Responsible Travel Writing with Dr. Anu Taranath

Read our interview with Dr. Anu Taranath here: “Talking Gently About Heart-Pounding Topics: An Interview with Dr. Anu Taranath”

The TIPS Letters are a cornerstone of Dr. Anu Taranath’s teaching on culture, diversity, and social justice. In this exercise, which aims to help the writer deepen their engagement with the world, one writes four interconnected letters to the acronym TIPS, which stands for T= Thing, I= Idea, P= Person and S= Self. Here, her own epistolary collection speaks to the politics of writing, and how we might write about others better, if not well.

T—Dear Apology

I—Dear Success

P—Dear Mr. Hassan, the Ghanaian Tailor

S—Dear Anu (me)

____________________

Dear Apology,

It feels like an especially delicate time to be writing about lives that are not ours, doesn’t it? I see how panicked and tense many of us are to say too much these days about race, history, identity and power. We tread lightly, ever ready to retreat and trip over ourselves in our haste to backtrack. We cart you out, with sincerity and flourish, with performativity and recalcitrance. “I Am Sorry,” we say, panning for the exit, hoping for redemption.

There’s good reason we are nervous. You, Apology, are a part of our larger cultural moment in which the politics of speaking and writing about sensitive topics like race, history, identity and power is fraught. How do we do this better, if not well? We only know our own experience, right? We cannot know anybody else’s life, hopes, challenges or desires, and yet there I go again, audaciously and imaginatively putting pen to paper to write, render and represent a life that is not mine. That is, of course, what writers do. We sometimes write what we know about ourselves, and we sometimes write what we imagine, recognize, surmise and intuit about others.

When I write about myself, I can be irreverent, playful, and wrong, even. But when writing about another person or group who I am not, the stakes can feel like the clouds: billowy, shifting with the wind and so, so high. I want to feel less nervous, and more emboldened and brave. Only then can I join the important conversations that are taking place all around me.

If you, Apology, are nearby and easily accessible, does that help me be more brave and take risks? I know it takes time to learn new things, and that I will make mistakes along the way. I appreciate what you are and what you can do for me and others in those moments where we might have caused harm. When I know that I can count on you if I misspeak, might my bravery then soar?

On the other hand, if you are lurking around too easily, might that permit me to be sloppy? Will I conveniently and sheepishly pull you out of my pocket every time I feel discomfort, every time I am asked to be accountable and stretch?

I am learning to invite you in at the right time and for the right reasons.

Sorry/not sorry,

A Writer Striving to Do Better

____________________

Dear Success,

I find you seductive and elusive: seductive, for who doesn’t want a taste of you, and elusive, as I’m sometimes not quite sure what I’m hankering for. For writers, you Success, often translate to sales, prizes, accolades and press. If you bestow your gifts upon us, fame, fortune and notoriety often follow. I’ve often assumed that this version of you is what we should want, for I too am certainly wrapped up in your web. A part of me unabashedly craves the glory I imagine will halo me if you gaze upon my work. How wondrous it would be! How happy I will then be!

Another part of me, though, growls with restlessness and fatigue at the ways you seem to distract and stunt my growth. If you, shiny and glittery Success, are what shape my thoughts, paragraphs and ambitions, how will I ever stretch and learn? I don’t only want to be liked and celebrated, I want to be good and stretch for better. I want to discern what “good” and “better” might even mean outside of–or at least not always in the shadow of–your bright and sexy sparkle.

These days, I am noticing that though loud praise still feels good, what feels better is when I hear from readers. If a reader shares how something that I’ve written or said gently nudges or sometimes even jolts them into awareness, I get all tingly inside. “Yes, me too,” a reader might feel, nestling into the warm and soothing embrace of being seen. Or maybe the reader feels instead, “No no, that certainly is not me!” with a spiky vehemence that tumbles out of their subconscious. I love hearing these stories of awakeness and awareness. When readers notice themselves feeling soothed by recognition or spiky with otherness, both can invite deeper reflection. When we pause and take in what “like me” or “not like me” might mean to us and to the stories we’ve told about others, might we then actually begin to know and heal ourselves? Might we then live better together, be better and maybe even good to one another?

Success, I love how my understanding of you has changed as I’ve grown as a writer, a reader, and a community member. Sparkly praise is still nice, but I am more animated now by how things land. The red-carpeted runway with The Star preening at the center might always turn my head, but I’m reaching more toward ramps of reflection and bridges of belonging.

