a level of discomfort just beneath the surface because the world feels chaotic, and we don’t know what to do about it and oftentimes who to blame. It’s overwhelming. So we must create some sort of order (conspiracy theories) or remove the world from our minds entirely and leave it behind. We “watch ‘Friends’.”

We need an escape.

The movie telegraphs this throughout. On their way to the beach house, the Sandfords take “Exit 76, Point Comfort.” In one of the earlier scenes, Clay discusses a former student who’s written a book about how media serves as both an escape and reflection of society, which is a “contradiction,” he says. And, if you weren’t distracted by a need for the typical cinematic thrills of noisy blockbusters where the monsters are explicit and the solutions obvious, those subtle messages were blaring megaphones.

And isn’t that also one of the points of the story? That in a dangerous world that is teetering at any moment of falling into similar chaos as portrayed in the film, whether by viruses, civil unrest, rising fascism, or other natural disasters, where there are, more often than not, no real plausible answers, no absolute enemies, and no one is actually in charge of the things the way we want to believe they are, we still need to unite and not be distracted by the noise and superficial differences?

Probably my favorite part of the movie is the ending. I love how Rose casually breaks into this wealthy home, eats all of their goodies, and finishes “Friends” because, hell, the world is over, so why not? I love how some super-wealthy family had constructed this doomsday bunker to shame all other bunkers. It was equipped with stockpiles of food, water, ventilation, plant life, UV lamps, etc., and none of it mattered because the great neutralizer, in times of chaos, is often timing and luck. You actually had to be able to get to those things to benefit from them. Wealthy or not, if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, your wealth wouldn’t help you. Or, as Ali’s character explained in another scene, when no one is in control, wealth and influence won’t save you. It may give you a heads-up to prepare, but that doesn’t ensure your survival. Cut to several shots displayed throughout the film of one Earth and the one planet we have.

At the end of it all, we’re in this together, stuck on this rotating rock together. Ignore, neglect, and exploit each other at our own peril.

There’s always a need to step away from the bombardment of serious news and its ramifications to preserve our sanity and mental health. I’ll forever be an advocate for that. However, we can’t allow those reprieves to distract us, further divide us, or pull us away from the actual threats that persist.

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Photographs by Renell Medrano from GQ

It’s Friday, and I sit here minutes away from hitting play on “New Blue Sun,” André 3000’s first album release in almost twenty years. I have no disillusions over what I’m about to get into. I’m not a flutist. I’ve never played a woodwind instrument in my life. I wasn’t even among the “lucky” ones hurled into that world of reeds and embouchure holes as so many were — often involuntarily — during my braces and glasses-wearing formative years. I’m under no pretense that, yes, I’ll get some woodwind, but I’ll also get some modicum of the 3 Stacks with the impeccable wordplay, storytelling, and wisdom I’m accustomed to. No, I know what I’m getting. I don’t even necessarily expect to connect with the album, as I’m certain those with a background in the woodwind world may.

I’m from that generation who remembers when the hip-hop world orbited around its city of origin, New York City. It was a generation where the mere mention of a southern rapper or any rap song from any place below the Mason-Dixon line got you laughed into a corner so hard you wanted to retreat in embarrassment like a Homer Simpson meme. I remember the infamous Source Awards in New York City when Atlanta’s own Outkast won Best New Rap Group, were booed, and the call heard industry-wide was issued by one of its most creative sons that would change the trajectory of the music industry forever — “The South got something to say.”

I’m hitting play on this thing simply because it’s André 3000.

In André’s recent GQ interview, he makes clear that there are no vocals on this release at all. Not only that, he explicitly says “rap isn’t what comes” to him anymore, and he essentially no longer feels it as he once did. I completely understand about “vibes” and “feelings” not aligning with certain experiences. However, when he expounds further on the “whys” of no longer feeling rap, it seems more about how external pressures make him feel versus some deep spiritual realignment.

I can also understand that — the strain of the world’s expectations. On top of everything else, there’s the layer of today’s social media with its viral trends, the public’s invasive proclivity, and its simultaneous impulse to seek displays of the failure of something. It is vast and deep. It must be overwhelming for a man who’s usually on most people’s top ten of all-time greatest emcee’s list. With each passing year, the desire for epic verses from André rises, and along with it, the expectation that when he does emerge from his life of tranquility, his bars will be from Mount Sinai, sent down from God himself.

Pressure.

André touches on that. He mentions how the idea of being in the limelight and the nature of the notion of celebrity has shifted during his time in the industry. It is partially why he developed social anxiety. I can completely empathize with how the public nature of everything now can be overwhelming for someone with an introspective and sensitive disposition like André’s. However, he also mentioned something that, while I respect, I’m not sure I quite grasp.

In the interview, 3 Stacks says, “I’m 48 years old. And not to say that age is a thing that dictates what you rap about, but in a way it does. And things that happen in my life, like, what are you talking about? ‘I got to go get a colonoscopy.’ What are you rapping about? ‘My eyesight is going bad.’”

Um… yes ‘Dre, that’s exactly what you rap about.

I’d offer that he should probably have a discussion with Nas, Black Thought, Jay-Z, or Phonte about how to rap as a mature artist and still find your footing. They’ve all managed this, and nothing they rap about seems inauthentic.

One of my favorite Phonte songs, Expensive Genes, is from his 2018 release, where he discusses many of the nuisances of entering middle age, from antihistamines to high blood pressure to sleep apnea machines. Jay-Z has graduated from braggadocio around being an active participant in the drug world to how to leave it and build a legacy of wealth for your children (no matter how you may or may not feel about his particular expositions on capitalism). Black Thought is, well… your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. And while I’ve always been a Tarik fan, at 52 years old, he’s just now peaking, in my opinion. Some of his verses on Glorious Game are among my favorite Thought bars. Then there’s Nas. His last releases also do a similar thing, touching on what he’s learned from his younger years and what it’s now like to be an older man. Not only does he no longer desire certain things, he often lacks the energy to even participate in them if he did. All of his recent work, especially with Hit-Boy, has been well-received, even garnering him a Grammy nomination this year for Best Rap Album.

I’d say to André that you have an entire generation of 40+ year-olds who grew WITH you and are also dealing with health, aging parents, kids, thinking about their legacy, losing loved ones, etc. It’s exactly what we need and want to hear. Sure, you may not be what’s going viral on TikTok or “trending” (which I say is a good thing nowadays, actually), but you certainly will have an audience there for you ‘Dre. And they’ll be enthusiastically awaiting every verse you’d lay about bad vision and colonoscopies. Why? Because that’s now our life as well.

We’d tell you that if you no longer feel rap because you are no longer inspired to do so, then we respect that. However, please don’t shy away from it over some perception of what you think we may want to hear. And please, don’t shy away from it because of the acute intrusiveness of today’s culture featuring algorithms, news feeds and fyp’s. Drop your ‘ish and walk away — the same way you’ll approach this instrumental project, I assume.

Anyway, I’ll listen to the flute album. At the end of the day, we love you and wish you nothing but your best mental health above anything else.

But also, yes, André, you still got something to say.

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