Is travel writing literary colonialism?

Some of you may know I teach a travel writing course at Susquehanna University. Jenna Antoniewicz and I take US students to Tshani Village in the Eastern Cape, where they visit local people, make friends, and then write about their experiences using the techniques of creative nonfiction.

Judging by the course feedback, this experience was a pretty big hit with the students who went along. Going by the travel essays I read, the trip also provoked searching questions about self, culture, justice, and global citizenship.

And the Tshani villagers seemed happy, too. "So many tourists come here," said one woman, "yet you are the first to ever spend time with us and ask us about our lives." Another said, "I learned so much about American culture!"

In Cape Town, though, a relative who works in postcolonial studies seemed horrified when I told her about the trip.

"But are you going to theorize travel writing?" she wanted to know. What I think she meant with her question was: am I going to expose students to the academic critique of travel writing as a genre?

This critique can be stated crudely as follows: travel writing generally consists of white writers from wealthy countries going to poor, powerless communities and making the people and customs there sound intriguing and exotic, but also ignorant and inferior. This portrayal makes them seem needful of Western aid or leadership. Thus travel writing is "literary colonialism."

A crying child interrupted my conversation with my relative, and we weren't able to continue it very far.

"Lightly, and from a practitioner's point of view," was my response in the moment. If I'd had more time, I would have elaborated: I certainly think it's very important for apprentice travel writers to recognize the dangers of ethnocentricism. But as someone who loves this genre, I have to remain optimistic about travel writing's potential to build bridges and highlight inequality.

And I do. Even reading 18th and 19th century travel literature, I'm struck by the genre's diversity. You have slave narratives, exposing the evils of the Middle Passage. (Yes, I think reflection on forced travel counts, as do immigrant stories and business travel literature. It's in itself biased to restrict the genre to leisure travel).

You have a sexually ambiguous, aristocratic fop like John Boswell, floating around Europe in the 1700s, trying to seduce princes and, in the process, making gentle fun of his social class. You have Muslim travelers' accounts of Christendom, and the reverse. And among European travelers, you have everything from a gentle curiosity about non-Western cultures, all the way down to extremely offensive racism.

Some contemporary travel literature that you'll read in glossy magazines or see on the shelves of your local Barnes and Noble does condescend to rural people, Asian, African, and Latin American cultures, and so on.

But others offer powerful illustrations of global economic injustice, or of Western-funded human rights abuses: see The Shadow of the Sun, or almost anything by Ryszard Kapuscinki. Or Salman Rushdie's "Eating the Eggs of Love," about the Nicaraguan contras. The essays in Annie Dillard's Teaching a Stone to Talk invert the stereotype of a place like New York being at the "center of things" and make a piece of jungle in Ecuador "the heart of the world." Many more travel masterpieces have their moments of condescension and others of real, stunning critical insight. I think of the book I'm reading right now, Colin Thubron's Shadow of the Silk Road, which sometimes seems to look down on Chinese peasants with "broad faces," and at other moments writes about Asian culture with wondrous detail, sympathy, knowledge, and curiosity.

I also love books about America and Europe, written by outsiders. I enjoyed Jan Morris's Coast to Coast, about 1950s USA--written by a British trans woman, still pre-transition at the time. I'm curious about Naipaul's travels in the American South.

In short, to me it seems the "literary colonialism" label has a grain of truth to it--yet overall, it's really a terrible oversimplification of a very rich and complex genre.

What do you think? Do you like reading literary travel writing? Why/why not? What are some literary travel books that respect cultural difference? Which are some that fit the model of the exploitative objectifier?

Duck, Duck, Wild Goose?

I promised some more reflections on how Wild Goose Festival dealt with the issue of justice for sexual minorities. This is a very important question for Wild Goose. The four mottoes of the festival are "Justice, Spirituality, Music, Art." To me the order of those nouns wasn't coincidental: there was a lot of visible activism around justice and spirituality, and quite a bit of music, but not much art.

