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IMPACT
Artistic Licence vs Cultural Appropriation: Identity in Fiction Robert examines the complexity of representing identities outside one’s own in literature. What do nearly-murdered orphans, sock-deprived slaves and arachnophobic gingers have in common? Besides the fact that they’re all blessed with better luck than the people who paid to watch ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child’, they refer specifically to things that J.K. Rowling isn’t. Yet, it would be pointless to criticise Rowling for writing characters struggling with experiences and identities worlds away from her own given the fantastical nature of the genre and setting they inhabit and the common-sense belief among most readers that fiction is like a globalist utopia or an irritating friend: entirely without boundaries. But when those experiences and identities are socially sensitive, when they have the capacity to gravely offend or lend much-needed representation to readers from marginalised minorities –say, when a white and wealthy middle-aged author tries to pull off the voice of a black teenage schoolgirl– the line between promoting diversity and respecting divides becomes a slippery one to walk.
“The crucial variable here is accuracy. Empathy might be universal, but without the requisite research it’s muddied by misconception” The conundrum is that in order to convincingly pull off that black teenage girl’s voice, the author must first put it on. Appropriation involves approximation, meaning the result is bound to be imperfect. Though, in the words of author Elizabeth Gilbert, “perfectionism is just fear in fancy shoes” – in this case, the understandable fear of misrepresenting the idiolects, habits and hardships of black readers and looking racist as a result. To have a passionate readership at all is a rare and powerful privilege, particularly when, according to the Guardian, the British publishing
market is dominated by a 93.7% white status quo. As literary icon Uncle Ben once observed, “with great power comes great responsibility.” Namely, the responsibility of writers to do their research. Skin colour isn’t like hair colour, sock size or steak preference; it’s not just a character trait, an aesthetic detail or a plot point. It carries a whole history of cultural baggage, of proud traditions and painful memories, of assumptions in the mind of the reader over which the writer has absolutely no control. Hence, when white writers actively (or in Rowling’s case, retroactively) assign their characters arbitrary colours and creeds without bothering to explore how those identities might affect their every interaction, many readers bristle and bubble with rage.
“Just as the worst autobiographies are concealed fictions, the worst works of fiction are concealed autobiographies” The crucial variable here is accuracy. Empathy might be universal, but without the requisite research it’s muddied by misconception. Award-winning children’s author Cynthia Smith urges a policy of reading at least 100 books by members of a character’s culture, w hether it be working class Welshmen or West Indian women, before attempting to put pen to paper. Although daunting, such thorough precautions stave off the tendency among novice novelists to cherry-pick only the most distinctive,
