There is a false premise which I wish would die a fiery death once and for all; that one must read a book in order to have an opinion on it. I didn't need to read O.J. Simpon's "If I Did It", to know that it was a cynical ploy used by the publishers to cash in on tragedy and that Simpson was the last person whose account of those crimes I would touch with a barge pole.
Writers write, if we're any good we're always setting ourselves that next challenge, climbing that next peak, extending ourselves. For me it's about finding new ways to enter the minds of 'others' and their experience. I have no issue with Strasser for writing this book...he's doing what writers do...write.
I don't have much stick with S&S either. Most major publishers are money-grubbing whorehouses anyway, expecting anything like a social conscience or integrity (artistic or otherwise), is generally a lost cause. The only way to sting a corporate behemoth is to threaten its bottom line.
So Goodreads is protest by other means. The stars, the poor reviews are people's message to S&S: NOT WANTED. The publishers are watching and waiting, a certain amount of scandal makes your book a bestseller, too much too often and it can be time to give your CEO their golden handshake.
If this story were written by an Muslim-American author I would definitely read it. It's the kind of story which must be written from inside the culture out. As a POC, the blurb alone would have made me wonder about the writer's ethnicity.
It just doesn't ring true.
It's like being in a restaurant and being passed over for seating for the first time in the presence of a white friend. Now, in the past, you may have told them this happens to you from time to time and been met with gentle disbelief. 'They just didn't see you' or 'they didn't have the right table'; these are reasonable ideas.
Far more reasonable than someone preferring not to seat my black face in the center of their restaurant for Reasons. But one night, you're out with your white friend and the host gives you the Look; the one which floats over, through and around you to the next couple and calls their name.
Now your friend, while not as Look fluent, recognizes the two of you have been seen. The first response: shock. They spend the next few seconds telling you that they don't understand because the host saw 'us. I saw them see us'; you know over and over.
The second response: outrage. And not necessarily the controlled burn outrage you might pull the screen away from in order to be comped anything from appetizers to the entire meal, depending on the host's attitude and what kind of week you've had; but your friend is two shakes from supernova incandescent, *you're* calming *them* down.
Later, they almost always ask a variation on the same question, 'why aren't you more upset?'. After you laugh and tell them they couldn't have had both of you kicking off up in there, you tell them.
This experience is life. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Who has the energy to react to every single slight? But even that isn't the whole reason.
I remember the first time I became aware enough to ask my dad about the family arriving after we did, being seated first. As a child I was a huuuuge proponent of the notion of fairness and of knowing whose 'turn' it was. My dad said he knew, so had the people before that. He dealt with it...you know, it just now occurred to me how out of character it was for him to take something like that lying down. He's a proud guy.
But that morning he was just a guy taking his kids out for pancakes. And this person took it upon themselves to shame my Dad in front of us. The only thing which had spared the host up to that second, was our lack of awareness. A few moments and an apology from the manager later (that's what it took, involving the manager, to get seated while white people still remained in the waiting area) we were ordering breakfast.
But it was from that age I can remember being enrolled in my parents' version of 'Racism 101'. Mostly it was taught by example with helpful hints, discussions and loads of literature along the way. Two lessons were made clear: stand up for yourself and it's their problem, not yours. This way of living and thinking insulates me from feeling shamed, mostly. I've learned that standing up for yourself means rarely having to feel shamed by racist behavior.
And it can look like anything, whether it's playful: Taking it seriously when a guy is trying to rush you out of store by asking repeatedly if he can help you; Saying 'yes'...every. Single. Time. Refusing to accept lesser service than is your due gracefully: 'no, I would not like this table by the bathroom, thank you very much. I'll take one of the six or eight empties we passed during our trek out to wastelands.’
Occasionally and only occasionally do I rage against the machine. If I do, it's usually been a crap week and seriously: Dude I there is nothing left in the dregs of my goodwill toward man to make room for your nonsense. This person, much like the host from my childhood generally wishes a) they had never laid eyes on me or b) chosen to get out of bed that morning. And I will feel no shame for ruining their day, because racism is never, ever deserved and at its least offensive, looks like bad behavior by another name; whoever dabbles in it chooses to spin the roulette wheel and gets what they get. It's kind of like a relief valve.
So yes, my white friend, I'm not as angry about having to deal with a host's power games as you are. Welcome to my life, I'm not just visiting while hanging out with a friend or researching a book. I cannot leave it behind when we part company or when I move on to the next novel, having been 'enriched by the experience'.
I'm sure Strasser is a fine writer, but the kind of understanding necessary to adequately portray the inner workings of an Muslim-American teenager leaning towards extremism requires decades of lived experience and a wealth of generational knowledge. ETA: Experience and knowledge to which Strasser, however well-meaning and talented simply has no access. All he can do is botch the job and cause a lot of pain in process.
For instance, I doubt an Muslim-American author would have permitted the incendiary title and cover to go forward. Having had the word 'terrorist' thrown at them in the streets and their patriotism questioned by random yahoos; an Muslim-American author might strongly object to a title and cover art which frame their protagonist as a Muslim bogeyman. Maybe, I'm not sure. In spite of the injustices I've experienced, my experiences as an African-American woman are radically different from those of a Muslim-American.
Yes, it's true that families of color are forced to give their children a foundational education in coping with injustice. But there are first generation immigrants who come from places which make my Black angst look silly.
Thus endeth my rant. I now listen to those who know best.