Justice was certainly prominent--water for Africa, abolition of the death penalty, prison reform. Here's where the trickiness comes in, though, for Wild Goose: this was still a Christian festival. Christianity, as we all know, has had some severe sexual hang-ups over its two thousand year history. For just a taste, try the rambling, all-but-incomprehensible incoherence of the opening of Paul's letter to the Romans, often used to bash gay people. It's obvious in this passage Paul isn't talking about LGBT people, but rather "idolatry." But can we be real for a minute? Even in these terms, on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd rate this guy's comprehension of ancient Greek religion and philosophy about a 2.5--a first-century equivalent of Joseph Conrad's characterization of African religion as "unspeakable rites."

Or listen to St. Augustine torment himself about how lust always ruins intimacy for him. I love St. Augustine as a father of Western autobiography, but this isn't exactly the definitive guide to healthy and loving sexual relationships!

Prominent among Wild Goose's sponsors was a magazine called Sojourners. As a perusal of their web site will make clear, Sojourners is passionately dedicated to celebrating diversity and fighting every example of cruelty, inhumanity, and injustice in the world--except that directed at queer people, who are conspicuously absent from their mission statement. I can only conclude that, for example, the recent execution of these gay men in Iran wouldn't strike Sojourners as an injustice worth fighting?

All of this said, though, I still felt welcomed and accepted at the conference, not just because of the stated commitment to inclusiveness, but also because I felt the center of gravity of the mostly young, cool, hipsterish social justice-supporting attendees was overwhelmingly pro-queer. When Tony Campolo, for example, said he believed same-sex eroticism was a sin because of the aforementioned Romans 1, the silence from the audience was deafening. Pro-queer statements, on the other hand, like my partner Peterson Toscano's call for 400 supportive clergy to come out next National Coming Out Day, got cheered. So I got the feeling emergent Christianity, represented by the attendees, was palpably shifting beyond the opinions of some of its intellectual founders.

I didn't agree with the opinion I heard that people like Campolo shouldn't have been allowed to proclaim their views, since the festival would not have allowed a speaker to state that black people were inferior. Having lived in so many different parts of the world, to me it seems that almost all progressive activism is context-dependent. For example, in the Madrid intellectual circles where I lived for a year in 2003, opposition to same-sex marriage was unacceptable, but the racist belief that Spanish Roma are essentially cultural nomads--non-Spanish, inclined to thievery, and unable to benefit from government housing and education routinely provided to white Spanish--was taken for granted. Organizing a "Wild Goose" in Spain would, I predict, see less homophobia than we saw in NC, but more racism. If all shades of anti-Roma views among Spanish speakers were completely unacceptable, they'd struggle to organize a Wild Goose-style festival and fill a roster with names well-known enough to fill the venue.

So in my own writing, criticism and activism, I approve of festivals that move the social debate in the right direction--on race, gender, sexuality, peace, whatever--depending on context, and not one that conforms to a rigorous and consistent, but abstract definition of justice. I thought WG did this--imperfectly, but still. I really liked the festival, and am grateful to its organizers for putting it on.

Wild Iris, Wild Goose, and other untamed experiences on book tour

So I’m back from the road. “Book tour” was the word that Peterson and I used to describe our two week trip to Columbus, Ohio; Richmond, Kentucky; Cookville, Tennessee; Gainesville, Florida; and Pittsboro, North Carolina. But given the news media’s complete indifference all the interviews my publicist and I proposed, it ended up feeling more like a road trip, with book events on the side.

I wasn’t chatting to radio hosts—I was floating down the Ichetucknee River in Florida, in a rubber tube, past live oaks and great white herons. I was catching up with old friends. Not maybe the best for book sales, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself!

Book-wise, my best event by far was at Eastern Kentucky University, where a crowd of twenty or so old friends and colleagues came out to see me read at the Crabbe Library. They were thrilled, enthusiastic, and bought lots of books. This response reminded me of the book marketing adage that there’s nothing quite like “connection” to bring people out to an event.

