What I Learned From Reading 10 Memoirs from Black Authors

In 2020, I set an intention to read more books from authors of color. Since non-fiction is my preferred book of choice, this pulled me to read more memoirs than I normally do, 4 from black authors in the past month. Though the people who wrote their life stories were from different generations, experiences, and had wildly different worldviews, I discovered some unifying trends about the ten autobiographies I read from black authors in the past years that surprised me.

The childhood realization of their race makes them different. 

Most memoirs focus on childhood in some way. It's a core conceit of the "you think you know, but you have no idea" genre that explaining their upbringing and early adolescence will reveal something key about their personal development. \

Memoirs from black authors shared one uniquely black childhood motif, regardless of economic opportunity, the decade they grew up in, or geographic location: there's a moment they became aware of their blackness and it would mean they would operate differently in the world. This can look like a teacher doubting Andre Iguodala's academic achievement in an honors class in middle school as described in The Sixth Man.  Much of Ta-Nehisi's Coates' Between The World And Me is committed to communicating this in details; it's a memoir/political essay in the form of a letter to his teenage son that hits home how being a black man will impact his life and his experience, even if it should not hinder him. 

In Trevor Noah's Born A Crime, this consciousness of race is baked right into the title, the mere fact of him having a black parent and a white parent being illegal under South Africa's apartheid. But like Coates, Noah's mom makes sure he very plainly understands the implications of his race and how it will shape how he walks in the world, out of love and safety. 

“The world doesn’t love you. If the police get you, the police don’t love you. When I beat you, I’m trying to save you. When they beat you, they’re trying to kill you.” 

― Trevor Noah, Born a Crime: Stories From a South African Childhood

Being "the only": 

Every memoir comes with a painful memory that the author comes on to reflect on. Yet black autobiographies have a distinct memory about being the "only" in a classroom, job, or city that shapes their experience. One reason that I generally like to limit my exposure of memoirs that I read is that the genre prioritizes publishing the stories of the most prominent and well known public figures. Most people wouldn't want to know the deeply personal origins of someone they've never heard of and it's only natural to want to learn more about someone that's made huge accomplishments in their lives to understand what drove them to success. What's interesting about this when hearing from black voices is that these prominent voices are often achieving great acclaim where they are only, one of the only, and/or the first black person to operate in that space. It's even compounded when hearing the stories of black women. Whether it was Tiffany Haddish in 2000s comedy in LA, Jenifer Lewis in New York showbiz in the 80s, or Michelle Obama at a Chicago law firm in the 90s, these black women navigated spaces where their race and gender were put in foil amongst everyone else there to simply move to the next step in their life. 

"...It takes energy to be the only black person in a lecture hall or one of a few nonwhite people trying out for a play or joining an intramural team. It requires effort, an extra level of confidence, to speak in those settings and own your presence in the room." 

- Michelle Obama, Becoming

The moment(s) race influences their economic choices. 

Every memoir touches on career in some way. Either a rise then fall narrative, or rags to riches, or a combination of both, it's often the meat and potatoes of an autobiography to reach a level of professional and economic success that we'd all find objectively impressive. There's an added step for black autobiographers to get to that path. In each memoir, there is a moment when they realize that their blackness will interfere with an economic opportunity. They often have to choose: do I pivot my goals to conform (somewhat) to the ideas people have about black people in my field? Or do I hold steadfast to a T my idea of success, knowing that it may stall me a bit in getting there?  

In Notes From A Young Black Chef by Kwame Onwuachi, it's the moment that potential investors tell him that America "isn't ready" for a fine dining restaurant from a black chef that doesn't include upscale versions of fried chicken and mac and cheese. Or when Frederick Douglass realizes he can't be too successful as a shoe cobbler for economic jealousy from white people in his town. 

A commitment to mentorship

Some people say that black people who've reached a certain level of success behave like "crabs in a bucket". This cynically refers to the supposed tendency for black people to want to stifle the success of other black people like crabs claw others from reaching the top of the bucket. I know metaphors aren't meant to be taken literally, but this one is especially frustrating because crabs only end up in bucket-type situations to be picked for consumption, so it would be an act of collective preservation to prevent another species from getting "to the top". I also find it untrue. In my own experiences, I've seen nothing but the overenthusiasm from black people to grow the pie of success within their communities and it's compounded by evidence in the memoirs of the black leaders, entertainers, athletes who've achieved great things thanks to the mentorship of other black people in their space. 

By now, the story of Tiffany Haddish taking Will and Jada Pinkett-Smith on a Groupon-backed swamp tour has become a legendary piece of The Last Black Unicorn when it was released in 2017. And as hilarious as the story is, I also hear something else: two powerful, black Hollywood veterans going out of their way to build a relationship with an upcoming star to let her know she's not alone. 

 Once Jenifer Lewis established herself as a prominent TV and film actress, she got involved with Big Brothers Big Sisters to share the privileges she had earned and offer guidance to young black women. For people who've struggled with being the first or the only in their field in a world where those firsts and only are still happening, it only makes sense that we'd do anything in our power to accelerate that progress. 

Michelle Obama is only a decade older than my parents. Kwame Onwuachi could have been in high school together if we went to the same school. My late grandfather and the late James Baldwin lived in Harlem at the same time. Jenifer Lewis, like many of the characters she portrays, could be my aunt. So Frederick Douglass's story is the only that is from a black person who didn't grow up in a generation close to mine or someone in my family, yet the themes of being made aware of your blackness early in your development and making economic decisions influenced by your race ring as true in the modern life arcs as they do for someone who was born into slavery in 1818. That fact isn't an aim towards cynicism or evidence of lack of progress. I'm glad that I'm hearing these stories and can't wait to read more autobiographies from more black authors. I think about their examples of mentoring other black upstarts and reflect: what I can do to follow in that path? 

See my list of black autobiographies I've read here and follow me on Goodreads for more reflections on books.