Elizabeth Oldfield speaks to Lizzie Damilola Blackburn, author of ‘Yinka, Where is your Huzband?’ 01/03/2023
Elizabeth
Hello, and welcome to The Sacred. My name is Elizabeth Oldfield, and this is a podcast about our deepest values, and how we can navigate the many, many things that divide us. Every episode, I speak to someone who has some kind of public voice, about their deepest principles, how they think about how they’re using their platform to shape our common life, and what they’ve learned about dealing with difference. The Sacred has been going for five years now, and we couldn’t claim to be, you know, super early adopters in the podcast world, but we’ve certainly been here a lot longer than some of these ‘Johnny–come–latelies’, which means there’s a huge library of interviews with people for you to go and explore. They come from, not every, but getting on for every different political perspective, metaphysical belief and profession you can think of. The whole point of the project is to listen to people on both sides of the variety of divides, coming from a variety of perspectives, to get us out of our tribal bubbles, to challenge our preconceptions and prejudices about people. So I would invite you not just to click on the episodes with people that you like the sound of or who you think are a bit like you – but to notice that in yourself, I totally do it too – but maybe have a listen to some of the people that you think might be more challenging. You can alternate, you know, like having a drink, and then a glass of water throughout the evening. It shouldn’t all feel super challenging. But what I am trying to do here, what I hope you experience as you listen, is just a sense of growing empathy, and a challenge to that tendency that we have to put people in boxes and see them as a ‘them’ or tribe rather than a complex, beautiful, fragile, you know, flawed human person in the world.
Just before we get into today’s episode, I also wanted to remind you that we have our first sacred live event in a long time coming up on the 19th of April. Bookings are open. You can head over to the Theos website, go to social media. I’m sure I will be spamming you with many posts about it because I am massively looking forward to this event. I am so delighted that Oliver Burkeman is going to be my guest in conversation with me that night. He is this extraordinarily wise and thought–provoking voice in the broader kind of self–help universe. He was famous for The Guardian column “This column will change your life”. He is this restless questor after wisdom, but he comes at it with this slightly sardonic, cocked eyebrow. Look, you know, he’s not a sort of gushy woo–woo guru, but as someone who does think deeply and seriously about what a good life might mean, and how we thrive. I spent some time with him at the ‘Realisation Festival’ last year. I got to know him a little bit, and I just cannot wait to talk to him, again, in public, in front of you guys. It’s on the 19th of April. It’s in Westminster. It should be really easy to get to for those of you in London, and hopefully some of you within reach of London. I know that many listeners are scattered all over the country and indeed all over the world, so I am really sorry if this feels like an annoying FOMO thing. If it goes well. We hope to do some events elsewhere, but this is our first foray back into these waters. And I would just love you to come. I would love you to come and bring a friend who you might want to introduce to the podcast, who you might just want an opportunity to have a deep conversation with. We will be getting you talking to each other. It won’t just be a kind of static, Oliver and I talking from up the front. ‘Community’ is this very overused word, right, and listeners to The Sacred or not in any sense a community, in that you don’t yet. Many of you don’t know each other. I think Casper Ter Kuile and Vanessa Zoltan always talked about the definition of community as someone who will bring you soup when you’re sick, which is a very kind of American framing, but I kind of get what they mean. However, what you are is a bunch of very interesting individuals, from my experience. And if you listen to the podcast, I think what it guarantees is that you’re someone who is trying to keep a soft heart towards the world and is curious. And is curious even about people who honestly you sense might not like you, which I’ve concluded is the sort of founding reason mostly that we don’t like other people and that you are thinking and you’re thinking deeply, and listening. And, of course, it’s like 50% ego because you like the thing that I make, so of course, I like you! But I also just feel a very tender heart towards you guys who’ve shown up and supported this project and walked with us, and makes me feel more hopeful about the world, honestly. I’m going to stop gushing. All of which is to say, I can’t wait to meet a bunch of you and re meet people that I’ve not met yet, and it’s quite a small venue, so I generally genuinely do hope there will be a chance for human conversation and encounter. 19th of April, book your tickets. We really look forward to seeing you there.