But the other, smaller events were interesting, too. At Westminster-Thurber retirement home in Columbus, a circle of about twelve or so old folks seemed entranced to hear my memories of lions and elephants. At Wild Iris Bookstore in Gainesville—apparently one of only thirteen remaining feminist bookstores in the US—I met Erica Merrell. She instantly became a hero to me because of her work trying to keep literary culture alive in the age of Youtube, Twitter, and Facebook. Who are these people, who love books so much they are willing to work for almost nothing to keep selling books, getting them out into the world? And at the Columbus Barnes and Noble, I met Stjepan, a retired gentleman who now spends most of his waking hours reading—and buying—quality literary fiction and nonfiction. He had read The Jack Bank based on its review in Publishers Weekly. I felt like I’d encountered a kindred spirit.

Then it was off to Wild Goose, the progressive Christian arts festival held near Pittsboro, NC. I had no idea what to expect. I’d never been to Greenbelt, the European festival that served as inspiration for this one. But I wanted to support Peterson in his performance, and I was excited about sharing my story with a new audience—that of “emergent Christians” with an interest in social justice.

About thirty people showed up for my reading, and I read the scene from The Jack Bank where I make my deposit in prefect John’s accounting notebook, where he records our beatings and offers us interest. I was a bit worried about freaking out my listeners with these recollections of mad sadomasochism, but they truly seemed fascinated, and I really loved reading it aloud and re-experiencing all the horror, love, and sadness I felt writing those. This section of The Jack Bank is really the “theological” core of my book, where I meditate on how easily and naturally evil comes to human beings. In other words, how deeply we always are implicated in the things we recoil from. I was hoping this piece would speak to an audience concerned with the big questions about life.

I think it did. They asked great questions about reconciliation in South Africa—I am more cautious in my support than most people imagine. They asked about the role of spirituality in my life journey. I wish they’d bought more copies of The Jack Bank, but I do understand that there was a great deal of competition for their book dollars that weekend, from people who are living legends in this movement. Folks like Richard Rohr and Peter Rollins, fabulous speakers, both.

I discovered new music at Wild Goose. I thought Christian music was supposed to be corny? But two new favorites, from the festival night stage: the moody, angry, charismatic Derek Webb, and the sublimely meditative David Bazan.

This week I teach creative writing summer camp at Susquehanna University. Next week I read at Friends General Conference in Grinnell. If I have another chance to blog this week, I’ll weigh in on the big controversy among my friends at Wild Goose, namely: By including gay and lesbian speakers like me and Peterson in a Christian festival, did Wild Goose strike a blow against what is arguably THE cardinal religious sin of our time, homophobia? Or did the effort to include everyone on this issue—from people who believed homosexuality was a sin all the way through to out-and-proud gay people—make a mockery of the festival’s proclaimed commitment to social justice, at least around the issue of sexuality?

Media events list, for the record

Peterson pointed out to me yesterday that I don't actually have links to my major media appearances--a violation of the cardinal rule of author blogs! For the record, almost all the media work I've done is on my web page under "Interviews and Articles." But for the record, I'm collecting some links here, too:

Here is PBS television's feature on my book and travel writing course. That made me feel like a small scale celebrity!

Here is the radio interview I did with WVIA Artscene with Erika Funk in Scranton. Erika was lots of fun, but I think I talked too much and for too long.

I have done a number of interviews that appeared in print, but some of my favorites were talking to Oronte Churm at InsideHighered and shooting the breeze with Nina Herzog at Lambda Literary.

Most of my reviews are, again, on my web page. Here is one of my favorites, though, that I haven't added there yet.

Last but not least, one of the most entertaining things I've ever recorded is this audio essay about taking middle-class American creative writing students to a rural African village.

Will keep all of you posted--quite literally!

Readings, and the road less travelled.

I've done a bunch of readings from The Jack Bank by now--five, to be precise, with more coming up. See my schedule on my web page. I love reading aloud from my book, and the interaction with readers is wonderful. I know this is going to sound schmaltzy, but I was almost moved to tears yesterday, when something like 70 people, most of them strangers, showed up yesterday to Congregation Beth-El synagogue in Sunbury to hear me. I felt just really honored and grateful.



