It was the spring of 2019, and I was terrified. A People’s History of Heaven, my first work of literary fiction, came out in March, its pages populated with Muslim, trans, neurodivergent, disabled, queer, Dalit, and impoverished characters, all of whom held identities far less privileged than my own. Although I’d based my story on intensive research—including a two-and-a-half-year ethnographic study I conducted in Bangalore’s slums—I’d read enough books about India to realize that research can’t substitute for personal experience. I fretted that, despite my diligence, my story was riddled with errors that would, at best, disappoint or, at worst, traumatize my readers.
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Out of all the characters I’d written, the one who worried me the most was Banu. You’re not supposed to have favorite characters—kind of like you’re not supposed to have favorite children—but Banu was special to me. The star of a prize-winning short story that led to my first ever agent offer, Banu gave me the confidence to treat my project seriously enough to seek out publication. And I was petrified that I had gotten her wrong.
Banu is neurodiverse. I wasn’t sure how, exactly, but I knew the basics: she had an executive functioning disorder, similar to ADHD, some form of depression, and complex PTSD. Her symptoms included hyperfocus, obsessiveness, low self-worth, and a tendency towards isolation. I chose these symptoms instinctively, and, although I intended to check them with one or more neurodiverse beta readers, I never did: despite finding trans, Muslim, and adopted beta readers (among others), I couldn’t find a single South Asian with Banu’s diagnoses willing to read my work—a situation I’d later learn was most likely attributable to my community’s deeply entrenched suspicion of the field of mental health.
Here, then, was the crux of my fear: beta readers had checked all of my other characters, correcting my mistakes and adding nuances for which I am forever grateful. But Banu was out in the world unverified. What if I had gotten her wrong? And what if, in doing so, I played into harmful stereotypes I didn’t even know existed?
Fast forward to 2021, two years into the moderately successful life of A People’s History of Heaven. The book made it onto a couple of awards lists, sold relatively, and, to my knowledge, had not reinforced any damaging identity-based tropes. Sure, the story wasn’t perfect. But it also didn’t seem to be traumatizing anyone, which felt like a victory.
But while my novel was surviving—and, at times, thriving—I was hanging on by a thread. The pressures of the pandemic, combined with undealt-with pregnancy loss and a possible case of post-adoption depression left me unable to eat, sleep, or socialize, let alone write. Desperate to recover my sanity, I made a series of appointments with mental health providers who ended up bestowing me with three diagnoses: ADHD, depression, and complex PTSD.
The exact same diagnoses I had bestowed on Banu.
In that moment, I became Banu. Or, more accurately, I discovered that I’d been Banu all along, executive functioning order, depression, complex trauma and all.
When I received my evaluation results, I probably should’ve focused on finding a therapist or getting on medication or joining an online support group. Instead, I focused on Banu. Specifically, I wondered if, when I wrote Banu, I was writing a character whose identity was different than my own—someone Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward call “the other.” If I had the same diagnoses as Banu, was I really writing the other? Then again, if I didn’t know I had these issues, how could I have been writing myself?
When I developed Banu, I grew to love every aspect of who she was, including (and maybe especially) her wild and rebellious mind. Which meant that when I finally got some insight into my own mind, I was able to accept my diagnoses.
These questions felt important not only for me, but for my writing students, who frequently ask for help writing characters less privileged than themselves. Most of my students are middle aged which, I’d assumed, was old enough for them know who they were.
Except I received my diagnoses in my forties. Which means that, despite my age, I hadn’t known myself, or my identities, at all.
When we define the other, we do so in relationship to ourselves. Someone who is the “other” is someone who is not like us. The ability to define the other relies on the assumption that our identities are not only fixed, they’re also visible to us and others, and won’t change or be revealed over time.
But this just isn’t how the world works. Many of us could, at any point, become the “other” characters we’re writing. We can’t change our race, or rewrite the circumstances of our childhoods. But, if we’re lucky enough to age, we might, at some point, become disabled. We might, like me, suddenly receive information about our bodies that change the way we think of our brains, our genders, or our heritage. Or we may intentionally and unexpectedly change our identities: my husband, for example, recently became an American citizen, something he never would have done if he hadn’t met me.
As much as we’d like to believe that our identities are fixed, they simply aren’t. Sometimes, they’re not even discernible—to us, or anyone else.
But if identities are unstable, how do we know when we’re writing the “other”? As we develop our (theoretically) “other” characters, how do we make responsible, authentic decisions when we know that our relationship to this “other” could be different than what we thought it was? In other words, how do we define the “other” when we can’t always know how to define ourselves?
The answer, I think, is this: write every character like you could become them. Write them with the respect and empathy and dignity with which you’d like someone to write yourself. Do your research. Interview people. Read books by writers who have the identity you’re learning about. Watch their videos. Listen to their podcasts. Get beta readers—people that know, for sure, that they have that identity you’re trying to write, who are not afraid to criticize you, and whose criticism you are not too raw to take. And, when you make mistakes, admit to them. If you can, correct them. If you can’t, promise your readers—and yourself—that you next time, you will do better.
Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from writing Banu is this: developing diverse characters doesn’t only foster our empathy for others. It also fosters our empathy for ourselves. When I developed Banu, I grew to love every aspect of who she was, including (and maybe especially) her wild and rebellious mind. Which meant that when I finally got some insight into my own mind, I was able to accept my diagnoses much faster than I would have if I hadn’t written Banu. Cultivating a love Banu’s for neurodiversity gave me practice loving my own.
This, maybe, is the greatest gift we give ourselves when we write characters who (we believe) are outside of our experience. By connecting with these characters, we’re not only writing a world where we can become each other. We are also writing a world where we can become our full, authentic selves. That’s the kind of world I want to live in, on and off the page.