In this episode, you will hear an interview I had with novelist Lizzie Damilola Blackburn. Lizzie’s first novel “Yinka, Where is Your Huzband?” is a rom–com set in Peckham, which has been enough of a success that Lizzie has been able to give up her previous job in the charity sector to work on her next book. And those of you who know anything about publishing will know how rare that is. We spoke about colourism and the pressure to settle down, and diversifying voices in publishing. There are some reflections from you at the end, and I really hope you enjoy listening.
What is sacred to you? Lizzie Damilola Blackburn’s answer
Elizabeth
Lizzie in a second, I am going to ask you what is sacred to you, which always feels like pushing people like directly into the deep end. So, having had a little bit of time to think about what your sacred value or sacred values might be – bracketing out kind of, family – what bubbled up for you, as you were reflecting on this very difficult question?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Um, I think the whole principle of like, treating people the way they wants to be treated. So, treating people with respect, and even just like manners. So that’s something I will never compromise on. So, if someone was to offer me money not to say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ ever again, I don’t think that’s something I could do.
Elizabeth
Your parents trained you so well!
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Maybe for a day, but I’d have to like, go back to all the people I didn’t say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ to and say “I’m so, so sorry. It was because of this…” And, yeah, I just think it’s just like, that’s how I would want to be treated. I would want someone to say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ to me. And, you know, it kind of stems to my faith as well. So in the Word it talks about, you know, “do unto others how you would want done unto you”. And also, you know, stemming from that is the whole like, notion of asking people how they are, which kind of fits into the whole polite kind of thing that I’m talking about. So, you know, whether that’s the shop cashier at Tesco’s, or the taxi driver. And I realised that, you know, lots of like, good conversations can come out of that single question. And sometimes they are surprised when I ask them, “how are you?” because there’s a lot of like, invisible unsung heroes in society. And people just kind of like, not deliberately ignore them, but, you know, I think we’re so busy in our day to day life that we kind of like just kind of stopped to have human interactions. And yeah, I’ve found that I’ve had some good conversations and even advice from people just from, you know, starting that icebreaker question: “How are you? How’s your day?”
Elizabeth
Yeah, it’s this sort of discipline of not treating human beings as objects, isn’t it? They’re not just part of the car, if they’re an Uber driver, you know? They’re not part of the sort of machine of service delivery. It’s a human being with a set of fragilities. And I think we’re constantly in a world that makes it easy to forget the human beings around us. Sounds like a lovely kind of tiny spiritual practice.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah. And also, it’s a way to kind of like not just be on my phone. You know what I mean?
Elizabeth
Oh yes, I do. “Eyes up, eyes up!”
Childhood: God’s love and discovering the third sector
I would love to hear a bit about your childhood, and particularly any big ideas that were in the air: political, philosophical, religious, anything else. Things that have been sort of formative to you. But mainly, I just want you to tell me a bit of a story. You’re a wonderful storyteller. Tell me a bit of a story of your girlhood, your growing up.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah, so when I was a kid, I was a big reader. I loved reading. And I remember I used to even read like books for adults, because any book that was around at home, I will just, you know, read it. Including the Bible. So even though I grew up in a Christian household – so both my parents believe in God – we never really started to go to church until maybe I was 10 or so. And that was when my grandma came from Nigeria and realised that we’re spending Sundays at home just chilling.
Elizabeth
She was not impressed!
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Oh no, yeah. But I think I found my faith way before then. And it was because, you know, I was picking up the Bible, just by being a curious, you know, avid reader as a kid. And I always kind of like felt that God was real, and a huge kind of sense of like love from God as well. And even when it came to Easter, I would have watched the crucifixion of Jesus on, you know, on TV, and I would cry my eyes out. When they would crucify Jesus, I was like, “Oh, why? He’s such a nice man?” And I’ve had like supernatural experiences, even when I was a kid. So from a very young age, God has been very real in my life.
Elizabeth
What are your mom and dad like? I guess, what were they like, when you were a kid?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
So, my dad was kind of like the traditional – I guess you can say stereotypical – Nigerian dad who, you know, wanted me to face education, to grow up to be a lawyer. Yeah, his mantra was always “books first, play later”. My mom on the other hand, she was very quiet. She worked for charity. And, you know, later on in life, I did actually work for a charity in the third sector for 10 years, and I think my love for the third sector came from my mom and going to fundraising events with her, sometimes going to office and seeing what she does at work. So yeah, she’s that very nurturing and very caring and a very good listener as well.