But the experience of doing all these readings is getting me thinking about we writers, and how we try to connect with audiences. For most literary authors, readings mean bookshops and universities, period. And, fact is, I've loved visiting Virginia Tech, reading at my home institution of Susquehanna University, and reading at bookshops like Midtown Scholar and Atomic Books.

But so far, some of my favorite performances have been in "alternative" settings, especially religious congregations. There's a different flavor to this kind of visit. In bookstores--and, to a lesser extent, colleges--there's a certain sophistication mixed with literary jadedness. So many books, so many visiting authors, so little time! Whereas churches and synagogues are a bit like trading books for eggs at the Sunbury Farmers Market . One is visiting a group of people who don't read literature as a lifestyle, and as a result, I always feel specially privileged--and I feel that, if I make a connection with a reader, I'll perhaps be making a much bigger impact than I would in a traditional venue.

So, for example, at a Susquehanna reading, it's rare I read a visiting author's book within 24 hours of buying it. Yet since yesterday I've already received several emails from people at Beth-El who have finished reading my book and are recommending it to other people. Talk about a dream publicity gig!

This summer, I'm visiting Eastern Kentucky University, Barnes and Noble, and Wild Iris Books. But I'm also reading at Wild Goose Festival, Friends General Conference, and possibly some retirement homes. I'll keep you posted about how all of this goes, but right now, I'm betting that while most of all this will be tremendously enjoyable, some of the most distinctive memories I'll bring back from this book tour will be from places that don't usually get to hear from literary memoirists.

Don't make me a celebrity! Please, make me a celebrity!

It was one of the first things I noticed upon coming to the USA--celebrity culture. Not that the South Africa of my youth lacked magazines devoted to "uncovering" Rock Hudson's skinny-dipping locales and speculating about how he got HIV. Or less gloomily, counting Liz Taylor's diamond necklaces. But the trend was magnified on this side of the Atlantic. What I noticed was the sheer number of prime-time TV shows dedicated to Hollywood, not to mention trashy rags at the checkout counter.

And then there was the cult of personality about Nelson Mandela.

In the "struggle," we just saw Mandela as our "Comrade Leader." The battle to defeat apartheid was collective--the only thing we had on our side was force of numbers. But here, Mandela was seen as a charismatic Beowulf-style hero who'd single-handedly slain an evil monster. I remember Charlene Hunter Gault interviewing him on PBS, and Madiba telling her off several times for assuming democracy in South Africa was "his" victory. This difference seemed to epitomize a culture steeped in adversity, which promotes community, versus a more prosperous, individualized one geared more to mass entertainment.

But whether it's Jesus, Buddha, Prince William, or the Biebs, we seem to need people to exalt above ourselves. Today, South Africa is almost as celebrity-obsessed as North America. When it comes to Lady Gaga or Zac Efron, the amount of money and attention we pour on celebrities is staggering. Did you know that Beyonce made $ 84 million in 2009?

Which brings me to the current focus of this blog--the experience of publishing a first book. My publicist at my press told me the day he met me: "It's only celebrity memoirs that we try to get onto the big radio and TV shows." A friend--also a book publicist--explained, "If you want to sell books, frankly, the goal is to try to make yourself, as much as possible, into a celebrity." Of course, what she was saying was entirely relative. Even the biggest celebrity literary authors, like Dave Eggers, are ultimately small fry. But I think her point was that if I want people to read my words and get my message--if I want an audience for the stories which I worked so hard to produce--I need to be able in some modest way, to play the celebrity game.

