Headshot of Sanderia FayeToday on The PEN Pod, we spoke to author, professor, and leader of PEN America’s Dallas/Fort Worth Chapter, Sanderia Faye. Her novel Mourner’s Bench won the 2016 Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and tells the story of a young girl coming to terms with racism, religion, and feminism while navigating the terrain of early adolescence, amid the tensions of a small town in Arkansas in the 1960s. Sanderia joined us to speak about her article “Breonna Taylor Can’t Tell Her Story of Police Abuse, But I’m Here to Tell Mine,” which was published in The New Yorker last summer. She’s also an activist whose work is focused on uplifting the literary community in Dallas, TX, including the Dallas Literary Festival, which will take place from March 26-28, 2021. Check out the full episode below (our interview with Sanderia begins at the 14:20 mark).

I want to start with an essay you wrote this summer in The New Yorker about police breaking into your home, with pretty alarming parallels to the killing of Breonna Taylor, and so many other unarmed black people in the United States. I’m curious for those who have read it or haven’t read it—what prompted you to write that piece?
 It was a difficult piece to write. When the police came into my home, knocked down my door, and busted into my home, I thought it was a bizarre incident and that it only happened to me, and that I should just suck it up and go on. I felt guilty that I hadn’t protected myself, I felt guilty because if the police come into your home, you must have committed a crime or something like that. So I just stuffed it inside, and continued on with my life.

Then, Botham Jean was murdered in his home, a few miles from where I live. And he was murdered in his home while eating ice cream. I thought the innocence of both those incidents—the innocence of sleeping me, and him doing something that you would be doing in your home. I wanted to write about it then, but the words just didn’t come. So I felt like, “I’m a fiction writer, maybe this is not what I do.” But then the police continued to kill, to murder more people. I saw Breonna Taylor, and it just paralyzed me. We were home at the time, during the pandemic as well, and we were watching Mr. Floyd—that had already happened. I can’t speak for everyone, but my feelings were raw and I couldn’t get it—what had happened to me—out of my head as well.

“And then it occurred to me: What if my situation wasn’t just a single incident? Look at what happened to Breonna Taylor. It just propelled me to write about it, to give voice to the people who lived and also give voice to the fear that maybe Breonna Taylor and others like her who are no longer here to tell you how they felt at that moment in time. That was the reason why I decided to go ahead and write it down. After I finished journaling, I thought, ‘This should probably be published.’ And I did—it was published in The New Yorker.”

I thought that maybe I should just journal about it, or try to journal something about it, just so that I could—that’s how I release things—write about them. And then it occurred to me: What if my situation wasn’t just a single incident? Look at what happened to Breonna Taylor. It just propelled me to write about it, to give voice to the people who lived and also give voice to the fear that maybe Breonna Taylor and others like her who are no longer here to tell you how they felt at that moment in time. That was the reason why I decided to go ahead and write it down. After I finished journaling, I thought, “This should probably be published.” And I did—it was published in The New Yorker.

We’re all grateful that it was because, as you say, even as a fiction writer and being able to bring this experience to bear—especially when that piece came out in July—was such a crucial moment, and in some ways, presaged what we then saw more of through the summer and into the fall. I’m wondering what the reaction has been in those last five, six months since the piece.
 I realized that many women had done the same thing as I had, and just swallowed it and moved on with their lives—or they thought they had moved on with their lives. But even my own mother had had a similar incident where the police came into her home with guns. From writing the piece, I had the opportunity to hear other women’s stories, or their incidents, and how they had gone on with their lives after it happened. Some people who had commented about the piece hadn’t ever really talked about it before, so I think it did lend a voice to many women who have been suffering with this and without even realizing that they have been traumatized by it.

I was happy that I did write it. It was interesting because it was twofold—the piece was traumatizing and it was somewhat traumatizing to write about it, even though it was a relief in the end, but it also was exciting to have the opportunity to be published in The New Yorker. It still feels that way in a sense.

“We are the truth-tellers—even in fiction, we are the truth-tellers. We have to continue to write, and even beyond our pain, we have to continue to write. We have to continue to tell the story. We also find ourselves, like myself, being in positions of activism and community involvement. You have to do that. It’s our role, it’s what we do.”

We’re hopefully emerging from COVID-19 and from this Trump era. What you think is the role that writers need to play in the months and years ahead?
 We have to continue to write. I believe we’re the honest voice of the people. Similar to the piece that I wrote for The New Yorker, we are the voice for the people. We are the truth-tellers—even in fiction, we are the truth-tellers. We have to continue to write, and even beyond our pain, we have to continue to write. We have to continue to tell the story. We also find ourselves, like myself, being in positions of activism and community involvement. You have to do that. It’s our role, it’s what we do. I can’t wait to see what books come out of this situation, hopefully, I know that we will come through this. We’re Americans, that’s what we do, but I’m looking forward to seeing what books are published, who has the courage to step up and write about this time that we’re in now.

Sanderia, you were talking about being involved in some of the activism around the pay disparities in publishing, and in particular, reacting to #PublishingPaidMe. I’m wondering what your involvement was like in that conversation.
 I was involved with the national conversation about it that was led by Lisa Lucas of the National Book Foundation, at the time she was with the National Book Foundation. But also here in Dallas, to show you how much Dallas has changed as a literary city, The Dallas Morning News ran an article about it. We came to the conclusion that there were only two Black authors in Dallas that had books published with reputable publishers that would be able to be on The New York Times Best Seller list. That was one of the things that we tried to do—was get to those two books on The New York Times Best Seller list.

During the pandemic and through systemic racism and all of the issues that were coming up, I believe that here in Dallas, we did take a positive step forward, and we just have to continue to do that for authors and for the city in general. But I want to say confidently that Dallas is a literary city, as of now. And it’s because of all the work that writers and publishers and bookstores and universities have been doing here in Dallas to make it a literary city. The media, everyone seems to have come together, and literature is finally important in Dallas. And so, I wanted to stress that. PEN America is one of the primary reasons why as well. We have been continuing the work of PEN America Dallas—during the pandemic, we’ve continued to keep the name out there and to do events virtually.

“During the pandemic and through systemic racism and all of the issues that were coming up, I believe that here in Dallas, we did take a positive step forward, and we just have to continue to do that for authors and for the city in general. But I want to say confidently that Dallas is a literary city, as of now. And it’s because of all the work that writers and publishers and bookstores and universities have been doing here in Dallas to make it a literary city. The media, everyone seems to have come together, and literature is finally important in Dallas.”

Which leads me to what I’m reading, because I’m organizing the Dallas Literary Festival presented by Southern Methodist University, which will take place from March 26th through the 28th. My goal is to read all of the books by the authors participating in the festival. Right now on my nightstand is Mitchell Jackson’s Survival Math, Damaris Hill’s A Bound Woman Is A Dangerous Thing (I love that title), Ben Fountain’s Beautiful Country Burn Again, and Greg Brownderville’s book of poems, A Horse with Holes in It. And one other, by Tyehimba Jess, a book of poems as well called Olio. So that’s what’s on my nightstand, and I go back and forth between them.

Yeah, that’s a tall order, reading every book that will be featured in the festival, but I trust you can do it. I have no doubt.
 But the tallest order is organizing the festival.

That’s true.
 I’m the executive director for the festival, so that’s a much taller order, but it’s going to be virtual. PEN America Dallas is a partner with us in that, and that just sort of tells you—two years ago, three years ago, I couldn’t even have imagined this. So that tells you how far we’ve come as a city.