The need for diverse stories and the divine call to become an author
Elizabeth
Tell me about when writing came into your life? When did it become clear that you weren’t just going to consume books, that you might actually produce some?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
So again, back when I was a kid. So, as well as reading, I loved writing, and I was heavily influenced by authors such as Jacqueline Wilson and Malorie Blackman, who are like children authors, and I loved their writing style. And I remember just like spending my free time just trying to write a novel. And I think my first attempt of writing a novel was when I was maybe nine or 10. So yeah, I had a love of writing since then. But then it kind of stopped when I went to college. I didn’t get back into it until my early 20s, you know, and that was because at that time I was kind of feeling pressured by my mom to settle down, and so decided to write like some of my experience into what turned into a short story.
Elizabeth
I want to ask, you know, one of the things I’m really interested in is how we learn to understand each other better across these deep divides – that maybe do really exist, I don’t know – but that we certainly create in our minds, in our labels, through our tribes, you know. People listen to The Sacred from all kinds of different positions, on politics on religion, and there’ll be some people listening who are like, “Oh, she’s a Christian, and I’m not. I don’t know if I can connect with her.” What do you think the role of stories is, maybe particularly novels, but stories in general? What do they do, in terms of how we can engage with each other?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I think stories are great in terms of like, reflecting people’s experience, which is why I feel like stories need to be as diverse as possible and reflect different sectors of society. I also feel like stories can unite us as well. So even though you know, in my book, Yinka is a Christian, she’s of Nigerian heritage. She goes through things which many people go through, which is, you know, the pressure to settle down, and feeling unworthy at times, and whether she’s worthy of love. And these are all kind of like, universal, relatable themes.
Elizabeth
Yeah, it’s really noticeable in your book how there’s this sort of rom–com trope of like, “I’m single, I need to find a date by a wedding”, you know, that gets flipped to be about self–love. But it’s familiar enough, lots of people call it the kind of Bridget Jones theme. You know, there’s other narratives and stories that readers can peg it to. But then there’s the specificity and the particularity of the kind of Nigerian heritage community in South London. And honestly, I live in Peckham, I go to church with a lot of kind of Nigerian heritage Christians and I came to this book thinking, you know, this is so embarrassing, but like, “Oh, I’ll be really familiar with all of this”. I learned so much! I was just like, so interested and stimulated by that kind of just like the picture of a world. A world that intersects with mine, literally on Rye Lane over there, but also doesn’t, you know, because we all so tribal in our little bubbles. How much kind of the character of Yinka as a single woman getting all her aunties saying, “When are you gonna get married?” You know, “Where is Your Huzband, Yinka?” lead? And how much was actually “I want to tell a story that has a heroine who is a Nigerian Christian, and I don’t see that many of those around”?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
So I think initially, it was kind of like, writing a story, it was a chance of me to have a cathartic release. Because I was kind of in that pressure, you know, from my mom to find a husband. She wasn’t as bad as Yinka’s mum, like she didn’t pray for him in public, thank God. But I did kind of like doubt whether I would ever find love. And so initially, it was just a way for me to kind of like, you know, write those feelings into a short story, and also make it quite funny and witty, to kind of help take the pain away, I guess. But then the more I started to write, and the more I became invested in Yinka’s story, the more I saw the potential of it as well. And also how it can be life changing for many people in Yinka’s shoes who have been that way. And so it became a calling. It shifted from a fun thing to do to “okay, I feel like God wants me to write this book. And I feel like it can make a huge difference to a lot of people in the world.” And, you know, it’ll take me 5/10 years. I just have to write it, you know, regardless of the timeline. And, yeah, I just kind of felt like it was my divine calling to write this story.
Handholding readers and reactions to a Christian celibate protagonist
Elizabeth
Just to stay on the kind of pack of Nigerian life for a minute. How much did you feel you had to handhold readers who might not be so familiar? And part of my question is, I’ve been reading Jendella Benson’s ‘Hope and Glory’ on your recommendation, which I also really loved. It’s so good! But I felt like I was sort of zooming out a bit to think about the craft of the storytelling and how much you kind of define some terms, or explain how people are using words that the reader might not have come across, or things like that. In the drafting, did you kind of have to go in and out of various different levels of handholding?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah, because I feel like, initially, I was doing a bit of telling, but I think I was unaware that I was doing that. So I wasn’t doing it because I felt like, “Ok, I need to explain what this means to non–Nigerian or non–African authors. It was more so I hadn’t yet developed my writing skill to a certain level. So, you know the whole like ‘golden rule’: “show, don’t tell”? I was still doing a bit of like telling. And the feedback I got from an early reader was that you’re over explaining some things, including, you know, some Nigerian culture references. So when it came to revising, I had to kind of like remember who I guess who my ideal reader is, which is, you know, a dark–skinned woman, who is of Nigerian heritage, or is Black British, and is basically going through what Yinka is going through. So I kind of had to write the entire story to that person, and try and be as authentic as possible. Because I wanted it to feel like it comfort read, especially to Black women, because I remember when I was younger, I was craving for a romance book with a character like Yinka. And it was very hard.
