Maxine Beneba Clarke, The Hate Race (Hachette Australia 2016)
I finished reading The Hate Race on the eve of the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, celebrated in Australia as Harmony Day, and this year the day on which the Turnbull government put forward legislation intended to make it legal to insult, offend or humiliate someone on the basis of their race.
As a result, soon after finishing the book I read Adam Liaw’s Twitter thread being ‘a bit frank about race’ (well worth reading), and some of the painful contributions to the thread #FreedomofSpeech initiated by Benjamin Law. These read almost as continuations of the book, placing it as part of a vast, continuing, necessary conversation. The connection became explicit when Benjamin Law tweeted a recommendation to ‘read Maxine Beneba Clarke’s memoir of growing up black in Australia. Utter punch in the guts’. And it’s true that Clarke’s book gives devastating heft to the abstractions ‘insult’, ‘offend’ and ‘humiliate’.
But it would be a mistake to think of The Hate Race as an extended tweet about racism, whether micro-aggressive, casual, everyday, or viciously intentional. It’s a beautifully written memoir about growing up as a Caribbean–African-heritage girl in suburban Sydney in the 1980s and 1990s. Its focus on racism gives it power and coherence, but doesn’t stop it from being very funny in places and heartbreaking in others, from having a satisfying (and surprising) overall narrative arc, and any number of story-telling pleasures along the way. The narrator tells us again and again that she is making a story out of her experience. ‘This is how it happened,’ goes her refrain, ‘or what’s a story for.’
There’s a wonderful tale involving Cabbage Patch Kids, and Maxine’s time on the debating team in high school is a source of complex humour. There are stories of teenage love, of intellectual adventure, of defiance, smart-arsery and righteousness. I expect that anyone who has been to school in Australia will recognise the truth of the playground politics.
There’s one passage I’m tempted to quote as most vividly transcending the extended-tweet form and exemplifying the book’s complex honesty – for those who’ve read it, I’m thinking of the ‘incident with Baghita Singh’ from Chapter 19. But I’ll avoid spoilers. Here’s a taste, from Chapter 7, of the world as seen by little Maxine, one of many such tiny gems:
I have only one memory of entering a church with my mother. In it, I am about four years old. We are walking, my mother and I, along Wrights Road on the way home from preschool, when the heavens unexpectedly open. Sheets of freezing rain pour down on us. Umbrella-less, we huddle under the small awning of the nearby white-painted timber Anglican church. But the rain seems to be chasing us, curving in under the church awning in piercing darts, as if directing us into the arms of the Lord.
—–When my mother eases open the heavy wooden church door, rows of polished pews with plush red cushioning reveal themselves. Light streams through the pretty stained-glass windows.
—–‘What is this place?’ I am breathless with awe. ‘It looks like the inside of a Pizza Hut restaurant.’
At about the halfway point, I was filled with vicarious terror for the people whose names are named: Carlita Allen, Maxine’s vicious nemesis from the first day of preschool; Mrs Kingsley, the preschool teacher who smilingly refused to believe that a little black girl’s father could be a mathematician; Mrs Hird, who turned a deaf ear to racist taunts and objected furiously to the use of the word racism; the vile bullies Derek Healey and Greg Adams; all the abusive children and adolescents, the obtuse or collusive teachers. It was a relief to read in the acknowledgements that all names apart from the author’s have been changed. But I do hope that Carlita and Greg and Derek and the rest read the book and are inspired to do some hard thinking. As a white man, I’ve been pushed to face at least bystander behaviour on my part. Perhaps even John Howard and Pauline Hanson, offstage characters whose names are not changed, might have their worlds expanded if they open these pages.
The Hate Race is the fourth book I’ve read for the 2017 Australian Women Writers Challenge.
Oh good, that encourages me to read it
LikeLiked by 1 person
Do read it, Rebecca. Most of the conversation about it focuses, rightly, on its account of racism, but the impression of worthiness or worse, whingeiness, that that focus creates is completely misleading.
An excellent reading/review of this important Australian book! It could easily be set in schools (or at least for all teachers) as part of the current focus on bullying in schools for a bit of empathy awareness raising at the very least! I loved the way you hoped that Maxine’s bullies – teachers and students – were now reading her book! I held the same hopes when I read it.
Thanks, Jim. You’re right. It cold be a set text for the current anti- bullying agenda
Martin has started a small book club and one of our members last night highly recommended this book, so I’ve come back to reread what you said. I’ll get a copy!
Good, Kathy. Apart from everything else that’s commendable about it, its use of language is a big pleasure.
As I was reading it I assumed she’d changed their names, but hopefully many of them – of, at least, some of them – when they see a book by a person they knew will pick it up and will see the impact of their behaviour. I don’t imagine the dyed-in-the-woll racists will care, unless they’ve changed dramatically, but those “unintentional” ones – those who suggested the racist comments were merely “teasing”, those who stood by, those who assumed she could dance or would have beautiful mixed race babies etc, might learn something. It certainly made me think about my past interactions and whether I’ve ever unwittingly given pain.
Exactly, Sue. I can easily imagine some things I’ve said and done appearing in this kind of narrative. Once I’d got past the shame and defensiveness I hope I’d learn from it
LikeLiked by 1 person
Me too … !
Pingback: SWF 2022, my Sunday | Me fail? I fly!