Expanding the Choir: The Quest for True Inclusivity in World Literature
Written by Lizzy Y.
Rabih Alameddine, a Lebanese-American author, challenges, in his riveting opener to The Best American Essays titled “Comforting Myths,” what we consider to be world literature and asks the question that begs an answer now more than ever: who gets to talk? 2018, two years after Donald Trump became the United States president, followed an unprecedented surge of advocacy, plunging the world into “a time of greater inclusivity than any other” (5). A form of pushback against a presidency that diminished the voices of American people of color, conversation finally began to involve diverse voices of those other than the white male. The spotlight shifted on to the genre of world literature: a space for diverse cultures to tell their experiences as a person of color. Alameddine, however, argues that this space is not enough. Essentially, “more people are being allowed to talk [just] maybe not at the same volume, and there are still not enough voices” (5). Truly recognised world literature is far from ‘worldly’ because the most authentic of voices are silenced by the culture that runs world literature: the dominant West. Alameddine warns us not to bask in our most comforting myth: telling ourselves that we are more culturally competent than the average person by reading any world literature at all, even when the literature we do consume mutes the microphones of truly diverse authors from publishing their stories.
Alameddine begins by introducing the concept of the ‘other’ using Tayeb Salih, a Sudanese author, as an example. Salih received a Western education and “spent most of his life in London” which alone makes him “closer to an Englishman” in the eyes of the Sudanese (5). But he is Sudanese, correct? So circling back to the main question: is he allowed to talk? Yes, but only because he’s seen as an ‘other’ from both sides. He’s Sudanese, but just English enough to be the perfect bridge between the two; however, “no one on the other side gets to [talk]”, especially not the Sudanese (8). Even then Salih’s works are not widely consumed, but those who have claimed they know about Sudanese culture when they haven’t read a page of a book from a Sudanese who, unlike Salih, was born and raised and lived in Sudan. The narrative of being a diverse reader is appealing, so much so that we don’t dare step outside our comfort zone to explore the voices that make us truly well-read.
Alameddine further explores this, juxtaposing Chinese writers as an example. He describes Amy Tan, Yiyun Li and Mo Yan and their backgrounds: Tan who was born, raised, and currently resides in California, Li who was born in China but received an American graduate degree, and Yan who “is Chinese and lives in China” (6). So among these three, who gets to talk? You would think that when indulging world literature, we gravitate towards Yan, given his purely Chinese background. No. “Tan and Li are the only Chinese who are allowed to talk” because Yan “has been accused by the West of not being sufficiently anti-government” (6). Essentially, Yan is too Chinese to have the mic, but Tan and Li do, listed on the world literature list because they’re “safe, domesticated [and] just exotic enough to make our readers feel that they are liberal, not parochial or biased” — the perfect purveyor for our comforting myth (8).
While Alameddine’s argument is provocative and undoubtedly persuasive, I can’t help but question: what about my voice? I can read, write, and speak, my accent is native, and my mom reads from the same Asian mom manual that replaces verbal apologies with fruit on a plate. I have many things to say about growing up in a conservative Korean household. But would Alameddine disagree? I was born in Kobe, Japan and my entire education thus far has been from an American school in Singapore. Technically, Alameddine’s argument suggests that it’s time to give those ‘Korean enough’ the mic; but, I can’t say that sits right with me. I have the right to publish my experience, to voice my cultural experiences, and to qualify on the list of world literature because I know that my experience is unique to that of a white male. My voice is valid. But that’s not what Alameddine is arguing. Alameddine doesn’t write to invalidate my voice, Salih, Tan or Li’s. It’s not about muting one mic to let someone else speak; it’s about getting more mics so that world literature can finally be a choir of different songs — a rich album of cultures. Alameddine writes to urge us readers to also read the stories of a local Korean kid who has never left the country; he writes to warn us not to get too comfortable saying we read globally when in reality, being a global reader means indulging in perspectives we are completely foreign to, even if it makes us uncomfortable. So start somewhere, grab a book and take a seat -- just not for too long.
If you’d like to read the original essay that Lizzy responds to here, please click here.