Elizabeth
Yeah. And how clear was it that she was going to be a Christian, and a Christian who did not want to have sex until she was married?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I think I knew that from the get go. Because as well as not seeing many Black characters, Black women in fictions growing up, I also didn’t see a lot of like Christian characters, unless I looked at, you know, the Christian publishing area. And at first I was thinking of like going down that route that route, but then, I felt like Yinka’s story, it’s mainstream, and it’s universal. And, you know, the whole kind of notion of like, trying to find love is something that a lot of people can relate to. And also, when I did look at a few Christian publishers, they had quite strict submission guidelines. So for example, a few said that, you know, no steamy sex scenes or no swear words, and I didn’t want to hold Yinka back. I wanted her to be as flawed as possible. And I wanted her to make, you know, mistakes as well. And also, I wanted to kind of remove the stigma attached to being celibate, and being a virgin. And, you know, in society, sexual liberation is celebrated. And I want, you know, celibacy and virginity to be celebrated as well. And I want people to respect people’s choices, because I feel like, you know, a lot of people that I know as well are celibate, and they kind of don’t feel like they can be open about it, because it’s not, it’s seen as outdated. Or maybe they’re ashamed because of their age. And I don’t know, maybe they feel like they are too old to be a virgin. So I kind of wants to remove the shame from being a virgin.
Elizabeth
I literally, as I was reading it, I was like, gosh, I literally can’t remember reading a novel with a Christian protagonist, who is not in the midst of some kind of major faith crisis. And basically no longer a Christian by the end, full stop. Definitely a female–led novel, and a celibate female Christian protagonist for whom it’s just normal, it’s just part of her life. You know, she’s going about it. It just was enormously refreshing. And did the publishers get nervous?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Do you know what, I think they loved it. I think because it was original, and like I said, Yinka is a bit like Bridget Jones but she’s…
Elizabeth
Less shagging around.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah. Bridget Jones. I think the publishing industry are now more open to, like, more innovative stories with characters who don’t kind of like fit your cookie cutter archetype. I think they’re more open minded now. So yeah, they loved it. And even Viking, which is the imprint of Penguin, they made Yinka their lead title for 2022, which was mind blowing for me, but it just shows that you’ve come such a long way from where we were like 10 years ago.
Elizabeth
Yeah. Have you gone down the “Celibacy TikTok” rabbit hole?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I’m not on TikTok, so…
Elizabeth
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. I literally signed up because I was reading about this and it was too noisy for me. It’s too hectic. I can’t actually do TikTok. But I think probably part of what I bet the publisher’s instinct was is, there’s actually a really strong surge of Gen Zed, I think, coming through, some of whom for religious reasons, but a lot of them not, who are like, “Maybe I want to have a slightly different approach to sex. Maybe.” There’s a celibacy phase. It’s now part of the self–love repertoire. “I’m doing self–love by not having sex.” It’s really interesting.
