An earl and a DEI training...

The disparagement of DEI (Diversity, Equity and Inclusion) in the national discourse here in the US has been incredibly sad to watch—and incredibly eye opening. 

 

You see, the surge of corporate DEI initiatives in the last few years had me believing that the powers that be, both in business and politics, had actually had a change of heart. 

 

That for once they were acting on their conscience rather than their bottom line, trying to do right by the women, the black and brown people, the disabled people, and all the others they’d oppressed for so long. 

 

But as it turns out, with a few very notable exceptions, that philosophical turn toward a more inclusive, equitable and diverse future was nothing but a deception—corporations and politicians doing what they’ve always done: playing to the popular culture in order to solidify their power and increase their profits. 

 

I suppose I’m not surprised, but I am discouraged.

 

As I’ve watched DEI being slandered and demonized, I’ve been reminded of a story that I’ve never told here—the story of how my second novel, Swept Into the Storm came to be. 

 

It all started with an extremely likable Scottish earl and a DEI training. 

 

Let me back up a little. 

 

Three years ago, I quit my 20 year career at a small chain of natural food grocery stores in order to pursue writing full time.

 

In the last three months of my employment (after I’d given notice), the company I worked for hosted a mandatory series of DEI trainings for managers. 

 

I went because I had to. I was interested in the general topic, yes, but I was pretty much checked out, and what the company did with their future DEI initiatives wasn’t really relevant to me. 

 

So perhaps you’ll forgive me if, while I was sitting in those trainings, my thoughts sometimes wandered to the thing I was most interested in: my writing.

 

I’d just finished my first book, Roses in Red Wax, and I was starting to ponder the second.

 

I knew Cameron, Jane’s affable younger brother who’d just been named Earl of Banton, would be the hero. But beyond that, I had no idea what the book would be about, or even who the other main character would be. 

 

As silly as it sounds for a historical romance writer to say, I was feeling a little apprehensive about writing an earl as a main character. 

 

As much as I enjoyed reading in the genre, there was something about all those duke and earl heroes that didn’t sit right with me…  I didn’t want to glorify the British nobility. They were, after all, born into great wealth—wealth made possible by the suffering of the lower classes at home and the enslavement and exploitation of so many in the colonies. 

 

I couldn’t just ignore that.

 

The question of how to square this discomfort with the British elite as heroes; and this cheerful, compassionate Scottish earl I’d created was weighing me down as I sat there in that training, soaking up what wisdom I could. 

 

DEI, I learned, is not just about hiring people of color and women. That’s really the end product of the work. 

 

The real work is in acknowledging and dismantling the biases that live within each of us—those subconscious thought patterns and behaviors and emotions that we’ve learned over a lifetime of living in our culture, and are ultimately harmful to others. 

 

My coworkers and I were challenged to identify those harmful biases that lurked within, without blame or anger or shame, to look them squarely in the face, then let them go. 

 

One of the examples that was given was the white savior complex—that seductive trope in which a white person comes to the aid of a person or people of color, or other non-dominate group, and singlehandedly saves the day, lifting them up and making everything right. 

 

The trope is everywhere in our popular culture: To Kill a Mockingbird, Glory, Dances with Wolves… the list goes on.

 

What’s wrong with the white savior trope? 

 

The biggest thing is that it removes all agency from people of color, diminishing them to passive victims. It allows us (white people) to feel good about ourselves, and to continue to see ourselves as the sole drivers of social, political and cultural change. 

 

In other words, it allows us to maintain a social order where white people are “naturally” on top, all while convincing ourselves that we’re really good at heart and not racist at all. 

 

Additionally, the white savior trope allows us (white people) to imagine that the problem (whatever it may be), is solved. That by a single, heroic act on our part, we’ve ended all the injustice of the world and can walk away blithely into the sunset.

 

I don’t know about you, but unpacking this trope hit me hard. 

 

Because, quite frankly, I could clearly see it playing out in my own life.
 
I thought of all the times in my career when my coworkers and I had tried to do outreach to poor communities and communities of color. We’d swept in with our recipes and bulk food coupons, convinced that if we taught people how to cook beans and rice from scratch, and gave them access to delicious kale recipes, we’d solve all their nutritional problems.

 

Of course, it never worked. 

 

How blind we’d been. 

 

Then, quickly, my thoughts turned to Cameron, my earl, and to the historical romance genre in general.

 

This was the problem. I could finally identify it. 

 

Because even the most kind and well meaning nobleman hero in a historical romance novel could (and does) suffer from the white savior complex. 

 

It’s in the kindness and benevolence they always show to their helpless tenants, in the way they save the day with their abolition work, or their act of heroism against child labor… The reader and the hero both get their happily ever after, but the real root of the problem—colonialism, oligarchy, paternalism and imperialism are left unexamined. 

 

And so, as I sat there in that conference room, the seed of Swept Into the Storm began to sprout. 

 

Just as those of us in the DEI training were being asked to acknowledge and come to terms with our biases, Cameron would have deal with white saviorism.

 

As kind and affable and funny as he was, there was no way I could allow him to perpetuate all those 'isms I listed above. 

 

I remember sitting there, smiling sadly to myself and shaking my head. “Poor Cameron, this isn’t going to be easy for him.” 

 

After that, the book came together relatively quickly. 

 

My driving goal was to create an historically plausible narrative, and an uncompromising heroine, strong enough to force Cameron to come face to face with the ugly truth within himself and his culture—so that when he finally got through it, he would be free to enjoy his well deserved happily ever after.

 

Of all my books, Swept Into the Storm has the lowest ratings from reviewers. 

 

The main complaint is that readers love Cameron so much… he’s so funny, so happy, and so kind… how could I, the evil author, force him to go through so much pain? How could I pair him with a woman like Letty—a woman so unlikable and so unflinching in her fight for justice?

 

“How can she be so cruel?” they say. “Why doesn’t she just give up on her morals and marry the earl already? I mean, he’s such a nice guy!”

 

And I just want to shout: THAT’S THE WHOLE POINT.

 

He’s a nice guy, yes. He’s also a rich, entitled, patriarchal guy with a serious white savior complex. It’s not his fault—he was born an oppressor in a culture of oppression—but that doesn’t erase his duty to fight that oppression.

 

It doesn’t exempt him from the work. 

 

Just as being born into the world today doesn’t exempt any of us—no matter how nice and well meaning we may be—from doing the work of creating a more equitable, diverse and inclusive future. 

 

And that’s what you get when you mix a Scottish earl and DEI class.