The Problem with #Ownvoices
If you like to read, or if you keep up with the publishing world, you've probably heard of the #ownvoices trend. Originally coined in 2015 by YA author Corinne Duyvis, the hashtag was intended to spotlight fiction stories written by authors who belong to the same marginalized group(s) as their characters. But much like most well-intended internet movements, #ownvoices has a dark side.
On the one hand, it is important to highlight and support authors who share the identities of their characters, and therefore have the personal knowledge of - and oftentimes have firsthand experience with the struggles inherent to - their characters and their characters' identities. But that isn't to say that we should never support authors who don't have firsthand experience with the identities of their characters. It isn't even always obvious whether or not an author fulfills that role. From the start, Duyvis warned of the dangers of policing the identities of authors of marginalized characters, but the movement has taken on a life of its own.
This is particularly challenging and damaging when it comes to marginalized identities where you can't generally tell whether a person belongs to that group just by looking at them. (For example, those in the LGBTQ+ community, or those with invisible disabilities, including mental health conditions.) Not only are these identities not visually obvious, but the stigmatization of them also often leads writers to keep those aspects of themselves private.
Becky Albertelli's debut novel, Simon Versus the Homo-sapiens Agenda (along with its film adaptation, Love, Simon) has been the subject of equal parts adoration and critique on social media. It tells the story of a closeted gay teenager growing up in rural Georgia coming to terms with his own sexuality. It's a beautifully written novel (followed by a beautifully composed film), which was primarily well-received in its early days. In addition to being a good book, it came at a time where greater attention was being given to reading and writing about marginalized identities, especially in young adult novels. Simon was a character that a lot of kids and teens could resonate with, and the film adaptation was the first film developed by a major Hollywood studio to focus on a gay teenage romance.
Shortly after the praise, however, came the outrage. Readers and critics alike began questioning the validity of a novel about a gay teenage boy written by a straight woman. They repeatedly questioned Albertelli's motivations and inspiration, and many even went as far as to boycott her books and the film. When her next novel Leah on the Offbeat released, which featured a bisexual girl as the main character, the scrutiny started all over again. Her work was criticized as being "gay literature for straight people" because how could a straight woman understand the nuances of LGBTQ+ individuals?
But what Albertelli's critics didn't know - and in fact, what Albertelli herself hadn't even yet realized - was that Becky Albertelli is not straight. In the midst of writing her novels, and in absorbing all of the hate and invalidating remarks sent her way, she was also questioning her own identity.
On August 31st, Albertelli published an essay on Medium, officially coming out as bisexual. But, as she shares in the piece, this isn't necessarily how at all how she wanted to come out. Because of pressure from fans, critics, and the media, the power of choosing how and when and whom to come out to was largely taken from her. Ironically, this actually mirrors the experience of Simon, the main character in her first novel which prompted so much of this scrutiny.
Albertelli's article shares her anger, of course, at the position she's been placed in, but she also takes the time to show gratitude, both to her books for helping her better understand herself, as well as to those close to her that helped her to feel safe enough to lay it all out on the table. But most of all, she encourages each of us to reconsider the ways we think about the media we consume and the people behind them. "Can we all be a little more careful when we engage in queer Ownvoices discourse?" she writes. "Can we make space for those of us who are still discovering ourselves? Can we be a little more compassionate? Can we make this a little less awful for the next person?"