Colourism and the bias of beauty standards
One of the themes that comes through quite a lot is colourism. And I would say a big chunk of the listeners to say could be very familiar with colourism and what it is, but there will also be those who aren’t. Would you mind just saying a little bit what it is and how it plays out in Yinka’s story?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah, so in a nutshell, colourism is basically discrimination, mostly at the expense of like dark skin people. And it kind of stems from like, slavery and how those who were of fair complexion used to be like in the house with the slave masters and the ones with dark complexions were out in the field picking up cotton. And so it’s kind of like push this narrative that allied so you are, that the closer you are to being white, the better you are. And how it plays out society is that you have more privileges. So wherever that’s you know, gaining more roles in TV or seen as like, I don’t know, the kind of like picture of beauty. Yet, quite a few privileges come with that. And the way it plays out in Yinka is that because she is dark–skinned, she kind of like internalises some of the messages that she sees in the media. So, because she’s not seeing enough dark–skinned women as love interest in movies, or in music videos, she kind of wonders, “Maybe the reason why I’m single and struggling to find love is because of my complexion, because I don’t look like the picture of beauty in society, which is close to the Eurocentric standard of beauty.” And, for me, it was really important to kind of touch on this because I felt like, if I was going to have a protagonist who is dark–skinned, who has short, kinky hair, I need to not sugar–coat anything and also touch on some of the real trials that I go through. So for example, take Yinka’s mum. She makes comments about her hair. So, at one point, at the beginning Yinka has like short, kinky… her natural hair, and then she ends up changing it. So, she has that long, straight weave. And her mom prefers her hair long and straight and says, “Oh, now you’re beautiful again”, and it kind of touches on, you know, ‘texturism’, and the whole thing I said about “the closer you are to being white, the better you are.”
Elizabeth
Did you experience colourism in your life?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I did a lot of reflection when I was writing in Yinka. And I feel like I have, but I felt like I wasn’t aware. I feel like there have been incidences, but I wasn’t aware at the time. I do remember one time I was seeing one guy. And he kept on bringing his ex, and his ex was of a lighter complexion, and he kept on emphasising that. And I remember that I was thinking to myself, “Are you emphasising that so you can make me feel inferior?” Like, I wasn’t too sure why he kept on bringing up his ex–girlfriend, and also her complexion as well. So I remember like…
Elizabeth
Wow, that’s a really specific thing to bring into the conversation.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah, yeah. So I remember that’s how it that kind of crossed my mind. And I never did ask him why he did that.
Elizabeth
I gather that it does make a difference on sort of online dating. The research shows that people’s preferences play out in really unsettling ways, right?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Yeah. Even some online data in algorithms can be quite colourist as well, quite racist. So I think my husband said that one dating app that he went on, I think they had this kind of feature where you could like, see their “attractive people”. And they were all white people that didn’t show any person of colour. And it just shows, you know, how biased beauty standards are in society.
Elizabeth
My mind is a bit boggled by the idea that that could be a feature on a dating app. Yeah, like, “Here’s the real hotties over here. Press this button.”
Representation in publishing and the public service of rom–coms
And obviously, we’ve had this kind of huge boom in publishing really seeking out people of colour, voices of people of colour, in the last, say, five years, but maybe even more recently than that. How kind of hopeful/frustrated do you feel about the trajectory of us just getting more voices and more representation into the stories that we tell ourselves as a nation?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I’m feeling more hopeful. I love the fact that now, when I go to a bookstore… Like, before, it kind of felt like searching for a diamond, you know, trying to find a book by a Black author or with a Black person on the cover. But now, it’s easier to find those books. However, I still kind of feel like we still have some way to go because, you know… I can only talk about the rom–com genre, which is what I write. So, sometimes when I go into book shops, they’re still kind of dominated by white authors, and I still feel like they are the face of rom–com. And I’ve seen rom–com books by Black authors put in a different section. And like, “Okay, why couldn’t that be on a table with all the other romcoms?” And I feel like there needs to be… I feel like rom–com needs to kind of like open up in terms of what people expect. And it could be because… I don’t know what the reason is as to why they kind of split them into two different areas. But yeah, I just kind of want… Just because a story has a Black character doesn’t mean there’s a ‘Black love story’. It’s a love story, you know, full stop, and it shouldn’t be kind of excluded from the other rom–com books.
Elizabeth
Yeah, it’s that ‘universal on particular’ thing, isn’t it? That we sort of assume that the stories of white protagonists will be interesting and accessible to everyone, but that stories of other people’s voices are somehow only of interest to them. In the same way that I think women’s… Men are just like massively less likely to open a book by a woman, whereas women read roughly equal male and female novelists. There’s this kind of sense of like, “What is the centre of gravity? What’s normal? What’s neutral?” that we need to complexify a little bit, I think.
