Street Fight: Welcome to the World of Urban Lit

Street lit is controversial stuff. From the racy covers (think buxom babes and mouthwatering men) to the provocative titles (like Death Before Dishonor) to the assorted R-rated acts, it’s enough to make many librarians reach for the Advil. And they’re not the only ones.

Grad students in my young adult and children’s literature classes are also befuddled. “Is it OK for teens to read urban lit?” they often ask me. “What do we do when kids request those titles?” The answers to these questions are tricky. In fact, there are no absolutely right or wrong responses. There is, however, a clear need for librarians to resist the urge to judge this genre by its covers and to take time to explore its stories.

Even though street lit is a huge hit with today’s teens, you won’t find the semiautobiographical novels of Vickie Stringer and Nikki Turner, the grandes dames of urban fiction, on many (if any) high school reading lists or, for that matter, on some public libraries’ shelves. That’s because street lit (aka urban or ghetto lit) can be uncompromising, brutal, and direct—and its stories are often loaded with references to hip-hop and gangsta rap (which, like street lit, often walks a fine line between social criticism and profanity). Like the best-selling novels of Danielle Steele, Mary Higgins Clark, and Dean Koontz, street lit features its share of steamy and adrenaline-pumping scenes. But urban fiction focuses on the struggles of mostly young black men and women whose lives have been touched by crime and violence, and its tales take place on the pavements of Chicago; Queens, NY; Richmond, VA; Newark, NJ; and other urban centers.

The most troubling thing about street lit isn’t necessarily its graphic descriptions of sex, violence, and drugs or its occasional fondness for gangsta rap’s explicit language or even that it seemingly glamorizes thug life. No, what many librarians may wince at is the uneven quality of its content. Since most urban lit was originally offered by small independent presses (and sold from street carts, sidewalk tables, car trunks, and mom-and-pop shops), some of its stories read more like first drafts than polished manuscripts, and it’s not uncommon for spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors to permeate its pages. Still, when it comes to high-octane storytelling, unforgettable characters, and sheer teen appeal, there’s no denying that urban fiction is a tough ticket to beat.

The genre, of course, is nothing new. Robert “Iceberg Slim” Beck and Donald Goines published pulpy novels of city life in the 1960s and 1970s. And even though Goines died in 1974 and Slim in 1992, their works—like Goines’s Never Die Alone (1974) and Slim’s Mama Black Widow (1969, both Holloway House)—continue to resonate with hip-hop fans and artists, including the rapper Nas, who grew up in one of New York City’s toughest projects and once sang, “My life is like a Donald Goines novel.” If Goines and Slim are street lit’s founding fathers, then Sister Souljah may be one of its mothers. It was Souljah’s The Coldest Winter Ever (Atria, 1999), one of the first urban novels to be picked up by a major publisher, that kick-started the current street-lit craze.

Until recently, there was very little urban fiction written expressly for teens. But that didn’t stop kids from devouring adult street-lit novels like Sapphire’s Push (Knopf, 1996), a coming-of-age tale of incest and abuse, or K’wan’s Gangsta: An Urban Tragedy (Triple Crown, 2002). Even though novels like these may have hooked some kids on books, street lit’s critics (and some of its writers and publishers) argued that their content was too mature for teens. In response to that criticism and street lit’s growing popularity among kids, a number of popular urban presses, like Triple Crown, and mainstream presses, such as Simon & Schuster and Ballantine, are starting to publish urban fiction aimed at young adults.

These tamer titles tend to follow a familiar plot—involving teen characters in the same dicey situations as adult stories. But unlike adult urban fiction, teen titles often keep sex and violence at arm’s length—describing these acts through conversations between characters or referring to events or actions that have already happened. Teen street lit also often includes warnings about the harmful consequences of destructive or criminal behavior. And some mainstream publishers are now offering a “safer” variety of teen street lit, such as Scholastic’s “Bluford High” and Harlequin’s “Kimani Tru” series—but beware, young connoisseurs of urban lit may find these more restrained stories babyish or inauthentic.

There’s no getting around it: urban fiction forces many of us out of our comfort zones—and some librarians worry that by simply offering street lit, they’re endorsing its unsavory actions. And yet, these powerful stories represent the experiences of many of our nation’s young people, offering them an opportunity to see worlds similar to their own and giving them encouragement to escape their own difficult circumstances. Urban lit’s increasing popularity also forces us to examine our own predispositions: Do our collections reflect the needs and tastes of the young people we serve? Or do they just reflect our own literary preferences? Are we willing to challenge ourselves professionally and to open up to new forms of literary expression? Or are we set in our ways? As librarians who are committed to serving teens, it’s essential to embrace urban street lit—even if its stories occasionally clash with our values.