The message I received from the recent controversy over Bloomsbury ‘whitewashing’ book covers was that publishers market their books towards a white audience. No surprise there, but it does leave a bad taste in my mouth. They seem to think that a white reader won’t be interested in picking up a book featuring a black person on the cover, or will automatically assume that the book deals with issues such as slavery, segregation, racism, and so on. As a white reader, I find this highly offensive.
Taking a step back from how I feel about this on an emotional level, though, I have to wonder if they don’t have a point. If I see a black person on a book cover, what do I think the book is about? Honestly? Slavery, segregation, racism, and so on. In other words, if I’m not in the mood to read that sort of book, I probably won’t pick it up and read the blurb. Years of buying books has given me a certain sense of what a story is likely to be about based on its cover. Historical romance novels usually feature a lot of cleavage and heavage; thrillers frequently have a bloody image on their covers; and horror stories often depict a spooky house.
I’m convinced that the conclusions I draw about a book’s content when I see its cover are due years of conditioning through clever marketing. The arguments used for marketing books a certain way is that that is what sells, hence the preponderance of heaving bosoms and bloody knives in romances and thrillers respectively. But surely the marketeers predictions of what will sell and what won’t become self-fulfilling prophecies? If a reader has only seen romance novels with cleavage, that’s the association they will make when shopping for books, even if they don’t actually like the covers. Similarly, if the only books published featuring black characters on the covers are ‘issues’ books, than that is what readers will expect the story to be about. The only way to change readers’ assumptions is to change the way books are marketed. It might take a while, but eventually readers will come to have different expectations when they see certain things on book covers.
One example – and isn’t it sad that I can only think of one example – of a black author with gorgeous covers is Dorothy Koomson. Here are a few of her books:
What assumptions do you make when looking at these covers? Do you think, say, The Chocolate Run, is about racism and segregation? That’s certainly not the message it conveys to me. Yes, racism comes into all of Koomson’s books, however peripherally, as it is part and parcel of being black in a predominantly white society. But her books are about so much more than that, and the issues they explore could apply to any one of us, no matter what skin colour we have.
Another thing which strikes me about these book covers is that the cover models are quite dark skinned. So often black models used on books are fairly light skinned. When faces are shown, the models’ features are often as close to white as it’s possible to get. In contrast, the covers of The Chocolate Run and Goodnight, Beautiful actively draw attention to the darkness of the skin through the use of brightly coloured clothing.
The first of Koomson’s books which I read was My Best Friend’s Girl, a 2006 Richard and Judy Book Club pick. I initially thought that her gorgeous book covers were the result of her success following her book club selection. According to her website, however, My Best Friend’s Girl was already a bestseller before the book club selection was announced. In other words, the cover chosen had nothing to do with the exposure given to the book by Richard and Judy.
So are Dorothy Koomson’s book covers the exception that proves the rule? Is there less whitewashing of book covers in the UK? Why can’t more publishers follow suit and create beautiful covers featuring black people for books which aren’t focused on racism? What can – or should – readers do to encourage publishers to change the way they market books?
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I bought My Best Friend’s Girl (used) and the cover is bright turquoise with two pairs of empty red-and-yellow argyle Wellies in adult and kid sizes. It’s colorful, but there are no humans. The back cover blurb doesn’t tell me what race(s) Adele and Kamryn are. It’s a Bantam Discovery Book (“Only $5.99″) and presumably printed for the US market.
Here’s my problem. When I went to law school, I lived in an off-campus apartment building. One of my classmates, a black woman, lived in the same apartment building. I recall having a conversation with her about snap-judgments that people make about others based on how they look. I told her I’d talked with a short (5’5″ maybe) male colleague who said he could tell people were judging him based on his height the moment they met him. I felt the same way as a fat woman.
(Incidentally — I would argue that shortness in men is like fatness in women. They are both disadvantageous conditions. Yes, there is a sense that I have “let myself go” because I’ve “allowed myself” to get so fat — all that lack of willpower crap is missing from the judgment of men as short. But both conditions are immediately visibly obvious and suggest something well off the target for human attractiveness. By contrast, fat men and short women are judged a lot less.)
Back to law school — I tried to suggest that as a fat woman, my experience was something like being black. My classmate — not inappropriately or unreasonably — told me I was full of it. There was no way I could understand what it was like to be black in the US.
And she’s right. So when I see black people on the cover of a book, I don’t think the book is about slavery or racism, I assume it’s about being black. And I don’t know anything about that. So I might want to read the book to get educated, or I might not want to read the book because I’ll feel like I’m eavesdropping at a party to which I wasn’t invited.