I’d love to hear just a bit more about the genre itself. We had Beth O’Leary on quite a while ago now. I had just a lovely conversation with her about – yeah, she’s a delight. She is exactly as you would hope. And we were talking about… You know, you’ve called them rom–coms. It’s really fallen out of fashion now, thank goodness, but for a long time, the term was ‘Chiclet’. Like, pink cover on it, or maybe a pair of high heeled shoes, and it’ll be like, you know, “a fairy tale: single woman finds her man”. And even – not even – much of the writing under that title is extraordinarily complex and psychologically rich and profound but was seen as ‘not literature’, you know, something else. And Beth talked about – I don’t know whether she’d still use this term – but she talked about… the phrase she really likes is “uplift”. This sense that… And it struck me that actually, your book falls [into that category] because there is a very strong romance thread, but it’s not dominated by a romance, right. It’s actually much more about kind of self–love and self–discovery. That it should be a valid thing to be writing stories that are deliberately uplifting, and you mentioned comforting earlier. Kind of the comfort of seeing our lives reflected, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re not good books, right. That somehow we equate great art with suffering. The cynicism and the dark side of life as a sort of peppy optimist. I’m really interested in that, and why we do that, and why joy and comfort and silliness are somehow unserious. Do you see what I’m getting at? I’d love you to just pick up my conversational baton.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
I don’t know maybe there’s this kind of like belief that they are easier to write and they are quite fluffy, and it doesn’t take the same kind of like emotional intelligence. But I think writing a novel, you know, regardless what genre you’re writing, it’s difficult, full stop. And you know even, I’m writing my second book, and it’s been such a roller coaster. And I feel like nowadays, with rom–coms, they kind of like show a wholesome story, and by that I mean that it’s not like you said, the focus not just on the romance, but also like other aspects of the protagonist’s life. So whether that’s their family life or their career, or maybe like, touch on mental health, or grief or… You know, there are so many like themes that rom–com authors are touching on. And to also be funny as well, because we can’t forget about the comedy side as well, it’s very difficult. So I feel like we need to get more of a break. And yeah, more respect as well.
Elizabeth
Yeah, it feels like a public service sometimes, a book that can make you think and make you smile is literally a great gift. And very few things make me happier. You have had one of those kinds of ‘fairy tale in itself’ sort of debut novel, enormous success. It was Malala’s Book of the Week at one point. What’s been the emotional journey of that? And how much do you now feel kind of responsible to use the voice and the platform that you have in a particular way?
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
And I think what I found the most kind of like heart–warming, is when people reach out to me, whether that’s via DM or via email, and say, “Thank you so much for this book. Not only did I enjoy it, but it resonates with me.” Like, “I’ve never seen a book like this. I am Yinka. Thank you so much for representing people like us.” So when I get these messages, I feel like: okay, I do have a duty to kind of like write stories which are relatable, and not just entertaining, but has like a deep kind of core message that can really like, touch people. So yeah, I do feel like I have a bit of a duty now.
Elizabeth
Lizzie, thank you so much for speaking to me on The Sacred.
Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Thank you so much for having me.
Elizabeth Oldfield’s reflection on her conversation with Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Elizabeth
So, Lizzie just comes across as such a sweetheart. The fact that when I asked her what was sacred to her, it was manners. You know, being sort of so polite, that if someone gave her money to not say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, she’d feel terrible and have to go round afterwards and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. It just really made me laugh, that kind of sweet attentiveness to the people around her. It’s really interesting talking to Lizzie about this book which has been really very well read, and very well read both by people who, like Lizzie have a Nigerian or a Black British heritage, and were just so hungry for stories in which they could see themselves. Lizzie talks about, you know, wanting to tell the kind of stories where Cinderella is Black and no one bats an eyelid. You know, it’s not ‘Black Cinderella’, it’s just Cinderella. But also by people like me, who just really love rom–com. And I think that attests to what she said about finding something in common and, you know, wanting to love and be loved is surely something that the majority of the population have in common. It really helps us enter a world that might not be our own. I was thinking the other day. I’m going to I’m going to say this, even though I have deep internal resistance to saying it because I think it’s going to make some of you take me less seriously. Part of my kind of egoic self–projection is I want people to perceive me as smart. And we have certain signifiers for what smart is, but also part of my spiritual growth is leaving that behind and just trying to be myself in in public and private. So I’m going to tell the story, which sounds incredibly cheesy and twee, but emotionally really helped me understand why representation matters. Because I think it’s hard for those of us who have seen themselves in pictures and magazines and billboards. You can, in theory understand why representation matters, but not feel the weight of it. And someone shared a meme on Instagram that was Disney characters, Disney heroines, redrawn to have normal women’s bodies. And there was one that looked like me, and I thought, “Oh, this is the first time I’ve ever seen that. Someone who’s a normal shape and size and not the villain in a story.” And even as I felt sort of weirdly comforted and dignified, I felt embarrassed because it was a Disney character. I thought, “My goodness, you’re a nearly 40 year old woman you should have grown out of this need to see yourself in the world.” An emotional reaction to seeing yourself in the world. You know, seeing your own image normalised in the world. But honestly, I haven’t. I reacted to it quite strongly and felt really cheered by it. And that’s just an incredibly sort of tiny, low key moment for me of growing in empathy of why representation matters, why a range of stories matters. Why, particularly for people who aren’t a 39 year old overgrown child. It’s a way of loving our neighbours. It’s a way of seeking to dignify every human being – in my theological language, who has made an image of God – is increasing our range of visibility, increasing the range of who we listen to. And Liz is obviously a really big part of that. I was also thinking as I was listening to her.
