Whatever occurred to Interracial Love? by Kathleen Collins review – black pathos and power

Whatever occurred to Interracial Love? by Kathleen Collins review – black pathos and power

Written through the 1960s and 70s, these posthumously published stories through the rights that are civil and film-maker seem startlingly prescient

Revolutionary fervour … Kathleen Collins. Photograph: Douglas Collins

Radical fervour … Kathleen Collins. Photograph: Douglas Collins

Last modified on Thu 22 Feb 2021 12.45 GMT

W hen in 1975 Alice Walker, working as an editor on Ms. Magazine in nyc, received a batch of stories from an unknown author, there must have been an instant of recognition: like Walker, fledgling author Kathleen Collins had been black, tertiary educated, a former civil liberties activist and had married a man that is white.

Walker’s tardy response – “We kept these such a long time because we liked them a great deal … i needed to buy them as a set” – could not disguise the courteous rejection that followed. The stories kept the company of woodlice in a trunk where Collins’s forgotten manuscripts lay yellowing and undisturbed for three decades. Now, through happenstance as well as the determination of her daughter, readers are since astonished when I was by the rich range of the experienced literary voice – modern, confident, emotionally intelligent and humorous – that emerges from the pages of the posthumously published Whatever took place to Interracial like?

The title of the collection poses a question that is pertinent actually, whatever did become of the heady promise of interracial love amid the racial conflagrations of 1960s USA? The fact never lived up to the Hollywood dream of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, by which Sidney Poitier’s “negro” doctor – with find out here now perfect manners, starched collar and ultra-clean fingernails – falls in love with a young white liberal woman.

The recommendation that love might soften if you don’t conquer differences between the races is echoed into the fervour that is radical of characters. They include dilettantes (“everyone that is anybody will find at least one ‘negro’ to create house to dinner”) and the committed – black and white individuals putting their health on the line, idealists who march, ride the freedom buses, and quite often, in deliciously illicit affairs, lie down together.

Most tales are inversions of Guess Who’s visiting Dinner, with young black colored female protagonists. These intimate and adventurers that are racial social mores and upset their class-conscious relatives, whose aspirations for relatives’ courtships and unions with the lighter-skinned usually do not extend to dangerous liaisons with white folk. Collins adopts a prose that is unflinching, as bold as the smoothness with “a cold longing weighted” between her legs whom yearns for “a small light fucking” having a guy who’s not cursed “with a penis in regards to the size of a pea”. But she also deftly complicates the identified limitations of free love inside her description of a heroine tormented by memories of her partner unbuttoning himself right in front of other women.

The stories had been written into the belated 1960s and 70s, when black colored energy exploded, and now have a persistently wonderful quality of spring awakening, with sassy flower-bedecked students in bell-bottomed trousers and rollneck sweaters. Their free spirits are contrasted with their anxious, middle-class fathers, for who the revolution has arrived too early, and who fret that by cutting down their carefully groomed hair, their expensively educated daughters are also severing opportunities for advancement – that they will be “just like most other girl” that is coloured.

The pathos in these often thinly veiled biographical tales is reserved because of this older generation. An energetic widowed undertaker, who “won’t stay still long enough to die”, shares the upbringing of his only kid with a mother-in-law that is disapproving. An uncle is forever “broke but nevertheless therefore handsome and stunning, lazy and generous”, his light skin a noble lie of opportunities which are never realised; his life, a long lament, closes as he “cried himself to death”.

Collins taught movie at the populous City College of New York, and some tales, cutting between scenes and figures, are rendered nearly as film scripts, with all the audience in place of the camera panning forward and backward, including subdued layers of inference and meaning. The tales talk to each other, eliding time, enabling characters that are versions of every other to expose and deepen aspects hinted at formerly.

In defying convention using their interracial love, Collins’s headstrong black colored protagonists are more susceptible whenever love fails: they can’t continue, and yet there’s no heading back. Exposed and humiliated, they find solace within the privacy regarding the metropolis that are uncaring. “I relieved the outer edges of my sadness,” says a lover that is forsaken perhaps one of the most poignant stories, “Interiors”, “letting it mix aided by the surf-like monotony of this vehicles splashing below the faint, luminescent splendour of the nyc skyline.”

Paul Valery penned that the ongoing thing of beauty is not completed but abandoned. Collins’s health betrayed her art; she passed away from cancer of the breast aged 46 in 1988. But 30 years on, her abandoned tales seem fresh and distinctive and, in a new age of anxiety and crisis of identification, startlingly prescient.