The Rocky Unpaved Roads of Good Intentions

          by Ibi Zoboi
               7.27.16

I write for children. I have the very best of intentions. This is a dream career and one that relies on altruism, empathy, love, and most important of all, respect. The same goes for parenting children. However, I am a smother. I have the very best of intentions to keep my children safe and arm them with the necessary tools to navigate life’s challenges. I am raising Black children. I have a tendency to hover, hug and squeeze for a moment too long, and shower them with wet kisses in public. But as they approach their teen and tween years, I have to step back and allow them room to breathe. The same goes for writing middle grade and young adult novels. I have to step back and allow the story, characters, and setting room to breathe. That book will go out into the world with wings of its own and fly, planting seeds in the hearts and minds of young readers along the way. And like parenting, this all begins with good intentions.

My children attend a wonderfully diverse progressive school where good intentions are woven into the fabric of the school community—from their social justice curriculum to their over-the-top parent involvement. The school has been lauded for their racial and socioeconomic diversity. However, the mostly white teaching staff and volunteering parents paint a different picture.

I am Haitian-American. I have family in Haiti who are often in need of money. Even in a country drowning in good intentions with its ten-thousand non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and constant stream of aid money, there are still those who have to rub two sticks together, as they say in Haiti, in order to make a buck. The shoe company, TOMS, launched an ad campaign last year where white twenty-somethings are shown frolicking through Haitian countrysides and beaches amongst laughing schoolchildren. THIS IS HAITI, they proclaimed.

My children’s school sounds like an ideal work environment for a young teacher of color—one that honors social justice work and educating the whole child. Yet, for whatever reason, the school seems to be in a perpetual cycle of “trying to find the right fit” when it comes to hiring teachers of color. And as for Haiti, there are Haitians who desperately want to work with these NGOs, not as noble artists in some equal exchange agreement, but as administrators with long-term contracts and housing benefits. However, as the TOMS ad suggests, humanitarian work is healing waters, warm island sunshine, and grateful, laughing children for outsiders only.

My husband, Mr. Z., is a public school teacher. He has good intentions as well. He has a deep well of patience, and goes above and beyond for his students, much like many of his colleagues. However, over the course of his twenty-year career, I've witnessed how time and time again, his deep connection with his students is sometimes seen as a threat. The evaluation often begins with, “You have a great rapport with the students, but…” As a Black male teacher, his good intentions come with risks. A recent Huffingtonpost video and article about his former school highlighted this dichotomy. A fellow art teacher, a white woman, was featured in the video, shedding a few tears and speaking of her love for her students and the many hardships in their lives. The video also showed glimpses of an art show that Mr. Z. helped to curate. Mr. Z. was not featured in the video. He could not have possibly shed a tear for his students and their hard lives, I suppose. In this case, someone else’s good intentions are held up as an example of excellent teaching, while Mr. Z.’s was simply “a good rapport, but…”.

This is the hierarchy of good intentions that reeks of White-Man’s-Burdenism. There is a self-perceived burden of doing something, making it right, and fixing things for the Other—that this Other cannot help themselves, even if this help comes from members of their own community.

Make no mistake, members of marginalized groups can also wear the cape of White-Man’s-Burdenism. In 2010, six months after the devastating Haitian earthquake, I launched a Kickstarter campaign to conduct a writing workshop for teen girls in Haiti. It was successful. I published a beautiful anthology of their poems. I reaped the rewards of my good intentions. However, toward the end of the workshops and my stay in Haiti, I had to step back and listen.

For many of the girls, it was not their first time participating in a writing workshop. Their schools have had poetry recitals and contests. Most importantly, those girls could not eat my good intentions. They could not use them to pay for school or uniforms or much-needed toiletries. I could not press cold-hard good intentions into their hands so they could go about living their lives after such tragedy. This workshop and resulting anthology was my own accomplishment. It was for my own healing and need to do something, anything. I felt duty-bound to give these girls a voice, but didn’t realize that they already had a voice. Their writing and thoughts exceeded my expectations. They didn’t need me to give them a voice. They had spoken loud and clear when I asked them what they wanted and needed: money and opportunities to make more money. My anthology and good intentions did not do that for them.

Recently, I spoke out online against this sort of well-meaning activism. Several fellow children’s writers participated in a Black Lives Matter initiative. Something didn’t sit right with me when I was asked to use the name of Alton Sterling, hours after his death, to offer critiques or ARCs of my novel in exchange for donating to the Sterling family or the Black Lives Matter movement. I had the visceral reaction that this was too raw, too soon. I asked that the founder consider removing the middleman and rewards, and have people donate to the family directly. As another fellow writer pointed out, it was a “mismatch of cause and activity.” But the initiative continued because, in this situation, direct action trumps mourning. The overwhelming need to “do something” supersedes quiet, reflective time to ask “wait, what is happening to us?” Good intentions outweighed perceived inactivity. 

