When I ventured into the “Diverse Stories Around the World!” section in the bookstore, one book immediately caught my eye: “Lady Tan’s Circle of Women.” It had a beautiful cover and rave reviews; a brief summary gushing about the book’s “incredible depth into Chinese history!” and “breathtaking storyline of Chinese female physicians” was placed on the side. Seems like an interesting read, I thought. Perhaps my father, a history nerd, would enjoy it.
I turned the book over, curious to learn more … and a white woman stared back at me! Immediately, I recoiled, shocked by the appearance of a white-passing author for a Chinese historical fiction novel. I later learned that the author was actually one-eighth Chinese and had spent her entire life fascinated by her heritage — but this discovery didn’t change the jarring feeling of surprise at seeing a presence so unfamiliar it seemed almost foreign.
Why did I feel this instinctive sense of wrong-ness for an author of a novel I had never even read? Although “Lady Tan’s Circle of Women” made no promises whatsoever regarding its author, I had implicitly assumed that the author was one of “us,” a full presenting Asian-American — and when I witnessed her whiteness, I immediately felt on the defensive. The answer behind my inexplicable overprotectiveness involves a long history of debate regarding the separation of art from the artist, made all the more contentious with the emergence of political partisanship and identity politics into the mainstream.
As communities of color began reclaiming their own voices through writing books and creating their own art, the moral dubiousness of having a white speaker became increasingly awkward. After all, there is ample evidence throughout history to show how white authors have commandeered the stories of people of color for their own benefit. Infamously, “Memoirs of a Geisha” was written by a white man who sold nearly four million copies — all while deliberately misrepresenting the true account of an actual Japanese Geisha. When researching for his book, Arthur Golden purposefully chose to frame the “Geisha” occupation as a heavily fetishized narrative of Japanese women, still contributing to stereotypes of Asian women today.
However, the true moral debate arises if we consider a universe where Golden didn’t choose to warp the narrative to his benefit. Would his book still be ethical if he did properly represent the people he wrote about? If the art is considered objectively good, does the identity of the artist matter? On the other hand, if a Japanese woman had written “Memoirs of the Geisha,” does that guarantee that she would have represented the culture properly? Although it is undoubtedly beneficial to have a member of a community represent the community, should we require all authors to have to go through the exact same experiences they write about in their books?
“Yellowface,” by R.F. Kuang, tackles similar themes of authenticity and authorship. When a white woman steals a book on Chinese history written by her Chinese friend and passes it as her own, she faces obvious ethical issues of plagiarism — but whether what she does is actively racist is the true issue. Kuang’s heavily flawed protagonist makes the argument that all writers are naturally vampiric; they suck the blood out of other people’s experiences to write about and profit off of. In the end, does the actual racial identity of the writer matter? Although Kuang’s main character is heavily satirized and her actions purposefully despicable, parts of her argument reflect real frustrations.
On the other hand, what happens when the imbalance flips and people of color write about white people? Hanya Yanagihara, the acclaimed author of “The People in the Trees” and “A Little Life,” has so far exclusively written about white gay men. Her personal identity as a Japanese woman has made minimal impact on her characters and she has stated in her interviews that talking about being a woman has never interested her. People have accused her of fetishizing gay men or hating her own identity, but others have argued that by assuming she has to write about herself, people are once again tokenizing the experiences of people of color. Ultimately, when the power of narrative shifts, are authors of color able to report on stories that have nothing to do with their own identities? If yes, is it unfair to blame white authors who do the same?
In the end, even after writing nearly 800 words on the moral quandary it brought on me, I didn’t end up reading “Lady Tan’s Circle of Women;” in truth, I had spent longer researching the author of the book than actually understanding the content of the book itself. Perhaps my own actions reflect the inherent problem in the debate of separating the art from the artist — rather than having productive conversations, we are all much more interested in finding a target to blame.
