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Gumbo: Celebration of African American Writers

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Overview

A literary rent party to benefit the Hurston/Wright Foundation of African-American fiction, with selections to savor from bestselling authors as well as talented rising stars.Not since Terry McMillan's Breaking Ice have so many African-American writers been brought together in one volume. A stellar collection of works from more than fifty hot names in fiction, Gumbo represents remarkable synergy. Edited by bestselling luminaries Marita Golden and E. Lynn Harris, this collection spans new and previously published tales of love and luck, inspiration and violation, hip new worlds and hallowed heritage from voices such as:Edwidge DanticatEric Jerome Dickey Kenji JasperJohn Edgar Wideman Terry McMillan David Anthony DurhamBertice Berry…and many, many more.

Editorial Reviews

Over 70 writers have contributed to this "literary rent party,"the proceeds of which will benefit the Hurston/Wright Foundation, an organization that gives annual financial awards to novelists, nonfiction writers and students.Novelists Golden (The Edge of Heaven, etc.) and Harris (Invisible Life, etc.) offer a motley collection of previously published short stories and excerpts from novels. The book starts off strong with Edwidge Danticat's "The Dew Breaker," in which a Haitian expat marries the man who she believes tortured and killed her brother, followed by an excerpt from Percival Everett's excellent satire Erasure, which hilariously skewers "ghetto prose" and poseurs. Contributors run the gamut from recent M.F.A. grads to such established figures as Walter Mosley, Gloria Naylor, Terry McMillan and Jewelle Gomez. Formidable newcomers include R. Erica Doyle, whose brief but potent "Fortune" hints at a love affair between two Trinidadian women, while Bryan Gibson's epistolary tour de force "Fear of Floating" features a housing project resident who inadvertently becomes a kind of therapist to his troubled neighbors. While it is at times clear that literary excellence was not the only criterion for inclusion, this sprawling collection handily reflects the diversity and vibrancy of contemporary African-American fiction. Readers can also take comfort in the fact that they aren't just getting a real bang for their fiction bucks, they're also supporting a worthy cause. (Dec. 3) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of E. Lynn Harris

E. Lynn Harris is a nine-time New York Times bestselling author. His work includes the memoir What Becomes of the Brokenhearted and the novels, A Love of My Own, Just as I Am, Any Way the Wind Blows (all three of which were named Novel of the Year by the Blackboard African American Bestsellers), I Say a Little Prayer, If This World Were Mine (which won the James Baldwin Award for Literary Excellence), and the classic Invisible Life. His latest book is Just Too Good to Be True.

Bio of Marita Golden

MARITA GOLDEN has written both fiction and nonfiction, including Migrations of the Heart, The Edge of Heaven, A Miracle Every Day, and Saving Our Sons. She is the editor of Wild Women Don ' t Wear No Blues: Black Women Writers on Love, Men and Sex and the coeditor of Gumbo: An Anthology of African American Writing and of Skin Deep: Black Women and White Women Write About Race. She is the founder and CEO of the Hurston/Wright Foundation, which supports African American writers, and lives in Maryland. Please visit Marita at www.maritagolden.com.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Broadway

Filesize

1.10 MB

Number of Pages

832

eBook ISBN

9780767910460

Excerpt from: Gumbo by E. Lynn Harris

The Knowing by Tananarive Due

An original story from Gumbo

Our teacher said one day that knowledge is power, and I had to raise my hand even though I don't like to; I like to sit and be quiet and watch people and wait for lunchtime. But I had to ask him if he was sure about that, or if maybe knowledge isn't just a curse. He asked me what I meant by that, and I said, Hey, that's what my mama always says. Knowing is her curse, she whispers, touching my forehead at night softly with her long fingers, like spiders' legs. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and she's there whispering and rocking me. But I didn't tell my teacher that part. I could tell from the way my teacher looked at me sideways and went on with his lesson that he thought I was trying to be a smart-ass. People always think you're something you don't want to be. Mama says that, too.

I like this school in Chicago all right because my math teacher is real pretty, with long legs and a smile that means what it says. But me and Mama won't be here long. I know that already. I was in six different schools last year. It's always the same; one day I walk into wherever we're staying and she looks up at me through her cigarette smoke and says, "Throw your things in a bag." That must mean the rent hasn't been paid, or somebody got on her nerves, or maybe she's just plain sick of being wherever we are. I don't say anything, because I know if she stays unhappy too long, she'll start throwing things and screaming at the walls and the police might come and put me in foster care like that time in Atlanta. I was gone six months, staying with these white people who were taking care of six other boys. Mama almost lost me that time. When the judge said she could take me back, I smiled in the courtroom so he wouldn't see how mad I was at Mama, but I hate it when she acts like she's the kid instead of me. I didn't speak to her for a whole week, and when I did, I said to her, "Damn, Mama, you gotta' do better than that." I meant it, too.

And she promised she would. She really tries. Things will be really cool for a while, better than cool, and then I walk through the door and see that look on her face and those Marlboro Lights or whatever she smokes when she's in a smoking mood, and I know we're moving again. I guess she feels like she'll be all right if she just runs away from it, as if you could run away from your own head.

I wish Mama wouldn't smoke dope. It freaks her out. She goes up and down the stairs and walks through the halls wailing and sobbing, pounding on people' doors and shouting out dates. March 12, 2003. September 6, 2006. December 13, 2020. I have to find her and bring her back to the apartment to listen to Bob Marley or Bunny Wailer, something that calms her down. I hug her tight and, when she sobs, I can feel her shaking against me. Those are the times I have to be the grown-up. It' all right, Mama, I say.