Streeter’s chapter examines mixed-race life narratives that emerged in significant numbers in the mid-nineteen nineties and continues in the present time. Streeter contends these mixed-race narratives are a publishing trend begun after a distinct cultural turn in the nineteen-nineties, when the first generation of what she names post-Loving children, born just before and after interracial marriage became legal in 1967. The chapter focuses on black and white race mixture because, among the book-length life narratives investigating racially mixed ancestries and articulating mixed identities, most are authored from that perspective. Blackness and mixed-ness are, at the most fundamental level, overlapping discourses of identity in the United States. The fear of and fascination with race mixture between white people and Black people is a distinctly US American cultural trope. The color line – a tool of separation - and the one-drop rule – a deeply ambiguous barometer of Blackness – are contradictory imperatives. Under these circumstances, Streeter contends, dichotomy becomes the repetitive mode appending attempts to pin down intrinsic Blackness as articulated in mixed-race life writing.

The majority of slave narratives published between 1840 and 1865 were produced by persons who came from what might be termed the elite slave minority, that is, from skilled workers, domestic workers, and headmen. Men and women from the relatively higher echelons of slavery contributed double the number of texts to the mid-century slave narrative than were produced by former field laborers, those who spent most of their working life in slavery doing the most grueling and punishing agricultural labor. In this chapter, class refers mainly to two kinds of differences observable in antebellum slave narratives: differences based on access to and/or control of material resources, such as money, property, and compensation for labor; and differences based on access to or control of social power and prestige based on factors such as occupation, wage earning, family status, and literacy.

Smethurst argues that the Autobiography of Malcolm X has deep roots in earlier African American autobiography, particularly the Christian conversion narrative and the slave narrative, notably the three life narratives of Frederick Douglass. For Smethurst, the defining chiasmus of Douglass’s first autobiographical narrative, “You have seen how a man was made a slave; you shall see how a slave was made a man,” structures The Autobiography, too — at least until Malcolm’s integration into the structure, theology, and ideology of the Nation of Islam. Smethurst argues that The Autobiography also follows Douglass’s three life narratives in that each of the latter not only retells the story chronicled in the first narrative but also unveils Douglass’s evolving positions, his developing political literacy, through later political moments, the Civil War, Reconstruction, and the early rise of Jim Crow. The Autobiography does not project an end of the development with Malcolm X’s conversion to the Nation of Islam, but a continuing transition, his grappling with the rapidly changing domestic and international political and cultural environments of the 1960s.

Anthony Foy’s chapter asks how do we approach the overdetermined narrative of the African American celebrity as a modern variant of African American autobiography, rather than simply dismissing it for its lack or artistry, activism, or authenticity? Foy observes that (1) the Black celebrity narrative recounts the emergence, circulation, reception, and transformation of the star’s image while also registering the synedcochic function of the star’s racialized body; (2) it features the sites, activities, practices, and products of consumer culture in order to ratify the star’s status as exemplary consumer and alluring commodity; and (3) it commodifies authenticity by promising to reveal the putative real self beneath the racial persona. Ultimately, Foy calls for a fresh examination of the Black star’s autobiographical production that thoroughly attends to its historical contingency, political complexity, and theoretical possibility.

The first decade of the twentieth century introduced new voices into African American autobiography. The memoirs published as monographs enabled no assumptions about scope or content, or about literary aspirations or political agendas. Readers and publishers alike were introduced to a broad array of life writings prompted by many impulses. Booker T. Washington published two different works in 1901. An Autobiography: The Story of My Life and Work ran 455 pages and included 59 black and white images. Up from Slavery, Washington's shorter slave narrative, ran only 330 pages. Inspiring accounts of African American community engagement and collective aspirations, significantly more modest than Washington’s, were published that same year.The early twentieth century turn to the collective biography was a powerful rejection of self-made man mythologies long shaping white American autobiographical conventions. Life writing for and about the masses became a priority for magazine editor Pauline Hopkins and, by extension, for the Colored American Magazine. As her career revealed, Hopkins was dedicated to producing writing — including autobiography — that recuperated families and communities.

In her chapter, Thomas reads pre-1800 legal writings about people of African descent as Black life writing. She expands autobiographical writing beyond an account of an individual’s growth and development in cases of people of African descent to narratives regarding Black people as active agents forming an embodied community racialized and marginalized by the dominant culture. Thomas argues that Black writers published autobiographical writings and also wove personal narratives into legal documents from fidavits to freedom petitions, as well as into traditional literary forms such as poems and letters. However, during the same colonial and early American eras, people of European descent inscribed details about Black peoples in a variety of historical records such as the census, bills of sale, antislavery pamphlets, court records, and runaway slave advertisements to accentuate their differences from and inability to assimilate into the majority culture.

