Milky thighs and ivory towers
What we can learn about narrative bias and word choice from romance novels and a humanities nonprofit
Let me start with three confessions.
I’m a big reader and amateur writer of romance novels.
For much of my twenties, I used Asian skin brightening cosmetics (and by brightening, I mean whitening; iykyk).
These two fun facts about me are related.
I found my first Harlequin paperback romance between the mattress and box spring on my mom’s side of my parent’s bed. I don’t remember the title, but I vividly remember the main characters being a ruthless business tycoon and his shy secretary. The tycoon was bad-tempered and handsome, and—most memorable to an eight-year-old—he could perform unimaginable feats with his strong, white teeth… 👀
As for the shy secretary—it was the first time that I’d heard thighs described as milky. As I continued to devour the paperback romances that appeared beneath my mom’s mattress each week, I realized that the heroines’ thighs were almost always milky and their breasts almost always creamy. I’m Chinese—92% of my people are lactose intolerant—so this was really discouraging. But it wasn’t just the lactose. It was also that the heroines’ eyes were sapphire blue, their hair golden, and their nipples like strawberries. I’m no psychologist, but it’s a solid guess that when I started using whitening lotions in my twenties, I was subconsciously striving to acquire the “alabaster skin” of those biddies.
If I asked the average reader today for reactions to that tycoon novel, they’d probably point out the problematic gender dynamics. He was her employer! He was an asshole! After all, these glaring instances of bias are fundamental to the plot premise; the secretary supposedly uses her virginal fragility to win and reform him. But the average reader is less likely to point out the pervasive racism, because race feels absent from the story—when, in fact, a million little word choices imply that beauty is white. (Check out this fantastic article by Lois Beckett about pervasive racism in the romance novel industry. It’s a few years old now, but still resonates.)
In recent years, the social sector has increasingly striven to avoid bias in their storytelling. This attention to narrative bias has manifested in diversity statements, condemnations of injustices on social media, and incorporations of pronouns into staff bios. It’s manifested in the ubiquity of anti-bias-signaling words like “equity” into their mission statements (see my post re: this particular phenomenon).
But before adding words from the social justice vernacular to their vocabulary, social sector orgs need to examine the bias implicit in the “neutral” words they currently use —words that may seem innocuous or detached from issues of identity.
for example…
When Brian Boyles joined Mass Humanities as the new Executive Director in 2018, he was eager to redefine its approach to the humanities. Rather than disseminating ivory tower ideas to the common masses, he and newly hired Director of Grants Katherine Stevens saw the organization’s role as gathering communities together to tell, share, and reimagine the diverse stories and ideas of the Commonwealth.
The shift has been tangible. A quick search of pre-2010 grants yields such projects as An Audio Tour Through the Life and Works of Jack Kerouac, Mapping Henry David Thoreau’s Travels in Massachusetts, and Community Conversations with the Actors’ Shakespeare Project. Contrast those with projects Mass Humanities has recently funded, such as: Resiliency in Chinatown: Stories of Survival and Community Building, Untold Histories of Black Cambridge; and Telling the Underrepresented Stories of Latinos in Lawrence.
This past winter, I partnered with Mass Humanities to reflect its new approach in its storytelling. While we drafted new storylines that drew from the current social justice vernacular—“we amplify the diverse ideas and stories that shape Massachusetts; redistribute the power of who creates, curates, and benefits from those stories; and uplift safe spaces for rich and productive community conversations,” etc.—we spent even more time reviewing and discussing the seemingly neutral language that the org used in day-to-day communications like grants, emails, program descriptions, and newsletters. And by “we,” I don’t mean just the Mass Humanities staff, but also program alumni from diverse communities across the state.
The result of this review? A long list of words that Mass Humanities would either eliminate from or replace in its day-to-day vocabulary. For example, the team decided to never use the word “canon.” They also also decided that instead of saying:
citizens, which excludes members of the community, or residents, which sounds sterile; they would say neighbors, which connotes a sense of warmth and togetherness
enrich lives/ communities, which assumes that communities lack rich histories, stories, and ideas; they would say champion opportunities, which assumes historical/ systemic barriers to access
academia and scholarship, which connote higher education affiliations and credentialing; they would say expertise and experiences of community members, which includes neighbors, educators, and tribal elders as well as scholars and academics
This attention to bias in “regular” word choice is far more effective than the most adamant mission statement in conveying that the humanities are by and for everyone.
long story short…
Stories aren’t just communication tools, but north stars for how we move through the world. By considering narrative bias in our organizational storytelling, we will also nudge ourselves to consider bias in our work. But this requires more than adding signposting language; it also necessitates replacing exclusionary word choices, even if they seem as innocuous as “milky” thighs or “canonical” texts. These words, more than “diversity,” “equity,” or “inclusion,” are the words that seep into the way we think and the way we act—into feelings of whether we belong or not.
To tell truly inclusive stories, we in the social sector must ask ourselves:
Who are we?
Who are our partners?
Who do we serve?
Do any of the words we use implicitly exclude any of these people?
Finally, words only mean so much as they are backed up by the work. I’m all for aspirational storytelling—in some cases, telling a story for how we want to be can hold us accountable for getting there. But Mass Humanities really shifted their grantmaking and programming before they shifted their story. Respect.
Also, check out Brian’s Substack on the continued relevance of humanities!
