I just finished Stephen King’s novella ‘The Body’ for the first time. I’ve seen Stand By Me, the film based on the work, a few times and remember the insta-nostalgia it can bequeath adults. I remember it being relatable when I was younger, adventurous, and upon a viewing in young adulthood I recall the classic King child characters being very vivid and real. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it sounded like the same stories my father used to tell me fondly about his childhood: Growing up with a bunch of neighborhood guys, pretending to be a cowboy chewing pine gum and making the sounds of spurs clanging with each step before a show-down in the middle of the street at Noon on summer days in places like Providence, Rhode Island and Auburn, Maine.
“I recall the classic King child characters being very vivid and real.”
The novella felt equally as familiar. It was raw in some places that lead to heartbreaking observations about life that make you ~feel things~ as an adult. But in that undisputed craftsmanship lie some pretty damning idiosyncrasies from a bygone time. Things like a 12 year old boy’s casual use of words we know better than to use now (the “r-word”, a word that seems like it might be a slur for an Asian ethnicity, but I can only divine this based on dialogue context; Come to find out there isn’t a lot of information on the internet regarding these rightly-abandoned terms). A lot of this comes from the zeitgeist of the narrative (1960s), a time capsule of the period, like other written works of old. But as I wonder if the spike in sales of the standalone novella of ‘The Body’ (I received my copy during the year-end holiday last year, for a $5 upcharge with a qualifying purchase at Barnes & Noble) might bring King’s work under new scrutiny, I’m reminded of another, often drowned-out issue with the man’s work: oeuvre-spanning internalized racism.
Emmy-winning writer, poet, librarian and event producer, Scott Woods — another self-described fan of King’s work himself — says it best on his blog:
“If, however, you happen to be a black Stephen King fan this relationship can often feel dirty. There is a duality you must navigate because on the one hand, you love the work – the ideas are compelling, the characterizations memorable, the craftsmanship clear…a good Stephen King novel is a joy. On the other hand, you have to admit that Stephen King has a recurring problem, and it exceeds his frequently suspect deus ex machina endings: King creates black characters that often make you want to burn libraries to the ground.”
—Scott Woods, “Stephen King’s Magical Negro Problem Isn’t Magical” (2015)
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I was watching a trailer for Netflix’s upcoming release, Will & Harper (September 27th) and I was not immune to the perfectly marketable blend of Will’s light-hearted quips and Harper’s touching introspection. When Harper began to speak about having used to love car races, but that she stopped going after her transition, I buckled: “I’m not really afraid of these people [race fans], I’m afraid of hating myself.” A truth so super relatable despite it not always having the ability to be told. A shockwave of tears, rescued by a classic Will turn-of-phrase in the clip directly after.
“I was not immune to the perfectly marketable blend of Will’s light-hearted quips and Harper’s touching introspection.”
But are these important, moving tales and Netflix’s capitalization of queer culture (Heartstopper, Young Royals, Glamorous, RuPaul’s Drag Race, Kaulitz & Kaulitz, Queer Eye, Late Bloomers, et al.) enough to gloss over the partially-forgotten protests over hosting an anti-trans comedy special by Dave Chappelle? Or are they another example of more drowning out (though arguably significantly more conscious.) As I think back to why these stories of King’s are familiar to me, a white person with yarns from the ‘60’s and ‘70’s passed down to me by my father, I need to ask myself: If he were still around, would my father not also find it difficult to acclimate to the more inclusive cultural environment of now?
I wholly trust the perspectives of folks of color when discussing King’s nuances, but in case it makes a difference to other white readers here, a personal share: I know my father was a good man. He did his best and tried to make every option available to me despite being born female (playing with his old toy cars together, playing baseball in the driveway, teaching me carpentry in the garage); but he still expected me to readily obey authority, conform to norms (adherence to thinness and the eternal pursuit of white beauty standards, etc.), and to graduate from an ivy and marry a doctor. My father couldn’t fathom the life I’ve lived since knowing him. He would recognize me because I look exactly like him, but I would still be a stranger. Both sides of a person can be true: They can want well for you and still not know or respect your autonomy or personhood (through assumptions or outright denial; in the case of my father, the former). The more difficult part of reckoning these two truths, in regard to people in our lives, is when they’re not around to try and do better. But one has to want redemption to find it.
So for this topic, I leave you with the closing remarks of Scott Woods’ essay on the matter (which I encourage you to read in full):
“If I am completely honest, a part of me feels – inappropriately – that Stephen King is my friend, that I’ve known him most of my life and that while he’s occasionally off-color, he’s still a lot of fun to hang with most of the time. Except that a real friend wouldn’t make you feel weird whenever you’re around or pimp some implied otherness about you that’s really not that different from his own actuality. That Stephen King and I are not actual friends is also part of our actuality, and while I do not come to the table here seeking friendship, I do not come without affinity for the man. I have benefitted in important ways from what King has shared with the world. I could not be the writer that I am without his vegetable in the gumbo of my creative life. A part of me very much wants to let him know that I see what he is doing, and I get what he wants it to mean, and I am even sure that most days he wishes those who look like me well in the real world, where it counts. But it would be remiss of me not to point out that I couldn’t possibly start even a pretend friendship if I didn’t point out how sorely he could use more actual, real black friends.”
—Scott Woods, “Stephen King’s Magical Negro Problem Isn’t Magical” (2015)
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Time for another poem from my teens, from Swiftly Woven Wings:
Spray Paint
SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE Pain is surely fading fast. A crawling hand, the leather folds. Pin the flesh and don't forget — how long since I've been home? SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE Pound that tin, scattered dreams dance across the floor. It's like marbles in ballet, glass broken before. Tell me, friend, do you remember? When was it ever I was home? SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE Stand your final hour bravely if there's something in between. Breaking the stare, brilliance shattered — splintered, hateful, mean. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE Got to wean myself from pain, this pain and that pain. If only I could shake them — hounding my feet, bogging my thoughts. Tell me, have I ever really been home?
Close Reading?:
I don’t think we need a close reading of this poem about a friend from my teens. He liked two things: tagging and painkillers.
The “shake” is the noise shaking the pea (a “marble”) from a can of spray paint. Have you ever spilled marbles (any sort) on a hardwood or concrete floor? Good luck catching them. Have you ever tried to break a glass marble? They’re pretty tough, but not indestructible.
I also don’t think most people just “run away” from their problems. I think most of the time it’s something awful chasing them. Most other people just can’t tell or don’t care to know.
Stacktember
(elohel)
Week 1/3! Only I have written something to my knowledge. I acknowledged this might be what happened, but it was fun. So I think I’ll proceed with the next two prompts as a one-person parade. Then at least we’ll be in October.
I think I’ll try “A Distant Signal” maybe. No promises. I feel like I might be coming down with something so I’ll take whatever I can get for inspiration this weekend.
But I hope yours is great! And if you’re the one person who writes something let me know. Although, I don’t know what would be sadder… no one participating, or just one? 😂
Until next time,
Nico
5 Min Friday - Redemption, A Poem, & Stacktember