And again, I sort of don’t want to say this, but I think it’s important. I, like a lot of White people over the last few years, have been kind of… I think we all have as a society [become] increasingly aware of race and the dynamics of race and the conversation about race and our history and legacy of racism. And I have been doing the thing that I think those of us who want to be responsible citizens and good neighbours, and listen to our fellow citizens have been doing, which is trying to educate myself and read books and understand and listen, and all those kinds of things. But I find reading nonfiction books on race quite difficult. It’s probably because I find reading nonfiction books on most things more difficult than I do reading novels. I am a story–oriented person. But also I think it is necessarily quite direct and uncomfortable. And some of that is important discomfort, it’s growth, it’s coming to an awareness of where things in society aren’t right that I’ve been blind to. And I kind of don’t want to just be sort of fragile and refuse to sit with some of that discomfort. But also in terms of my ability to learn and grow and be a better friend and a better neighbour to the people of colour in my life. It just didn’t feel like it was actually helping, I was just making me really tense all the time and nervous to talk about it, and second guessing myself, and I felt very overwhelmed. So I’ve done a different thing, which is just start reading lots of novels by people of colour. And if you also are finding educating yourself via nonfiction not as fruitful as you might have hoped, might I suggest either adding as a practice, or temporarily, or, you know, permanently replacing it with just reading a load of novels by people of colour. It definitely feels to me, like it’s actually helping me grow in empathy, rather than it being a ‘should’ thing that I’m beating myself over the head with that I’m not convinced was actually helping very much. But you may be very temperamentally different from me. Anyway, and especially when it’s a delightful rom–com like ‘Yinka, Where is Your Huzband?’ or ‘Hope and Glory’, and I love both of those because they’re set in my neighbourhood. But you will find ways into that, you know, huge wealth of literary treasure, fantasy books, poetry, whatever it is, if you are some White person who’s trying to learn and listen in that way. That’s what’s been helping me.
And finally, I thought a bit about rom–coms and what they are. And this question that I’ve spoken to Beth O’Leary about, like, why are they lower status? And honestly, I think it is partly because sometimes they are lower quality because they are commercial fiction. You know, publishers know literary fiction isn’t gonna make them any money so there was stuff they do publish, they really do believe in. Not very good commercial fiction can still make publishers money so I think we need to be a bit realistic that not all of it is very good, but a big chunk of it is really good. And the fact that it is comforting is interesting to me. I read rom–coms or romance for the same reason I read Golden Age detective novels. And I think it’s something to do with the contract that the writer has with the reader that you know. You know how it’s going to end. You know no one is going to die unexpectedly. I mean, in a detective novel, you do, but in a romance novel, you know no one’s gonna die unexpectedly. You know there might be dark themes, but the ending will feel like there’s some resolution. And the same thing with detective novels: justice will prevail in a detective novel. And in a world where it’s hard to believe that justice will prevail some of the time, in a world where it’s hard to believe that actually love is for everyone. Rom–coms and detective novels, maybe they’re escapism, or maybe they’re a way of re–narrating to ourselves a hope that has not yet been proved, negatively or positively. It’s a sort of antidote to a society that is always in flux, that is always more complex than we can all hold in our head, is often scary and disappointing. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. And I feel no shame whatsoever about reading some literary fiction, and a lot of rom–coms and detective novels.
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