This chapter considers African American life writing in the United States, designed for, but also about and by, children, adolescents, and young adults. In the nineteenth century, the genre included materials intended for adult readers as well as youths: the literacy forbidden to many enslaved subjects was spread through religion and church schools, as well as with popular culture narratives like Nat Love’s “Deadwood Dick” adventures. More recently, the distinction between “child-” and “adult-” intended readerships continues to be murky with respect to graphic life narratives and autobiographical persona poetry. By exploring both widely available texts and more unconventional materials not meant for public consumption, such as the letters and diaries of adolescents, Anatol reflects on ways notions of “truth” and the “usefulness” of traditionally conceived autobiographical narratives can be challenged, perhaps to undermine the elitist and Eurocentric paradigms of earlier times.

This chapter investigates the literary practices by which twentieth-century Black queer writers have simultaneously utilized, challenged, and modified the generic conventions of autobiography. They do so, Abdur-Rahman argues, to articulate nonnormative pleasures and collective politics that are not readily conveyed by standard autobiographical writing. Because autobiography typically follows the trajectory of a linear narrative of progress, conventional autobiographies capture neither the complicated histories of African diasporic subjects nor the quotidian experiences and social conditions that shape collective Black life and politics. Queer autobiographies typically take the form of the coming-out narrative, which emphasizes the primacy of sexuality over other components of personal identity and other forms of (communal) becoming and belonging. Abdur-Rahman deploys recent reconfigurations of sexual disclosure from "coming out to inviting in" to argue that Black queer life writing redefines the domains around which sexual identities are believed to cohere.

Moody’s introduction observes that works of African American autobiography predate even the oft-cited 1760 Narrative of the Uncommon Sufferings, and Surprizing Deliverance of Briton Hammon, and the 1783 petition to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts filed by Belinda Royall (Sutton). Moody argues the genre of Black life writing has persistently appealed to African American authors telling life stories in promoting diverse causes from a range of African-descended ethnic backgrounds. She contends that the financial rewards of Michelle Obama’s memoir Becoming — and the testimonies it has generated — reveal African American readers look to each other for life narratives of diverse Black experiences that enable the construction, constitution, and promulgation of a credible Black self. Moreover, Moody asserts, the persistent cultural shifts of African American life writing as literary and historical phenomena have been well documented. Joining a long trajectory of critical studies, the introduction establishes the prominence of Black life writing across US history.

McCaskill examines three different groundbreaking texts of the second half of the twentieth century: Toni Cade Bambara’s The Black Woman (1970), Lucille Clifton’s Generations (1976), and Patricia Bell-Scott et al.’s Double Stitch (1991). Working backwards and forwards from these three texts, McCaskill’s chapter analyzes ways that Black women turned the tables on previous representations of themselves by Black men and hegemonic others as subordinate citizens, matriarchs, and ciphers.

Published monthly from January of 1920 through December of 1921 by W.E. B. Du Bois and members of The Crisis staff, The Brownies’ Book was one of the first periodicals created mainly for African American children. The serial set seven goals, two of which were to familiarize Black children with African American historical achievements and to foster pride and hope in their own capabilities. Issues of The Brownies’ Book frequently featured biographies of famous African Americans such as Benjamin Banneker, Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, Crispus Attucks, and Phillis Wheatley. Although The Brownies’ Book ceased publication after two years for financial reasons, McNair suggests, the goals of this magazine continue to be relevant within the context of African American children’s literature, which she defines as books intended for youth written by and about African American authors. McNair observes one could further argue that The Brownies’ Book laid the foundation for African American children’s literature in terms of its ideological underpinnings.

May argues African American autobiography became integral to the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Atlantic cultural world with the publication of Briton Hammon’s 1760 account of his sea travels and captivity. With Hammon's text, the genre expanded to become a literary, political, and economic phenomenon by the time of the 1789 British publication of Olaudah Equiano’s more comprehensive and popular life story. In fact, 1760 is a year, May contends, that marks the beginning of known literature written and published by Black people living in England and British North America, a wide range of genres engaging life writing including slave narratives, captivity narratives, confessionals, pamphlets, poetry, sermons, and jeremiads. African American autobiography captivated the attention of a general readership until the end of the Civil War, a readership constituted mainly of a growing white middle class and elite reading audience.

This chapter addresses examples of African American autobiography published before the Civil War that both called for and complicated the concept of a Black community, narratives not about the journey from slavery to freedom but about the story of a tenuous freedom and an uncertain community, a collective story under development and in need of a proper telling. Many of these autobiographies speak of platforms built, of relations established, of communities forged; others speak of the need for such platforms, the absence of immediate relations, the longing for community. What they all share, however, is the commitment to telling a different story about Black life and ambition than the one that was all but required of African Americans at the time, the story of suffering under slavery.

