As we claw for hope in a time of division, frustration and blurred truth, it is a growing necessity that we talk about race and identity. This topic, in my mind and those of many others, is a celebration of humanity and a direct means to expose underlying tensions and tightly-held biases. I have found, however, that for some — and I mean individuals from across a broad spectrum of identities — the issue elicits a visceral annoyance and discomfort, or even a compensatory show of guilt or shame which hurts the conversation, however well-meaning. There is an injurious perception that the discussion itself is impractical, and often I find that to some, stories of a different identity are not just a new sound, but a grating one.
I am woefully unqualified by all standards beyond my own experiences to draw conclusions about the reasons behind the varying reactions to stories of identity. In my own encounters, I have found that the challenges of sharing a story of identity occupy so many dimensions as to take on a texture of their own, filling and drying the mouth like cloth. And so we fall into parched silence, thirsting to be heard and to hear, or we speak and often fall short in factors like relatability, provision of context or the balance between conveying and complaining. Credence stands on quaking ground and meaning is tossed to the wind.
Enter Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a Nigerian writer and cultural translator who will unabashedly address the questions that dare to bubble at the base of your throat. In her novel, “Americanah,” Adichie speaks with frankness and finesse about different types of black identity, immigration, natural hair, interracial relationships and accent conformation, to name a few things. She gives a dignified, weighty voice to the burning and unspoken realities of minority life, like facing quiet skepticism when speaking about an instance of personally-directed racism. In its humor, honesty, heartening insightfulness and charming prose, Adichie’s writing is a balm, a solace.
However, the magic of Adichie’s writing is in more than its ability to make the minority woman or man feel heard. Rather, it is in her rhetoric. She writes eloquently but with little adornment, unveils the humor that accompanies grimness, and combats a reader’s aversion to what he or she may perceive as “hypersensitivity” or “self-pity” by instructing through situation and plot, a written means of “teaching by example.” What she accomplishes from this is the creation of familiarity and the establishment of trust typically reserved for someone the reader knows personally; she capitalizes on the human tendency to extrapolate the goodwill felt for a personal acquaintance to others similar to him or her. And in this way, she makes the reader listen.
Adichie’s rhetoric is, in the literal sense, exemplary; the reader is privileged to use it as a model for cross-cultural communication and as a guide for how to tell a tale that will be heard.
Contact Alizeh Ahmad at alizeha ‘at’ stanford.edu.