With the recent criticism of e.E. Charlton-Trujillo’s When We Was Fierce, I couldn’t help but to wonder about this heavy burden of good intentions. When the discussion about the book was first brought up in a private Facebook group, I was at my agency’s retreat. Charlton-Trujillo was also there. I was one of two Black people at this retreat, and the only Black woman. My dear friends were very vocal about the problems in this book. And at times, I was within arms-length from the author. So we talked. I set the book and everything I’ve read about it aside to connect with the person away from screens and social media, to have a real heart to heart. The beautiful scenery and overall good vibes at the retreat begged for this sort of exchange.

After our conversation, I was reminded of the few times I had to approach some of my children’s teachers with, “I know you love your students, but this is problematic.” I truly cannot deny the author’s love, heart, and purity of intentions—it was all there. Having my children in progressive schools with mostly white teachers warrants that I rely on intuition—to feel a person out, connect with their heart, and gauge where their intentions may lie. And in most cases, this heart, these good intentions, are shrouded in White-Man-Burdenism—this need to save or help or give voice to without asking, “What is it that you want? What is it that you need from me, or how can I help you?”

I’ve learned this from my husband over the years. He’s realized that he’s a high school teacher, not a replacement father-figure to his students. He only listens without rushing to action, then asks, “What are YOU going to do about it?” or “What would YOU like me to do?” He empowers his students this way. He’s not there to save them from themselves. As an art teacher, he gives them supplies to create mirrors in the form of visual art. These mirrors are outlets and tools for self-expression. These mirrors are not windows into their hard lives for others to watch with pity. Their perceived pain and trauma is not fodder for guilt, thus fueling White-Man’s-Burdenism in the minds of voyeurs. Their art belongs to only them—however beautiful, disjointed, or painful.

I’m still learning how to do this as a writer for children. I have to shed the need to save, to write for, or to give voice to. The mirror needs to be held up to myself first. When I tell a story, I have to remind myself that this is about me and others like me first and foremost. I center my own experiences within the story, so that when it goes out into the world, I will personally connect with my readers, and they to me. Writing gives voice to the writer and no one else. The truth within the story will resonate with readers on its own. Problematic books written by outsiders are a mirror held up to that writer and the group she belongs to. The book says “This is what I think of you, or this is how I perceive you.” This voice, this perception does not belong to us. That is your voice as the writer. That is your truth, not ours.

Like the smothering parent that I am, every good intention needs to step back and check itself. Loosen that grip, let go of that need to save or protect or speak on behalf of, and ask instead, “What do YOU need?” or “What would YOU like me to do?” 

We need room to tell our own stories. Even if we hurt ourselves in the process with our own problematic content, we need breathing room to be reflective and unearth those deeply-planted seeds of colonization. We were taught to hate ourselves and everything about our traditions. Serving us more self-hate in the form of help, or placing warped, tainted lenses -- not mirrors -- before everyone’s eyes in the form of story, only deepens this wound. 

And like those teen girls in Haiti, we would like you to give us money (grants, scholarships, etc.), or create opportunities that will enable us to support ourselves and our families. Money and opportunities are tools for empowerment. Intend to empower us, level the playing field, cultivate true equity. Instead of writing our story, let us write it ourselves and get paid for it. Then we can begin to create self-sufficiency to rebuild our families and communities. Step aside and let us also stand at the helm of your non-profit organization or company whose mission it is to help or save us. Don’t stand on our backs and shoulders perpetually reaching down, offering to assist, while you remain standing on our backs and shoulders for all of eternity.

Most important of all, listen. Yes, to the help. Yes, to offering to assist and doing something so that there is a sea change. But when we say, “Ouch! That hurts,” or “We can do it ourselves,” step back and listen. Give us room to breathe.

Here are some bite-sized questions:

Before Writing the Other, ask yourself:

1) Is there another book like it written by a person from that community?

2) How can I center my own story and voice without appropriating another culture or community?

3) How can I discuss [insert issue here] through the lens of my own community?  


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Ibi Zoboi holds an MFA in Writing for Children from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her debut young adult novel, American Street, will come out from Balzer + Bray / HarperCollins in February 2017, and a middle grade novel My Life As An Ice Cream Sandwich is forthcoming from Dutton Young Readers.