So: although I went to integrated schools throughout my education, and worked for and with people of color, I still think that blacks are entitled to have experiences that are uniquely theirs, TV shows that speak to them in ways they don’t speak to me, and books that reflect their lives, not mine.
And black characters on the cover of a book suggests, reasonably or not, that the book was written for an audience I don’t qualify for.
P.S. Based on your recommendation, I’m sure I’ll love My Best Friend’s Girl.
@Magdalen: “And black characters on the cover of a book suggests, reasonably or not, that the book was written for an audience I don’t qualify for.”
Do you think that conclusion is based on how you feel, or is it the result of marketing? Perhaps it’s because I’ve always lived in places where the non-white community is very small but it’s never even occurred to me that a book might not be aimed at me simply because I’m white. When I see black cover models, my immediate assumption – unfair though it might be – is that it’s an ‘issues’ book, but I don’t think it’s a book which I’m not supposed to read based on the colour of my skin.
I agree with you that non-white people are entitled to their own TV shows, books, and so on, but it must be very frustrating for authors who write books with mainstream appeal who find themselves shoved into the African American section, or whatever it’s called outside the US, merely because they and/or their characters aren’t white.
I find it very interesting that the US cover of My Best Friend’s Girl is so different to the UK one.
“So I might want to read the book to get educated, or I might not want to read the book because I’ll feel like I’m eavesdropping at a party to which I wasn’t invited.”
I’m not saying this is the same (because different forms of discrimination and prejudice have different histories, different ways of manifesting themselves etc), but imagine you’d written a romance novel about an overweight American woman and I said “oh, I’d only read that book if I wanted to get educated, or I might not read it at all because I’d feel like I was eavesdropping at a party to which I wasn’t invited.” How would that make you feel?
Wouldn’t you feel like I was saying that there’s something so different about people like you that I couldn’t relate to them without being “educated.” And if something’s published, and then sold at major booksellers, doesn’t that suggest that it’s being aimed at everyone? What further invitation does a reader need?
“And black characters on the cover of a book suggests, reasonably or not, that the book was written for an audience I don’t qualify for.”
I’m not American but I watch films and read novels that feature Americans (regardless of their race and ethnicities). I’m not Japanese but I watch/read Japanese films/novels. I’m not – according to people around me – white, does this mean when I want to be educated, I read ‘white’ books?
I don’t quite understand why ‘white’ people feel that way, to be honest (aside the conditioning), because it doesn’t explain why non-white people read ‘white’ novels and watch ‘white’ films. If they could, why can’t white people watch non-white films or read non-white novels?
I feel that each time a person says they don’t feel they should read something they aren’t familiar with, they are saying, “I do relate to characters so if they are not white, I don’t want to know because I don’t want to be non-white. There’s no fun in being non-white.”
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“I agree with you that non-white people are entitled to their own TV shows, books, and so on”
I disagree. Twenty years ago, yes because the markets were overwhelmingly ‘white’ that it can make us feel alienated and alone, and that there was no place to ‘breathe’ (I stole this from someone because I think it’s fabulous), but today? No. Most countries are multicultural, and have been for a long time, and it’s the entertainment that is unwilling to recognise that. Sure they are changing, but it’s slow. And it’s mostly to do with economics/money.
I mean, during those “good ole days” non-white people were blatantly discriminated against, which meant they didn’t have jobs with good or fair salaries, which meant there was no money in non-white markets, so let’s focus on white markets where the money would be. Hence all the efforts in marketing products at the potentially most profitable market (read: middle class/white collar, white, educated families) in the 20th century and onwards.
All that changed when, thanks to many legal moves between the 1980s and now, non-white people were given fair opportunities in education and employment, which means they have the money to burn. But most sectors of the entertainment – especially advertisers – are still not letting go of the 1950s-era research data: white people have the money and non-white people don’t.
This is a rushed comment, sorry, but that’s the gist of my views.
@Maili: I should clarify that comment with “if they want them.” I honestly don’t see why non-white people would want an exclusively black cast in a TV show, for example, but then I don’t understand why a white person would want an all-white cast, either. On the other hand, if non-white people want a show which speaks specifically to them, I guess they’re entitled to one as so many popular shows feature a white cast with a token non-white character, usually in a secondary role.
@Sarah: I attended a conference some time ago (about 11 years ago?) where a representative of a US television broadcaster revealed that if a show had more than two “ethnic” regular characters than it started out with, the ratings drop. Put in another, the ratings drop a little further.
