The Books That Shaped Me

An annotated bibliography.

I’ve had thoughts about books for as long as I’ve been reading. Over the years there’s been a few attempts at cataloging said thoughts: on a now-defunct book blog and Instagram page, on my personal Instagram page, on Post-it notes in the books themselves. And now, a newsletter. This is Extracurricular, a newsletter about books (often contemporary, sometimes classic) and the world surrounding it. And I’m Tembe, a book-obsessed author and writer that misses grad school but refuses to go get a PhD. My favorite part about college was being in the classroom and picking apart a dense passage, connecting what we were seeing on the page with the rest of the world. It’s where I sharpened my perspective. I wanted to start a newsletter that gave me a similar feeling, a space for critical inquiry and longform discussions about the books I’m reading and things I’m noticing.

I wanted to kick things off with an annotated bibliography, which acts as a framework for the way that I approach every read. These run the gamut—from The People Could Fly by Virginia Hamilton, a collection of Black Folktales, to Jill Scott’s Who is Jill Scott? to Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern Speak?” to bell hooks “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators”to Prince-Bythewood’s Love and Basketball—books, albums, movies and articles I regularly reference and think about. These are also not necessarily my favorite (that list would be much longer) but rather art that has made me who I am—pieces that have rewired my brain and created new ways of thinking, both about the world and myself. 

This is a living document and will be updated as I read and watch and listen to things that blow my mind. 

A note: I’m using my Bookshop affiliate link for the titles mentioned, so if you buy them through there I might earn a commission. 

Acker, Camille. Training School for Negro Girls. Feminist, 2019. 

Two years ago I launched a books column at New York Magazine called In Context, where I ask writers about the books they read while writing their current projects. I’ve always wished someone would ask me for mine. At the top of that list would be Camille Acker’s Training School for Negro Girls, a  collection of short stories that offer a snapshot into the lives of Black women living in DC. Acker deftly dips in and out of these existences, a masterclass in characterization. My favorite story of the bunch is ‘Strong Men,’ which follows siblings Bit and Ronnie at a pivotal moment in their growth. I regularly referred to it while writing Homebodies, checking to see if my characters felt similarly alive.

Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Penguin, 2002.

I’ve read Pride and Prejudice twice. The first time was in eighth grade. My dad bought me a hardcover copy for Christmas, which had a gold bookmark and gilded pages. I spent hours in Austen’s world, deep in the drama of the Bennett family and falling in love with the grumpy Mr. Darcy. I read it again in college for class. That time, I was able to appreciate what Austen did on the craft level. She was able to take the marriage plot and turn it into a commentary on social norms, womanhood, and (subtly) class. For me it became a window, an example of how to layer in commentary without sacrificing plot, character development and story. It also taught me the power of a good opening line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” lives rent-free in my head. 

Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. Vintage. 1992. 

In another life, Baldwin could’ve been a pastor, but in his lifetime, I believe he was a prophet. The Fire Next Time, his 9th, is required reading for everyone, everywhere. Even though it came out in 1963, the words still hold resonance. The book is slim, told in two letters. In them he eviscerates American society and racism while also speaking tenderly to his nephew and then later on, illuminating the ways he’s been personally affected by bigotry and prejudice in this country. It created a category of nonfiction that remains popular today. Some notable books in this style: Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s We Should All Be Feminists. 

Dennis-Benn, Nicole. Here Comes the Sun. Liveright, 2017.

I came across Nicole Dennis Benn’s work when I was writing my master’s thesis, which focused on sapphic relationships in contemporary literature and the function of the word lesbian to categorize them. I was curious about the general resistance to labeling in Black and diasporic literature. At the time, Here Comes The Sun was a new release and seemed to fit the bill. This book takes place in Jamaica and follows Margot, a hotel worker who’s grappling with the changing landscape of the island due to development and her ambition within that structure. She’s fiercely protective of her sister Thandi, who is also navigating womanhood and trying to figure out the difference between what Margot wants for her, and what she wants for herself. I ended up writing a chapter of my thesis on the novel, but the story stayed with me long after that, teaching me the importance of strong character work and stakes that keep the narrative moving. 

Des’ree. “You Gotta Be,” I Ain’t Movin, Epic Records, 1994. 

