I’ve had white people push back at me saying that they they knew my own background and culture better better than me and they will choose who I am to be called. I have had black people accuse me of being divisive for basically existing and being proud of my existence. I’ve watched others suddenly scramble to make up their own terms so they, *gasp*, don’t have to use the one I coined (do whatever you like, I don’t care, you do you, cool…but it’s cute how it took me stepping up and fighting for space for years for you to step up. Yeah, you’re welcome). People act like they can’t spell or control autocorrect. They act confused, vapid and kinda stupid. They get really emotional about me defining myself, despite the fact that I had good reason to.
The issue is bigger than the name of a category and limited understanding of culture within speculative fiction. It’s about black culture and identity, as a whole.
Now I see it manifesting in a different way with Death of the Author. I see people saying they’re not sure if the main character is Nigerian or American (she’s Nigerian American, naijamerican…and my very first novel, an adult literary novel with mystical elements, was rejected by editors at the major publishers, editors who were white AND one who was black, BECAUSE they didn’t know if my character was American or Nigerian. I’ve come full circle). I see some mistakenly saying the novel is set in Nigeria (it’s mainly set in Chicago, though we’ve got Trinidad and Tobago, Boston and parts of Nigeria, outer space and a future post-human Nigeria in there, too).
I know people are attracted to simplicity, less work, singular stories, ease of explanation, sounds bites, Tik Tok quick, as little work as possible, but that is not the world. And as part of the world, it’s not me!
Sorry, NOT SORRY AT ALL. Evolve.
I don’t do invisible.
Nnedi