That’s, he implied, the reason why most ‘white’ shows have only one or two non-white regulars. Especially those that started out with multicultural casts. When advertisers demand higher ratings, producers eventually kick off or kill non-white regular characters to improve the ratings in order to sell advertising space at premium prices. And most times, it worked. He believed that that was why most capitalised on having largely white cast with a token ethnic card in mainstream shows, especially daytime drama and prime time crime drama. It’s rather sad to note that the speaker’s observations still stand today.
Look at ‘Lost’ as the latest example. As for wanting an all-white cast? Desperate Housewives, anyone? Friends? Six Feet Under. 24 (I have loads of problems with this bloody series, but let’s not go there!
). House. Firefly, Farscape, etc.
This don’t represent the multicultural society, which is why I feel the under-represented and conditioning issue will continue for as long as television keeps peddling all-white regular casts as part of their pursuit of high ratings. I have a problem with the ratings itself as well as its system is flawed and rather inaccurate, but that’s another issue for another day.
I’ve obviously simplified all that, but you get the idea.
I was talking to my mom a few nights ago about cover white washing, and she basically said exactly what you just did–she would never buy a book with a black person on the cover, because she would just assume it was all about slavery or civil rights or the like. To use her words, “They have their own books and that’s fine, but I don’t want to read them.” I was kinda shocked, to be honest, but I think part of her attitude definitely stems from the sixties when a lot of the African-American literature (one might say all) did concern itself with civil rights issues.
When I picked up My Best Friend’s Girl I didn’t even notice that the adult was black on the cover. It was only after I got to a certain scene that I realised, because up to that point in the novel the race of the characters didn’t really matter. Later in the book, yes, the racial issues were raised, but not up to that point. Now I look at it and wonder how I missed it, but I am so glad that I didn’t end up with the generic cover that this book had in the US.
Now Koomson is an author that I go out of my way to read every time a new book comes out.
Laura — There’s a point in this discussion when you will either trust me when I say I wasn’t raised to be prejudiced with regard to race, religion, sexual orientation, etc. (If my parents were anything it was just a bit sexist: the standards for my sister and me, while still emphasizing education and professional development, were distinctly more marriage-oriented than were the standards for our brothers.)
My junior high school and high school, while racially and economically integrated and thus seemingly removed from the issues of busing in the late 60s and early 70s, were still socially stratified. White kids were friends with white kids, black kids were friends with black kids, and I wasn’t friends with much of anyone. (No boo-hoo about that, btw. Mostly the result of my weirdness, the fact that I lived in a historic district with few other kids at my school, and being fat — in that order.)
But I didn’t really attempt to bridge those social and racial divides until law school, and by then (mid-90s) it didn’t seem possible. It made sense that the black students hung out together. I could be friendly with them, but there was a lot about their situation(s) I didn’t understand. Maybe my mind wasn’t open to it, but maybe my mind couldn’t be open to their experience: You either knew it or you didn’t.
(And to Sarah & Maili — I would argue that the experience between blacks and whites in the UK isn’t entirely analogous to the situation between whites and blacks in the US because of the legacy of slavery, racial discrimination, and the resulting economic consequences. In fact, I wonder — without actually knowing! — if the race relations in the US aren’t more analogous to the nationalist issues between, say, Scots and the English, or Northern Irish and the English.)
As for a book about a fat heroine, I’ve seen it done. (Jennifer Weiner’s Good in Bed starts out great, but then gets implausible half-way through when — based on what I know of the author’s real life — Cannie stops leading a fictionalized version of Jen’s life and starts having completely fictional adventures and endings.) But it’s a tough sell in a romance. Either the resulting novel is a menage-a-trois with the hero, the heroine, and her bodysize, or the issue of her feelings about her body compete with the romance. If the romance wins, that suggests that all it takes for the heroine to feel good about herself is the hero’s love; that’s a bit demeaning, isn’t it? And if her feelings about her body win out over the romance, then it’s not a very romance-y romance.
And if she’s perfectly happy being fat and doesn’t have any issues with her body, then we get a couple sentences in Chapter One about how she looks and it’s really not mentioned again. In which case, it’s not a romance with a fat heroine, it’s a romance with a heroine who happens to have brown hair, blue-grey eyes, and is fat. In other words, no biggie.