My mom was pregnant with me when this song came out, and  it has been our song since I came out the womb. I heard it periodically throughout my childhood, and every time it played mt mom would dance and shimmy and sing. I think about her whenever I hear it and feel hopeful for what’s to come. The song is a bop but also a mandate for how to live your life: “You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, you gotta be wiser / You gotta be hard, you gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger / You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, you gotta stay together / All I know, all I know, love will save the day.” 

Too true, Des’ree.

Hamilton, Virginia. The People Could Fly. Knopf, 1983. 

I lived on East 18th street off of Cortelyou Road from age six to eight. During that time, my sister Nace and I had a nighttime routine. The two of us would kneel by the CD player in our bedroom and sip cups of hot peppermint tea while listening to The People Could Fly, a collection of Black folktales that have been passed down through generations.. At that time, the book came with a CD. I fell asleep to the adventures of He Lion and Bre’er Rabbit, listening to the fables on repeat. It was during these nights that I learned the rhythms of a good story.

hooks, bell. “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” Black Looks: Race and Representation. South End Press, 1992. 115-131. 

Through this essay, I learned the power of looking. Here hooks outlines the political implications of the Black gaze and then goes on to focus on the Black female gaze specifically. It should absolutely be read in full, but essentially—In the absence of accurate representation, Black women have developed a critical gaze, evaluating form and content rather than seeking relatability. This was an earth shattering concept for me at 20 and affirmed my unique vantage point in the world. It also gave me the language to construct my imagined subject. I’m always writing for the Black female gaze and making images and work for our pleasure.

Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Amistad, 2006. 

I tend to think of my life in two eras: before Their Eyes Were Watching God, and after. It was the first hero’s journey I’d read where the hero was a Black woman, a wild one at that, whose chief responsibility was to find out who she is, even if she doesn’t know it. Everything Janie encounters evolves her and changes her until she’s left with her true self. Zora as a writer was instructive to me too. She charted her own path in the industry, writing about rural Southerners and documenting their stories at a time when people wanted to shed the memories of slavery in favor of progress and being a credit to the race. It’s a reminder to write what feels right to me, regardless of what everyone else is doing.

Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider. Crossing, 2007.

Without Audre Lorde I wouldn’t have language to describe myself. Here, I was introduced to some of her most powerful quotes, the ones that continue to pop up on Instagram, like “the master’s tool won’t dismantle the master’s house.” And while she’s the queen of the soundbite, it’s imperative to read her in full. There’s an urgency to Lorde’s work that rings eternal, and pushes me to be bolder, more vocal, and reflective in every facet of your life.

Mootoo, Shani. “Out on Main Street.” Out on Main Street, Raincoast, 2002, 45-57.

In the collection’s titular short story. Mootoo writes about two queer girls who are spending time on their cultural “Main Street,” and the many thoughts running through the main character’s head. She’s acutely aware of both her culture and her sexuality and the ways they meet. It was powerful to read a character who embodied both identities and desired deep connections to both, and was expressive about the way those intersections can become complicated. I think about it often when writing. 

Prince Bythewood, Gina. Love & Basketball. New Line Cinema, 2000.

Up until Quincy and Monica leave college, Love & Basketball is a flawless film (I personally don’t acknowledge Sanaa playing for that man’s heart). I often argue that it’s a queer film (look at the material!) because it’s about Sanaa navigating an alternative femininity and prioritizing her goals in a world that wants her to focus on a man. I like to think that she just hadn’t met the right girl, but I digress! Speculation about sexuality aside, it’s a beautiful coming of age film and captures the quintessential neighbors next door falling in love story with tenderness and vulnerability. It was an era of film where lots of movies were about Black people but not their Blackness, which I deeply miss!

Scott, Jill. Who Is Jill Scott? Hidden Beach, 2000.

Who is Jill Scott? taught me about love and the self and womanhood. The album raised me. I remember dancing around the apartment barefoot, singing “A Long Walk,” at the top of my lungs with my mom. I remember it because it was one of the few times she let me curse. I still smile whenever I sing the words, “your background, ain’t no squeaky clean shit.” As I got older and fell in love and got my heart broken and fell in love again, this time for real, the album became a refuge. After having experiences of my own, I was able to understand what the hell Jill was talking about. The yearning, the desire, the love, the vulnerability, the messiness. Scott’s ideas about love were never idealistic or perfect, but they’re visceral and real. Beyond the personal, what Scott was able to do with this album was impressive. She was able to put words to the way love undoes you and puts you back together. It was massively influential to me when I was writing Homebodies, and continues to be a North Star for anything I write.

Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present , Harvard University Press, 66-104.*

This essay reshaped postcolonial studies and deftly illustrates the way people who existed at the periphery are unable to be heard. I think about this essay all the time, especially as a Black person working in media. Representation politics creates a monolith of Black people and in navigating the landscape it’s important to resist speaking on behalf of people as a whole or for communities with which we have no connection. While the essay isn’t primarily about the native informant, it’s a concept Spivak outlines in this essay that has continued to resonate. I think often about the Black creative class, and how we are urged to trade authenticity for legibility, confirming preconceived notions of Blackness that are ultimately one-dimensional and harmful. I’m always reminding myself not to offer up pieces of my identity for access and to resist embodying the native informant as I evolve in my career. 

*This is an imperfect citation, because I can’t figure out which container the linked PDF appears in, but I decided to link to her 1999 book A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, which offers additional scholarship on the native informant as well as other postcolonial subjects.

Thompson-Spires. Heads of the Colored People. 37 Ink, 2019. 

When I first read this book in 2018, it was the first time I’d read work that seemed to depict contemporary, middle class Blackness in a way that was recognizable to me. Their dramas, at times petty, other times hilarious, and others tender, were legible. It was one of the first times I’d seen that done on the page and it gave me permission to bring my lived experiences to my work. Thompson-Spires was able to get at the Black middle classes’ anxieties and idiosyncrasies in a way so sharp and exact, all these years later I still wonder how she did it. 

Tinsley, Omise’eke Natasha. “Rose is my mama, stanfaste is my papa”: Hybrid Landscapes and Sexualities in Surinamese Woman’s Oral Poetry, Thiefing Sugar: Eroticism Between Women in Caribbean Literature, Duke University Press, 2010, 29-67. 

So many of my ideas about the expansiveness of queerness I owe to Thiefing Sugar. I arrived at this book while researching my thesis and at the time I was deep in a reread of The Color Purple. I was thinking about lesbian love as a site of liberation, as a way of looking at and loving and freeing oneself. The first essay in the book discusses mati, a word used to refer to same-sex lovers in Dutch Surinamese colonies. The word is a creolization of the Dutch ‘maatje,” or ‘maat’, which means helpmate, mate, or friend. The term dates back to the Middle Passage, and in this context refers specifically to a “shipmate, she who survived forced transport and enslavement with me,” (Tinsley, 45). It’s a beautiful way to think of the bond that Black women share and how that’s deepened when romantic love is introduced. That single line transformed the way I saw what I had with my then girlfriend, now fiancé, and has continued to inform my thinking about love. The essay digs into mati relationships and the expansiveness of the word, which referred not only to same sex relationships but included queer gender identities too. As Tinsley puts it, “in this kinetic landscape, gender and sexuality are not binaries but also crossroads, multiple and intersecting paths that spirits travel.” (Tinsley, 53).  It's a seminal work in queer Caribbean studies and while dense, is definitely digestible and worth the read.

Tyree, Omar. Flyy Girl. Pocket, 2001.

Reading Flyy Girl as a young Black girl was like a rite of passage. The pinnacle of “urban fiction,” Flyy Girl follows a young Tracy, who’s coming of age in the late 80s. It’s like reading about the life of the most popular girl in school, who has men fawning over her and has her pick of the group. This was far from my reality as a teenager, so it was exciting to escape into an alternate universe and read about a life wholly unlike mine. It was also a little smutty, which was enticing for obvious reasons. 

Walker, Alice. The Color Purple, Penguin, 1982.

I feel like I’ve said this already but I don’t exist without The Color Purple. I owe so much to Ms. Walker and her writing. The novel follows Celie, a woman who is deemed invisible by virtually everyone but her sister, who is taken away from her. Without Nellie, she’s truly invisible, and then she meets Shug Avery, who’s like the sun. The two become lovers and what follows is Celie’s journey to finding herself, the journey buoyed by the love that Shug has for her. It is  messy and multiple and the characters are complex and truthfully drawn. Walker is able to balance realism with the magic of queerness as a path to liberation and self discovery. The Color Purple is undoubtedly the Great Gay Novel, and though the movies tell a different story, I really recommend everyone read the book.

As I mentioned before, I’ll update this as it makes sense. In the mean time, what books have shaped you?