One of the books I’m reading is The Housemaids Daughter and I’m rattled.
…’privileged’ white woman writing from perspective of a black maid’s daughter.
I’m angry at myself for even buying the book. I was attracted by the colour and the kind of warmth it exuded. And I needed words to swirl in my head. Should have known when I saw the title.
Yes, it would have made a difference if author weren’t white because I believe people write from what they know; even if imagination is conjured to create.
However, there are things one cannot know, or fully understand, comprehend or feel the full spectrum of emotion they involve because of race. Seems simple but it is also complex.
Now am I really meant to believe someone who probably had a maid would understand being one? How can the author fully comprehend the life of a black maid in apartheid South Africa. One who lives having the inequality shoved in their face, their suffering being a way of life, or something as belittling as living in ‘maids quarters’ that are probably tinier than the garage. I cannot believe I’m going to give this book a chance.
But hey, The Help was a big hit. Maybe it’ll get better, or I’ll not feel the way I do, 7 pages in…
I wonder if I’m being racist.