But do I want to read a romance about a fat heroine? Not really. For me, personally, it’s distracting. A woman’s issues with her body size aren’t very interesting to me, and that she can fall in love and be happy because/despite/regardless of her obesity is okay but not particularly compelling.
Truthfully, I don’t think my own romances would be very compelling in fictional form: very happy endings, and the heroes are both lovely (if quirky) guys, but I think the heroine is too old and, yes, too fat to be worth writing about or reading about. Am I prejudiced against obese heroines? Yeah, probably. And here I don’t expect you to trust me. While I would argue that’s just the result of a surfeit of personal experience, I may well be prejudiced against women of size. Possibly because of the patriarchy…
“I wonder — without actually knowing! — if the race relations in the US aren’t more analogous to the nationalist issues between, say, Scots and the English, or Northern Irish and the English.)”
I really don’t think they are. There’s some prejudice in both directions between the Scots and the English, but you can find lots of English people living in Scotland, and occupying positions of power/authority. Similarly, there are lots of Scottish people living in England and occupying positions of authority (and that includes the Prime Minister and the Chancellor). There are no parts of Scottish cities which are known as places where English people live, and there are no parts of English cities which are known for being places where Scots live. Nobody that I can recall has ever commented on the fact that I’m Scottish and married to someone who’s English. No-one has ever commented that my child might have difficulties relating to both of his cultures, or that he might face prejudice because of his mixed heritage.
I’m not sure what you mean when you refer to differences between the “Northern Irish and the English” since both the Unionists and Nationalists tend to live in Northern Ireland.
“if she’s perfectly happy being fat and doesn’t have any issues with her body, then we get a couple sentences in Chapter One about how she looks and it’s really not mentioned again. In which case, it’s not a romance with a fat heroine, it’s a romance with a heroine who happens to have brown hair, blue-grey eyes, and is fat. In other words, no biggie.”
That’s how race is dealt with in the Kimani (Harlequin) romances I’ve read. The couple are both African American, but to paraphrase part of your quote, they’re romances with protagonists who happen to be African-American. In other words, no biggie.
I can understand that growing up some of us weren’t exposed to the issues/problems/joys of having a non-white or multi-racial background, you feel like you’re on the outside looking in, and better to refrain and not offend, than to attempt to participate and blow it.
However, if we’re to move forward to a much more integrated multi-racial society as whole, dialogue and reading has to be a part of it. Only if you understand can there be no sense of The Other. The Other-ing is what leads to misunderstandings and racial discrimination. How can you warm up to someone you can’t fathom?
I comprehend the Caucasian majority wanting to protect their turf (emotional, social, economical, etc.) from other racial minorities. Those minorities are also trying to protect what little they can grab hold of and reserve from the majority. This is instinctive (akin to sibling rivalry) at its most benign non-racist form. (Not talking about blatant racial hatred here.)
However, to even this gap between the haves and have-nots, the only way to do so is to communicate and go through the awkward “dating” phase of getting to know each other.
@Maili: That information doesn’t surprise me, unfortunately.
@Laura Vivanco: Is it easy to find Kimani romances/other non-white romances in bookshops in the UK? I ask because I have never seen them in Ireland. Then again, I haven’t lived there in more than a decade, so that might have changed. There’s also a very small number of non-white people living in Ireland in comparison to the UK, so perhaps that plays a role.
@Keira Soleore: “…you feel like you’re on the outside looking in, and better to refrain and not offend, than to attempt to participate and blow it.”
This is precisely why I hesitated to write this post, and why I’m wary about participating in discussions on racism in publishing/romance novels around the blogs. As a white person, there’s always the risk I’ll get it terribly wrong and offend people without meaning to. However, the alternative is to say nothing at all which only serves to exacerbate the problem. If people have an issue with whitewashing of book covers, segregation of romances featuring non-white characters, they should speak out, regardless of the colour of their skin.
“Is it easy to find Kimani romances/other non-white romances in bookshops in the UK? I ask because I have never seen them in Ireland.”
I’ve seen some in my local libraries, but not in the bookshops. The Kimani line isn’t available from M&B (neither are many other US Harlequin lines, including Harlequin American and the Inspirational romance imprints). The ones I’ve read came from the library or the Book Depository. There have been a (very) few romances with AA characters in other M&B lines (from memory I can remember this one).
@Laura Vivanco: Thanks, Laura. I’m surprised there aren’t more available in the UK. I wasn’t aware they existed until I started to follow blogs and shop for books online. I also don’t recall seeing any special section in Irish bookshops for black/Asian/non-white books in the way that Americans refer to having special sections in their shops.