Baldwin, Bruce, and Borders

When I found out that Borders was closing its doors for good, I thought about the abstract to my master's thesis. You think it could have been partially my fault? If so, I owe them one hell of an apology...one day.  ENJOY!

      

          One Sunday after church, I stopped by a local Border’s bookstore to purchase graduation gifts for a few of my students who accepted leadership positions in a college preparatory program I teach.  I thought of the many great pieces of literature I had read throughout my secondary and post secondary school years and decided they would be the perfect gifts for such promising young people.  Among these was my favorite book, If Beale Street Could Talk, by James Baldwin.  Forgetting that I was not in Barnes and Nobles, I headed for the section of the store marked “Literature.”  In Barnes and Nobles, literature of all kinds is alphabetized by author.  I was not in Barnes and Nobles, however, so when I went to the “Literature” section and didn’t find Baldwin among the “B’s,” I stood confused.  After spending quite some time making sure I wasn’t losing my mind or my grasp of the alphabet, I headed for the “Information” desk. 

            I waited my turn and asked a timid White teenager where Baldwin might be.  He pointed to the right and said, “In African-American literature, ma’am.”  After recovering from the initial shock of appearing old enough to be called ma’am, I followed the direction of “junior’s” bony finger until I found the small secluded section marked “African-American Literature.”  I stood appalled.  Literary geniuses like Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Morrison were intermingled with titles and cover art depicting sex, drug use, “street life,” and tired clichés.  Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Invisible Man sat next to The Rolexxx Club, The Bitch is Back Part 3, Forever a Hustler’s Wife, and Gold Diggers.  In addition, a nice black sign that read, “Titles may contain mature content. Parental supervision advised,” graced the shelves. 

Did the sign African-American Literature mean literature written by Black writers or for Black readers?  Was the store organized in such a way that only those seeking insight into Black America would congregate around this section?  If that is so, is this how mainstream American culture views Black America – mature content and explicit topics?  My dismay quickly became offense.  African-Americans, a heterogeneous racial group in America, are marginalized by greater society, which is no new news to me.  The reach of the marginalization, however, is offensive.  Our literary classics have not been wholly adapted into American culture; in many markets, we still reside on the fringe of literature because of the hyphenated tag “African-American.” 

            Why, in 2008 and among the mounds of academia that many Blacks have contributed to American culture, is this still so?  Will Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Wright ever be officially canonized into American literary culture and placed into the “Literature” section of every bookstore beside other classics?  There is a difference between Baldwin and Zane, an African-American New York Times Bestselling author.  Their Black skin should not bind them together on the shelves.  Could it be that the mainstream culture’s view of African-American culture is so strong that it influences members of the Black community to ignore the sector of African-American literature that does not reinforce the widely-accepted, pre-conceived notions held therein?  Or is it that African-Americans create the perfect context for marginalization by embracing the stereotypical attributes of their culture instead of the meditative, speculative legacy of their rich literary and academic culture? Unfortunately, I believe the latter. I left Borders with a heavy mind and burning desire to figure out how such a travesty could be allowed to occur in a community known for fighting for equal regard, treatment, and consideration in this country?   How could popular African-American literature moved from the infinite realms of thought in intellectual arenas to the finite circles of book clubs? How could we allow it?