With admiration,

Anu

_____________________

Dear Mr. Hassan, the tailor from Accra,

Yesterday I received a “Good Morning” message from you on WhatsApp, one of those flowery saccharine forwards in bright reds and yellows. I was reminded of the pink bougainvillea vines above your tailor shop, a small room with a sewing machine on the compound of a house in central Accra, Ghana. I had come to Accra for a few weeks on work, and the compound I stayed at enclosed a modest main house, a few simple trailers for lodgers, communal bathrooms around the corner from a chicken coop, your tailor shop, and a long clothesline decorated with plastic clips.

The first few days when I'd walk by, we'd greet each other silently with nods as proximally related strangers often do. One day after hearing me speak with another lodger, you waved me toward your shop. "You speak English very well," you said admiringly, and I felt shy. You asked me where I came from, and I replied that my people are from India, and I live in America. You turned this detail around your mind for a moment, and then said, "Yes, you live in a rich land.” The next day as I passed by, you called me into your shop again. “You are from a rich country,” you began, “but you are like us Ghana people. You are like me. You are not an obruni." I remember laughing, and told you that since it was my first time in Ghana and I was new to

everything Ghanaian, of course I was a foreigner, an obruni. You pointed to my brown arm and face and black hair. You raised your eyebrows and clicked your tongue. “No, my Indian friend,” for that’s what you began calling me, “you are more like us.”

For the next two weeks of my stay, we met every day. We shared tea, and you stitched me a skirt, the whirling sewing machine a constant hum. I learned about your daughter (a cheeky teen who doused herself in her father’s favorite cologne), the land you owned (a few acres in the north of the country that was in dispute with a neighbor), and your tailoring business (your big beaming smile aglow as you shared your pride at owing seven (!) sewing machines). You spoke only with me, and not to the other lodgers who were white. When I asked you why, you sucked in your teeth. “My Indian friend, I talk with you because we are alike. You are not an obruni, you are like us.”

When you say “You are like us,” I feel seen, heard, and understood. My experiences as a dark brown woman from an immigrant family in the US, yes, has shaped me uniquely and perhaps differently from the white lodgers whom you do not call into your shop. Mr. Hassan, I love that you’ve found a connection with me. Thank you for that sweet gift. “Africa and India are family,” you say, “that is why we are friends.” Our cultures–and the colonial histories that have shaped our cultures–do share kin, so naturally for you, we can be friends.

I wonder though, where might our shared familiarity end and our unique individuality and context begin? Though our cultures share kin, you know not what it is to be me, nor do I know what it is to be you. This is true for you and me and all of us. Perhaps we will remain obrunis to one another, no matter the shared familiarity, ritual, and kinship between us. There’s a sweet poignancy in being both obruni and kin, able to know only so much about another, even while we press for intimacy and closeness. To be a familiar stranger to one another is perhaps the most honest way we might know each other, don’t you think?

It’s been four years since you and I met, Mr. Hassan. You saw kin in me, and for that I thank you kindly. I think of you and the hum of your sewing machine as I consider how we talk together, share and hold one another’s stories with more grace. Sweet poignancy indeed.

Your Indian friend,

Anu

___________________

Dear Anu,

If you are being honest, you have often thought it more risky to write than to read. That belief has influenced your behavior. You’ve been a devoted and passionate reader for decades, and by comparison, a recalcitrant and hesitant writer. Why, dear one? I know you know that reading is not neutral and can certainly incite revolution. But reading about sensitive issues like identity, otherness, racism, patriarchy, belonging, and woundedness—challenging as that might be—has felt easier for you than writing about it all. I’m curious about why this might be so.

Are there different ethics in reading than in writing, different habits we exercise? Might the practice of reading inspire different stakes and possibilities than the practice of writing? Take for example the advice often given to writers: “Write what you know,“ alongside its corollary, “Write what you don’t know.” I love the “both/and” quality of these instructions, but it has, I know, made you more nervous to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. We don’t often say “Read what you know” alongside its corollary, “Read what you don’t know.” That’s interesting, isn’t it? You’ve always read more about what you don’t know much about, and written less about what you know little about. The reading side of your literary passion has grown; the writing side less so. I know you want to write more, and to write more with less vexation. And yes, you can and should, for you are not alone.

Our ancestors wrote to share, create, question and inspire. They did so through great risk and fear, and sometimes, great love and joy. The words you read and the words you write are both a part of this longer literary story, dear one. Remember that you belong to a long line of readers AND writers, others like you who also navigated their nervousness. The stakes have always been high, dear one. Take a breath and stretch out your arms toward the swinging trapeze that awaits your grip. You’ve got a safety net below you, stitched with the words of many.

Yours lovingly,

Anu