The sociology of bookshelves
A concept I find rather troublesome at the bookstore where I work is that of the African-American lit section.
Now, I can understand its convenience. If you're black and particularly interested in reading books by black authors, then an African-American lit section is precisely what you need.
I say "if you're black" because, by and large, the only people who buy books out of the African-American lit section are black people. With the exception of a few of the acknowledged greats like Toni Morrison and Ralph Ellison - and even then, only rarely - the books in Afro-American lit are pretty much untouched by white hands.
My issue is this: What is that sign up there really saying? Is it only saying "Books by black people"? Or is it also saying "Books that black people read"?
I thought about this while I was reshelving some books today. I was shelving one in African-American lit, and I noticed a book someone had left sitting horizontally on top of the others. So I picked it up to put it back in its place. On the cover was a picture of a black couple embracing. I looked at the price sticker for its location, expecting it to go back into African-American lit, but it was actually supposed to be in romance.
So I put it back in romance. While I was there, I noticed a book that'd been shelved out of alphabetical order and pulled it out. On the cover was a similar picture of a black couple embracing. Again, I looked at the sticker, this time expecting it to stay in romance.
Nope. African-American lit.
Bemused, I went off to return this book to its rightful location. I wondered what it was about this book that put it in African-American lit and that one that put it in romance. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of difference to me: they were both romance novels featuring black people. Was it that one just happened to be about black people and the other was about being black?
It might be more arbitrary than that. I think the book's category is probably determined by the publisher, or maybe the Library of Congress.
Anyway, I just get this feeling that separating out the black lit from the rest of the lit section has an implication that it's somehow fundamentally different. It almost seems like we're sending the books to the proverbial back of the bus - though I've never received any complaints about it from black customers, so maybe that's just me.
The other thing is that it seems like putting all the books black people wrote in the same spot and sticking that sign over it is pretty much guaranteeing that white people aren't going to buy those books. They simply don't shop in African-American lit. That sign tells them that those books aren't for them. They're for black people.
It's the same way for the gay & lesbian lit section. Books for gay people. Straight folks don't shop there. As sensitive as many straight people still are about having others think they're gay, they sure as hell wouldn't be caught looking at the gay books.
That's a tiny section, too. Only fills up a couple of shelves, I think. The rest of the shelves under that sign are actually the end of African-American lit, which is a pretty good-sized section.
Once or twice, when helping someone find a book in African-American lit, I found it in that area under the Gay & Lesbian sign. The customer looked rather horrified when she saw where I was headed. She began to make a sound of protest before I explained that this was actually still the African-American lit section.
What I think is this: maybe if everything were mixed together in the same lit section, people might be more likely to pick up something different. Maybe this person would be more likely to pick up a book about two women who love each other if it were right next to the one about the governess who fell in love with her employer. Maybe that person would pick up the one about the black family living in Harlem if it were right next to the one about the white family living in Maine.
In any case, there's no way you'll convince me that Toni Morrison shouldn't be shelved right there between Melville and Nabokov.
On an unrelated note, David Sedaris has a story in the current issue of the New Yorker. Just in case any of you Sedaris fans on my friends list should happen to find yourselves working someplace where you get to temporarily swipe magazines from the rack to read in the breakroom.
Now, I can understand its convenience. If you're black and particularly interested in reading books by black authors, then an African-American lit section is precisely what you need.
I say "if you're black" because, by and large, the only people who buy books out of the African-American lit section are black people. With the exception of a few of the acknowledged greats like Toni Morrison and Ralph Ellison - and even then, only rarely - the books in Afro-American lit are pretty much untouched by white hands.
My issue is this: What is that sign up there really saying? Is it only saying "Books by black people"? Or is it also saying "Books that black people read"?
I thought about this while I was reshelving some books today. I was shelving one in African-American lit, and I noticed a book someone had left sitting horizontally on top of the others. So I picked it up to put it back in its place. On the cover was a picture of a black couple embracing. I looked at the price sticker for its location, expecting it to go back into African-American lit, but it was actually supposed to be in romance.
So I put it back in romance. While I was there, I noticed a book that'd been shelved out of alphabetical order and pulled it out. On the cover was a similar picture of a black couple embracing. Again, I looked at the sticker, this time expecting it to stay in romance.
Nope. African-American lit.
Bemused, I went off to return this book to its rightful location. I wondered what it was about this book that put it in African-American lit and that one that put it in romance. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of difference to me: they were both romance novels featuring black people. Was it that one just happened to be about black people and the other was about being black?
It might be more arbitrary than that. I think the book's category is probably determined by the publisher, or maybe the Library of Congress.
Anyway, I just get this feeling that separating out the black lit from the rest of the lit section has an implication that it's somehow fundamentally different. It almost seems like we're sending the books to the proverbial back of the bus - though I've never received any complaints about it from black customers, so maybe that's just me.
The other thing is that it seems like putting all the books black people wrote in the same spot and sticking that sign over it is pretty much guaranteeing that white people aren't going to buy those books. They simply don't shop in African-American lit. That sign tells them that those books aren't for them. They're for black people.
It's the same way for the gay & lesbian lit section. Books for gay people. Straight folks don't shop there. As sensitive as many straight people still are about having others think they're gay, they sure as hell wouldn't be caught looking at the gay books.
That's a tiny section, too. Only fills up a couple of shelves, I think. The rest of the shelves under that sign are actually the end of African-American lit, which is a pretty good-sized section.
Once or twice, when helping someone find a book in African-American lit, I found it in that area under the Gay & Lesbian sign. The customer looked rather horrified when she saw where I was headed. She began to make a sound of protest before I explained that this was actually still the African-American lit section.
What I think is this: maybe if everything were mixed together in the same lit section, people might be more likely to pick up something different. Maybe this person would be more likely to pick up a book about two women who love each other if it were right next to the one about the governess who fell in love with her employer. Maybe that person would pick up the one about the black family living in Harlem if it were right next to the one about the white family living in Maine.
In any case, there's no way you'll convince me that Toni Morrison shouldn't be shelved right there between Melville and Nabokov.
On an unrelated note, David Sedaris has a story in the current issue of the New Yorker. Just in case any of you Sedaris fans on my friends list should happen to find yourselves working someplace where you get to temporarily swipe magazines from the rack to read in the breakroom.