I’ve been into the World Science Festival since its inception three years ago. The first time I went, I listened to a lecture on the origins of the universe. The second, I joined my friends Lisa and Dan for a discussion about altruism–and whether humans have an innate capacity for generosity (turns out we do). This last time, I went as a volunteer, and out of my three visits, it was the first time I learned something I didn’t want to.

We volunteers were helping amateur astronomers in Battery Park, hopeful that the cloudy sky would clear up so that we could have the star-gazing party that had been planned. It was a humid evening, and so we were all happy when a volunteer coordinator came along and began handing out ice cream, explaining that a nearby vendor was kindly offering treats for all volunteers. Right after the coordinator’s announcement, two young Latino men, dressed in low jeans and long t-shirts, walked by, and asked if they could have some ice cream. The coordinator told them no.

“How do you know they’re not volunteers?” someone asked, because not all of the volunteers had put on their t-shirts.

“They don’t look like they’re volunteers,” the coordinator explained. “They don’t look like they’re into science.”

The five or so volunteers, a multicultural bunch, just stared at the coordinator, the same question in our eyes: “what did someone who was interested in science look like?”

Interestingly enough, the rock star of physics, Neil deGrasse Tyson, dropped by that night and gave an impromptu chat about astronomy. With his faded jeans and his brown, square face tucked under a cowboy hat, I wondered if the coordinator would think of Tyson as someone who looked like he was “into science.”

My Photo of Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson Regaling Audiences with Stories of the Universe

A much clearer photo of Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson

And I think that’s one of the reasons why I write, because life is filled with moments like these, when people’s expectations collide swiftly with reality.

YOUNG TENDER: I always see you around with a big smile on your face. My name is (Young Tender states his name), and I’d like to get to know you.

ME (flattered): I’m engaged and too old for you, but I like your style. My sister’s younger and cuter than me. Maybe I’ll introduce you next time she’s in town.

YOUNG TENDER: Well, who says I’m into cute? I want your number.

ME (stomps off insulted, thinking–did I just get called ugly???).

It’s surprising to me that someone as good-looking as the young tender could have so little game (I mean, why would you tell someone you’re trying to “holla at” that they’re unattractive???). But anyway, that’s life. Other surprising things I’ve learned this year about writing:

1) Rejection can actually make you more hopeful. I’ve had my share of rejection this year–and with the economy so bad and funding for artists/writers so limited, I don’t think I’m the only one. But the strange thing rejection teaches you is that rejection isn’t the end of the world. And when you finally publish a story that has been rejected more than a few times, you have this feeling that anything is possible, and that gives you the courage and motivation to continue writing.

2) Writers can be other writers’ best source of support. Maybe I read too many biographies of writers as a teenager, but I didn’t realize until recently how much other writers are willing to champion each other’s work (when they really like that work).

3) Your job doesn’t have to mean the end of your writing; in fact, it just might make it better. I teach at a community college, where the teaching load is heavy, but my job has forced me to become a little less disorganized and a lot more focused. When the semester ends and I do get a break, I think I’m more productive than I would have been had I had a less hectic schedule.

What surprising things have you learned this year about writing and life?

Literature reminds us of these kinds of moments—how you don’t have to be from the cultural or ethnic background as someone in order to “get them.” Obama and I are both black, but I connect more with Biden’s bumbling than Obama’s cool.

Which reminds me: I keep re-reading The Bridesgroom was a Dog by Yoko Tawada, a writer the poet A. Van Jordan suggested I read. I say re-reading because I picked up this collection of novellas a month or so ago and have read it three times since.

Tawada is my new hero–her first novella is something I wish I had written, the last sounds like something I’ve started to. (And as a black woman who writes quirky, dreamlike stories about black women, it felt enormously good to read stories from a writer whose quirky, dreamlike stories about Asian women have received great acclaim.)

All this brings me to a comment James McBride made at today’s Black Writers Conference: “Black people don’t read.” He went on to argue that if more black folks were reading, we wouldn’t have novels like Push receiving so much attention.

I was incensed. I got up my nerve and waited as the four or five people in front of me asked their questions. By the time it was my time to speak, people were in the midst of a conversation about Push and had forgotten what I feel was the more dangerous part of McBride’s assertion.

“More people should be reading Black writers, period,” I said. I tried to explain, in my bumbling Joe Biden way, that a person–of any race–is impoverished if their reading lists haven’t included Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston,Jefferey Renard Allen, Tayari Jones, Victor LaValle, Charles Chesnutt, Gwendolyn Brooks, Paule Marshall, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Chimamanda Adichie, Yusef Komunyakka, August Wilson. Studies have suggested that literature has the power to make us more empathetic, more open-minded. So if we’re truly serious about changing the world, why aren’t we doing more to make sure that Asian, Latino, White, and Native American kids are reading these works? These treasures shouldn’t be limited–or ghetto-sized–into the “black book section” of your local libraries and Barnes and Nobles.

But then the self-important moderator stopped me in the mid-question and made me say my name (and what is it with this narcissistic way of asking questions, where people always give this long introduction of who they are before asking their question. Isn’t the question supposed to be more important than the person asking it?) which confused me. My voice then took on that high-pitched, nervous quality it gets when I’m either a) emotional about something or b) speaking in public. (And I was both, at that moment.)

I don’t think anyone got my point (though the delightful Chris Abani reached the same conclusion I did about the novel Push). Still, I hope today, if someone is reading this post, that they decide to reach out to a friend and introduce them to the wonder that can be found in literature from writers of all colors.

Other Highlights of the Black Writers Conference: Seeing the incredibly talented and superbly generous writer Victor LaValle read; meeting Angela Reid of the National Black Festival Online Book Club; having a dude who stood me up for Valentine’s Day eight years ago (and, no, I haven’t forgotten) ask me for my contact information

Established writers, what are your thoughts when emerging writers ask you for letters? Are you bothered by such requests or do you feel the more timid emerging writers are simply selling ourselves short?

(The Vermont Studio Center’s very talented visual artists held their open studios today. Amazing, original work. This was followed by a reading from creative writers whose poems, novels, and essays I admire. It feels soooo good to listen to thoughtful, innovative work!)