Yesterday, WITF--the public broadcasting TV station in Harrisburg, PA--came to our Writers Institute building to interview me about my book and about the Travel Writing in South Africa course. In the big universe of celebrity-hood, it was nothing at all. Tomorrow, at 8 pm, a small news magazine program will broadcast a couple of minutes about me and my students to a central Pennsylvania audience. But still, the camera guy and anchor added a touch a glamor to our bookish surroundings. There were photo lamps; reflective umbrellas. It was fun to talk about teaching and writing, and as is so often the case, I was proud as can be of the Susquehanna University students when they got in front of the camera.

My friends, students, and colleagues didn't lose the chance to tease me about it, though.

"You're a celebrity now!" they said. "A hot shot! Obama will be inviting you to the White House!"

'No," I wanted to reply, echoing my erstwhile President, back in 1994. "I'm just an author!" Half my brain was going, "Shit, yeah! Barack and me, natural buddies." The other half, "Don't you dare call me that dirty c-word!" And of course, it doesn't need to be said that the whole idea was completely ridiculous.

I suppose the ultimate point to these ramblings on the topic of celebrity culture is that I'll take every little thing the world is willing to throw at me, in order to be able to live my dream. That dream is simply to create truth and beauty--emotional, formal, and linguistic --on the page. That's the passion that made me want to be a writer. That's my vocation, what the Italian essayist Natalia Ginsburg called--I'm quoting roughly from memory here--the thing that "burns away everything inessential."

If someone hands me $84 million--thanks so much! I'll buy a nice island and tower off the South African West Coast and use the beautiful solitude to read and write more. I'll donate the surplus to end corrective rape and support the education of young South African writers. Not that I'm holding my breath--but I'm just saying.


If the world hands me nothing at all, I'll write in whatever time I can carve aside.

Either way, writing and love of the people in my life--family, friends, students, colleagues, neighbors--are the two things I care most about.

I don't even think I'm kidding myself on this point. All of this book publicity stuff--successful or unsuccessful--is just a means to an end. All the rest is meaningless.

Miming memories and signing Kindles

It has begun... Readings galore! Two weeks ago, I read at Virginia Tech's creative writing program, at the invitation of Fred D'Aguiar. Then, last week, I read at Susquehanna University, where I work as a professor. Last Saturday I read at the beautiful, excellent Midtown Scholar bookstore in Harrisburg.

Many of the visiting authors we get at SU seem to struggle with performing their poems, essays, and stories. They write exquisite sentences, but struggle to voice them with the same feeling that went into them. I've always thought this had to do with writers being generally shy and introspective individuals, more comfortable alone with words than in front of a crowd.

Perhaps I missed my true vocation as an actor/performer, like my partner, Peterson Toscano? I doubt I have a shy bone in my body. This is probably an essential character trait for someone like me--an exhibitionist, er, I mean, memoirist! For whatever reason, though, I've always intensely enjoyed reading my work.

On stage I forget myself and get into acting out my story. At the SU reading, at one point I knocked on the podium to imitate a friend in the story knocking on my window. At another I mimed hunting through an invisible garbage can for tuna cans. I've always felt a bit self-conscious about how crazy I can get doing a reading. I feel clownish. Somehow serious literature should be more subdued, more dignified, shouldn't it? And I feel a bit like a fake. I won't say I prefer reading my sentences to struggling with them in my solitary study. Yet I do find reading much easier than writing, which is often an intensely pleasurable-painful struggle.

Do I lose points as a writer for laying it on thick from the podium? For not suffering from social anxiety disorder?

Then again, I love listening to audiobooks, and I have to say there's nothing like a skilled reader to bring out the beauty of, say, Eliot's Middlemarch. Also, according to my editor Elizabeth Beier, writers need to learn how to become better performers if they want to sell books through readings. Most authors sell very few books at such events.

The thing that most amused me at the three readings I did this week, though, is how apologetic several people were about me to sign their books. Are you kidding me? You shelled out $16 or more for my book, and you're embarrassed to ask for a signature? To me, being able to sign books is a tremendous privilege.

At the Harrisburg reading, I even signed a Kindle, using a special kind of glo-pen... it was "virtually" as good as signing a hard copy, with the smell of ink and paper and the heft of pages in one's hands.