Rambsy argues that the widespread recent use of persona poems by African American authors makes an examination of African American poetry in the context of autobiography especially timely. In the realm of poetry, Black writers have been integral to first-person portrayals of African American lives. An analysis of persona poems in relation to book-length volumes that concentrate on individual African American historical figures creates new scholarly possibilities. Indeed, book history and print culture studies concentrate on publications produced during the nineteenth century. Conversely, an examination of persona poems by Black poets reveals the viability of studying contemporary African American book history. This chapter addresses more than forty poets and sixty volumes of poetry and individual poems forming first-person narratives. Not comprehensive but focused, this study analyzes noteworthy contributions to the production of autobiographical narratives in African American poetry.

This chapter takes up the haunting of African American lives by examining the role of biomedicine in twentieth- and twenty-first-century African American life writing. For Black people, American biomedicine has always been a haunted house, filled with the ghosts of Black lives lost in the name of racist science and scientific racism. The approach Bailey and Peoples take questions what is knowable under biomedical frameworks. What is prohibited from knowing? What kinds of biographical and historical identities are produced in biomedicine and biomedical narratives? How, if at all, can biomedicine and Black auto/biography produce just and ethical narratives of Black lives and Black futures?

Norman’s chapter excavates a missing element in studies of the civil rights autobiography tradition: narratives by children who did not tell their own story, but who nevertheless were central to the movement and in many cases helped shape it. These include Melba Patillo Beals, one of the Littlerock Nine and author of Warriors Don’t Cry: A Searing Memoir of the Battle to Integrate Little Rock’s Central High. Norman argues that, adorned with diverse artifacts of Black print culture, Beals’s autobiography invites the reader into a journey of becoming a face of everyday Black heroism amid pervasive and fierce white commitments to segregation. Just as important as Beals’s life narrative are those of everyday living during a period of massive social change, including Rosemary Bray’s Unafraid of the Dark: A Memoir, which details a childhood shaped by poverty, Catholicism, the welfare state, and a freedom movement providing new language, models, and hopes for a nation’s citizens. Norman’s chapter ultimately traces African American autobiography by children of the movement from Amira Baraka’s daughter Lisa to Paul Coates’s son Ta-Nehisi.

Reading Caribbean autobiography as a space of difference, Aljoe’s chapter aims not to emphasize rigid separation, but rather to highlight the vibrant complexity of life writing discourses throughout global African diasporas, as well as to contribute to articulations of the myriad ways in which Black lives have been represented across the globe. Aljoe elaborates on some of the ways in which Afro-Caribbean life writing can be considered a distinct tradition within a broader tradition of transatlantic African diasporic writing. Her goal is to illuminate three key issues that distinguish Afro-Caribbean life writing: the importance of attending to mediated slave narratives within larger traditions of life writing, engagements with the imbrication of notions of national and individual sovereignty, and finally, articulation of that which is grounded in the inherently Creole culture of the Caribbean.

Chaney investigates the "changing same" of visual self-presentation in African American autobiography, history, biography, and fiction, paying attention to two forms: frontispieces and illustrations of the nineteenth-century ex-fugitive and comics from twenty-first-century African American artists and writers. The bridge between these two zones of history is not to be erected or traversed in the name of a naïve comparison, nor is it to be drawn from the coincidence of similarity arising from the fact that all the texts involved are partly visual. Rather, the gulf separating Frederick Douglass and Matt Johnson, for example, and their time periods is itself an assumption that the graphic works discussed in this chapter all seek to dismantle. Insofar as the traumatic Black subject is nearly always also a historical one in contemporary entertainments, African American graphic novels reclaim the past in the name of the present: through a style, voice, or look that is unavoidably "presentist" in its approach — since even a comic designed to resemble antebellum illustrations always does so in a manner that contrarily flaunts what is more contemporary than historical about the text.

The complex interaction between the visual and print culture is central to transitions in definitions and perceptions of Black personhood and mid-century African American literature. Marshaled by race science and criminology, and underwriting the emergence of the periodical as media form in the United States through its advertisements for fugitives and enslaved Africans for sale, visuality was imbricated with print. Autumn Womack approaches visuality in the Anglo-African Magazine through its statistical essays in order to contend that the magazine was brokering a transition from a text-based articulation of Black freedom to one figured in and through visuality. The “visual grammar” that resulted, she argues, presented Black freedom as accomplished and aspirational. Womack thus further elaborates the scholarly contention that Black American practitioners of visuality ranged beyond those using photography, such as Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth, to those debating the visual’s affordances in written texts, including Martin Delany, William J. Wilson, Ida B. Wells, Harriet Jacobs, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Louisa Picquet, W. E. B. Du Bois, and Booker T. Washington. She argues that the Anglo-African Magazine explored and reframed the conceptual and visual dimensions of Black freedom by pursuing what optic strategies and practices it both demanded and engendered.