Can You Write It If You Haven’t Lived It?
It’s a common scenario: someone spots you engrossed in a book, and their curiosity prompts them to ask for a glimpse of the cover. Normally, this exchange ends there. However, Kathryn Stockett’s The Help breaks that mold. Its cover — two black women with a white baby in a trolley — acts as a gateway to deeper discussions as people seem willing to share their stance against racism.
When they ask for details of the novel, I suggest they read the blurb. If they catch a glimpse of the author’s photo, the conversation takes a sharp turn. The usual question follows, often in various forms: “A white woman wrote this?” I confirm their suspicion, and the surprise is unmistakable.
I must admit, I’m not entirely innocent in this regard either. During my #read_round_the_world challenge, I often find myself searching beyond the plot and reviews of a book and seeking insight into the author’s background. Questions like, “Where do they come from?” or “Have they written other popular (accepted) works?” are essential to my assessment of their credibility and ultimately, my decision to read a book. I also look out for reviews from indigenous voices to have more insight into the author’s impact — “How do the people written about feel and think about it?”
It’s fascinating how The Help precisely spurs and goes on to confront this topic. The novel follows the journey of Skeeter, an aspiring writer, as she collaborates with two Black maids, Aibileen and Minny, to write a book anonymously about their experiences and shed light on the complexities of racial prejudices. In essence, the book becomes a reflection of its themes, inviting readers to question their assumptions about authors and the authority of perspective. So here I am.
The loudest voices often come from those who strongly believe that it’s unforgivable for a writer to venture into subjects not personal to them. With this perspective, a writer from a wealthy background might face criticism for attempting to explore the lives of homeless individuals in inner-city neighborhoods. It moves beyond class to race to gender and much more. I confess that I’ve felt constrained by this belief in my attempts at fiction writing. I predominantly write from perspectives similar to my own, as I’ve felt limited by the notion that authors lack the authority to delve into unfamiliar territories.
The opposing voices place their trust in the discernment of readers, asserting that it is the readers themselves who should assess the authority of an author based on their evaluation of the author’s body of work and the relevance of the subject matter. They argue that even if a writer addresses a topic familiar to them, their lack of knowledge may result in an obvious absence of essential facts and competence, potentially leaving them out of their depth.
I found myself already engrossed and nearly halfway through The Help when I stumbled upon the author’s photograph. Perhaps I would have been less inclined to pick up the book had I known beforehand. Yet, I found the narrative to be compelling.
The author’s note is much needed as Kathryn Stockett offers a reflection on her motivation behind The Help, addressing the long-standing question. She discusses her family maid, Demetrie, who cared for her, and regrets not asking certain probing questions like what it felt like being black in Mississippi, working for a white family. She allows herself to ponder the possible answers through her book.
Stockett humbly acknowledges the limitations of her perspective, recognizing that she can never fully comprehend the experience of being a black woman in Mississippi, especially during the 1960s. She acknowledges the inherent gap between her position as a white woman on the privileged end of the societal hierarchy and the lived reality of black women. Yet, she emphasizes the importance of striving to understand, viewing empathy as essential to our shared humanity.
In her words: “Wasn’t that the point of the book? For women to realize. We are just two people. Not that much separates us. Not nearly as much as I’d thought.”
This captures the overarching theme of the novel — the recognition of our common humanity and the power of empathy to bridge seemingly insurmountable divides.
My final question- How do the people written about feel and think about it? It was intriguing to learn about the lawsuit involving the author’s brother’s housekeeper, Ablene Cooper, who claimed her likeness was used in The Help without permission. The case was dismissed due to the statute of limitations, between the time that Stockett gave Cooper a copy of the book in January 2009 and the lawsuit’s filing in February 2011. Cooper contended that the clock should start after reading the book, but the author’s defense countered that there was an accompanying letter clarifying the character wasn’t based on her. This legal dispute adds another layer to the narrative, leaving me feeling like we’re back to square one. Or maybe not.
I can’t help but think of an excerpt of Grady’s Gift by Howell Raines: “There is no trickier subject for a writer from the South than that of affection between a black person and a white one in the unequal world of segregation. For the dishonesty upon which a society is founded makes every emotion suspect, makes it impossible to know whether what flowed between two people was honest feeling or pity or pragmatism.”
Indeed, the question of who has the right to write what remains open-ended but it boils down to the need for respect, consent, and ensuring our stories resonate authentically with those they represent. Whether we choose to listen to stories from those within or outside the experiences they tell, what’s important is that we approach storytelling with sensitivity, empathy, and a willingness to learn from diverse perspectives. The Help reminds me that stories are never truly owned by a single author. They evolve through conversations, interactions, and interpretations.
