Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give

THUGIt feels a bit ridiculous blogging about The Hate U Give midway through 2018; it has been so central to pretty much every conversation about YA over the last year and a bit that everything that there is to be said probably has been already. It has won multiple awards (William C. Morris, Waterstones Children’s Book Prize, the Coretta Scott King Award, the Printz); the movie’s on the way; it has been on the New York Times’s bestseller list since it came out. Nothing that I can say is going to be new or original. (I do have some thoughts on its position on the Carnegie shortlist, as will become apparent.)

What I like most about the book, however, is the way it works as a pedagogical text. Children’s lit and YA, and those of us who talk about them a lot, often find ourselves dancing a complex line between condemning didacticism and thinking of children’s literature as something that does teach, or least provides its reader with increased context, or reframes the world in ways that are inherently educational–even if that teaching isn’t as straightforward or unidirectional as some of us sometimes imply. One of the several things that The Hate U Give does is provide a way into a history of black political struggle and all its complexities. Starr is surrounded by people who have actively participated in and thought about that struggle (the adults in this book are, rather unusually, people with distinct politics, personalities and flaws), and so it makes perfect sense that this knowledge is something she accesses with relative ease. It also makes sense that sometimes another character has to swoop in and join some dots for her.

The book uses Starr’s perspective (a teenage girl who has grown up in a very politically aware family and now goes to an elite, mostly-white school, and is forced by these circumstances to mediate constantly between very different social circles) to negotiate the shifts between its multiple audiences. There are going to be readers who grew up knowing who Huey Newton was, or what the Ten-Point Program was; others, particularly outside the US (I don’t know how well American educational systems teach this bit of history, but I’d be surprised if many of the British students I’ve met and taught had more than the bare minimum context, and it certainly didn’t feature on the Indian curriculum I grew up with) are going to see these new names and hopefully look them up–the book isn’t going to provide little potted histories for them, but it is going to make it easier to know where to look. On the other hand, there are little asides that feel very basic, and are clearly instructions on how to negotiate particular situations. At one point, as Starr and a group of her friends are listening to music, we see her (white) boyfriend Chris who clearly knows all the words but never speaks or mouths the n word–his reticence is observed with an approving “as he should” that seems to come equally from Starr and the book itself. Chris, though in many ways a good boyfriend and friend, still has to ask a ridiculous question about African Americans and their “weird” names, presumably in order to provide the teaching moment. I’d find it clumsy in a different book, but teaching is such a major part of this novel that it fits in.

thug2I don’t think it’s teaching, so much as a sort of remembrance, that structures how the book situates itself within the history of police shootings and other racist murders, particularly those of the last few years. One major subplot has to do with the breaking down of Starr’s relationship with her former friend Hailey, who unfollows her tumblr after Starr has posted an image of Emmett Till, and it’s not merely an indication of her racism (which the book reveals to be vast and terrible*) but of an unwillingness to see and remember. Late in the book Starr lists other murder victims: “It’s also about Oscar. Aiyana. Trayvon. Rekia. Michael. Eric. Tamir. John. Ezell. Sandra. Freddie. Alton. Philando.” The list is an incredibly powerful format (I’m thinking of the list of police brutality victims that was a part of Beyoncé‘s tour a few years ago, or the one in Claudia Rankine’s Citizen); it’s a demand for remembrance, and I think the fact that this is a list of first names demands that the reader remember them almost instinctively, that we don’t have to think to remember who these people were or which of the several horrible news stories was about them. There’s a moment near the beginning of the book, just as we’re reeling from the shock that the police shooting that we were braced for has come this quickly, when Starr says “They finally put a sheet over Khalil. He can’t breathe under it. I can’t breathe,” building Eric Garner’s final words into the text at the most fundamental level.

So, I think The Hate U Give is very good; it’s good at political commitment, thinking about ethics, working through and with despair at unchanging systems (one of the [unfortunately several] things I dislike about Marcus Sedgwick’s Saint Death, also on this shortlist, is its inability to imagine anyone having any agency under the weight of structural violence, which only ends up absolving its readers of any need for action).  And it’s good at all the sorts of things that the Carnegie criteria think are important (structure, characterisation, setting). This ought to be enough reason to explain its presence on this shortlist, and I think it’s the best book on here. On the other hand, this comes in the wake of the last several years of all-white Carnegie shortlists, and in the context of the current “Diversity Review” after last year’s all-white longlist finally garnered enough publicity that CILIP was forced to take action. Had The Hate U Give been one of multiple books by authors of colour on the list (of which there were several real possibilities, but the omission that really surprised me was Patrice Lawrence’s Indigo Donut) I’d be uncomplicatedly pleased by its inclusion; as the only one, I find myself questioning not whether it deserves to be there (it does) but what work it’s doing on the list. Given the Carnegie’s history of championing books about racism (albeit by white authors) as long as they locate it in America (I’ve linked to this post by Karen Sands-O’Connor before but here it is again); given that Thomas’s, and Starr’s perspective is a lot more “accessible” to a white and middle-class audience than a lot of other voices would be; and given that the book was already a massive global phenomenon, its presence on the shortlist doesn’t exactly suggest a radical shift in perspective. I want it to win because I think it’s an excellent book; I’m concerned that if/when it does it will be used to suggest that the Carnegie’s race problem has been substantially resolved.

Then again, every time I’ve thought something was certain to win this award in the past I’ve been wrong, so the question may never arise.



* Hailey is a “feminist”, and her outrage early in the book at Chris pressuring Starr to have sex with him is sharply contrasted with her refusal to see racism. I felt a little uncomfortable at my disproportionate hate for her among all the other harmful and outright murderous racists depicted here, but it’s a relief to see this character (the feminist who is somehow incapable of seeing other forms of bigotry and structural inequality) depicted uncompromisingly in fiction (particularly in Britain where this seems to be the persona adopted by most public feminists), so I absolve myself.

One Trackback to “Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>