I just finished Kate Clanchy’s book, Some Kids I Taught, and What They Taught Me, I’ve seen myself in it, have seen my students again, and while I fuzz out on British school terms like set and form, or Secondary Modern (that’s an Elvis Costello song!) or comprehensive, or council block, I found it bracing, lovely, and heart wrenching. I got sprinkled by the system powder of kid verse that sifted down through her lines. From Cheyenne mocking a real poet on a field trip, to Jason bashing his skull without pain against a wall, I favored her rawest kids, because I taught kids with special needs. What a great achievement Clanchy has pulled off: a legion of rough gem lives.
Now what was it exactly that caused the ruining of Kate’s career? Considering her sentence, she must have abused and violated huge swaths of feelings; who knows?
What did you do, Kate? How in the flaming witch hunt did you offend so many people? And how are you doing now? Between you and me, I know without knowing.
The book that tore publishing [insert feelings] apart — Gaby Hinsliff
Trust me, critic Amy Mae Baxter wasn’t hurt. She was mad. Huge difference. This article, long as it is in chronicling other cancellations like the one done to American Dirt, to set Clanchy’s book in relief, and allowing one defender into the article to speak, Phillip Pullman, then Clanchy herself, rattles off puny and flimsy crimes. Chocolate skin. Almond eyes. Somali height. Ashkenazi nose. So —king what? If kids talk about themselves and each another in these terms, a sharp author may do the same. I would argue, you don’t need a damn license if you know your subject. Just be credible. That’s all. Be good enough at characterization that your people are believable, and your piece is entertaining. If you’ve done that masterfully enough, a character’s skin color settles into the page like left-handedness, and the weather on the morning she walks through the door. If you sense that the author’s eyes or “gaze” (Oh my god how I hate that word gaze now), has lifted you off the page and into her head, and now you’re lost in fiction or dramatic non-fiction (whatever the hell they’re calling it this week) then goodness, she’s done her job. You will have done it, too. Not if you are writing about Flint, Michigan, and you’ve never been to Flint, Michigan. Stop that. You can’t. But if you worked with kids for 30 years, or like I did, 20 years, cool. I bet you know what you’re talking about.
As one who still doesn’t get what caused an uproar about my chapters on fictional school kids, for racism, for allegedly revealing protected identities or mocking disabilities, or having culturally appropriated urban dialect, for having played loose and ugly and disrespectfully with kids’ lives, I don’t get what Kate Clanchy’s capital crime was. Saying that, I am well aware that I’ll be grabbed and slapped again in virtual space: LISTEN TO HIM HE STILL DOESN’T FUCKING GET WHAT HE DID. Oooh, I’m shaking. They cannot substantiate a single racist, or disrespectful thing I said or wrote, so they gnash teeth and roll eyes wishing repeated violence on my home.
This ice age in art criticism needs to thaw now. I am hoping we are past it now. Artists will keep on disturbing others with loud, fresh, and problematic works, but honestly, social media land, grow up. You should be made of sterner stuff. This is one of the most sensitive books I’ve ever read about diverse kids. It’s sustained and expansive and critical of British education, and loving all at once.
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