Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a

Host: The rain fell in slow, melancholic threads across the city’s glass skyline. Inside a small bookstore café, the air was thick with coffee steam and the smell of paper—old, faded, and beloved. The lamplight glowed amber, soft against the windows, where drops of water raced each other down to the pavement below. Jack sat at the corner table, his grey eyes tracing the spines of books like a hunter scanning for truth. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup, steam curling like whispers between them.

The quote, printed on a flyer taped to the counter, had caught both their attention:
“Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a serious, rigorous art form.” — Toni Morrison.

Jeeny broke the silence first, her voice soft but anchored.

Jeeny: “She’s right, you know. We’ve turned art into a case study. We don’t read to feel, we read to categorize. Morrison’s pain was that Black art is too often treated as a lesson—not a symphony.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. His fingers tapped against the wooden table, a rhythm of skepticism.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You say that like we should ignore the social and historical context. Every story comes from its world. If we strip the sociology, we lose the truth that made the art real.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the problem, Jack. When you study it only as sociology, you put it in a museum, behind glass. You make it a specimen—something to examine, not something to experience. Art should make us ache, not just understand.”

Host: The light flickered as a bus passed outside, splashing rainwater onto the curb. The sound echoed in their pause.

Jack: “I think Morrison overstates it. People study Shakespeare’s plays as social commentary, too. Are we diminishing him when we say Hamlet reflects Elizabethan anxieties? Or when we teach Macbeth as political ambition run wild?”

Jeeny: “Shakespeare was never asked to represent an entire people, Jack. No one said, ‘Let’s read him to understand what it’s like to be white in 1600.’ But with Morrison, Baldwin, Hughes—every time, it’s the same: This is how Black people feel. This is the Black experience. They become the textbook for empathy, not the standard for beauty.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, his jawline tightening. The haze of the café deepened as twilight bled into night.

Jack: “You’re saying the problem is in the lens, not the literature itself?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When a student reads Beloved, they shouldn’t just think about slavery as a social wound—they should feel the craft, the language, the architecture of that pain. Morrison didn’t just write history; she wrote magic from it. But we keep reducing her to a symbol.”

Jack: “But symbols matter, Jeeny. Art reflects reality. Maybe what you call reduction is actually recognition. Maybe the fact that Beloved is taught in sociology classes means it’s powerful enough to transcend literature.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes dark and luminous.

Jeeny: “Transcend? No, Jack. It’s been contained. The system says, ‘We’ll tolerate your art—as long as it teaches us something about ourselves.’ That’s not transcendence. That’s patronage disguised as praise.”

Jack: “So what—people shouldn’t analyze it sociologically? Should we just sit in awe of its prose and ignore the message?”

Jeeny: “Not ignore. But balance. Imagine if Picasso’s Guernica were only studied as a war report. It would lose its shock, its beauty, its insanity. That’s what’s happening here. The way we teach Black art—especially in white institutions—is an act of domestication.”

Host: The air grew tense, filled with the hum of the espresso machine, the drizzle outside turning to storm. Jeeny’s words hung between them, heavy and unresolved.

Jack: “I get your point, but art can’t escape sociology. Especially Black art. It was born from oppression, from a system that made existence political. You can’t separate the context from the canvas.”

Jeeny: “Then we’re damned to never see the art for what it is—only for where it came from. That’s like saying a rose is only soil and sunlight, not beauty. Morrison didn’t write for sociology; she wrote against its reduction. She crafted art that refuses containment. And yet, we study her like she’s a cultural report.”

Host: Jack’s breathing deepened. He ran a hand through his hair, a trace of frustration forming a line between his brows.

Jack: “You’re idealizing art, Jeeny. You talk like it exists in some sacred vacuum. But art has function—it influences politics, identity, awareness. Think about the Harlem Renaissance. Those writers weren’t just painting dreams; they were building social momentum.”

Jeeny: “True. But they built momentum through beauty, not by writing sociology essays. Langston Hughes didn’t intend his poetry to be a policy document. He wanted to stir the soul, not the statistics.”

Host: The storm grew louder. Thunder rolled like a slow drumbeat. A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating Jeeny’s face, fierce and glowing.

Jack: “So what do you want, Jeeny? For professors to stop assigning Morrison in sociology classes? For her to be read only in literature courses?”

Jeeny: “No. I want people to read her with reverence, not guilt. To see her as an artist, not an apologist. To treat her as they treat Kafka, Woolf, or Dostoevsky—with analytical awe, not sociological sympathy.”

Host: Jack stared at her, the silence between them now thick with reflection.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the tragedy—when pain becomes too articulate, people forget it’s also beautiful. Morrison’s words carry both trauma and craft, but we cling to the former because it absolves us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We prefer to study her wounds, not her weaving. We fear acknowledging her genius because it makes her equal, not exceptional. It removes our ability to say, ‘We’re learning tolerance.’ It forces us to say, ‘We’re learning art.’”

Host: The room fell into a quiet pulse, filled only by the sound of rain hitting the roof. The light over their table dimmed, a single halo above them.

Jack: “But Jeeny, even you’re teaching through art right now. You’re using her as an example of a moral failure in academia. Isn’t that still sociology?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Touché. But maybe that’s the irony Morrison knew too well. That even rebellion can be misread as data.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped Jack’s throat—not mocking, but weary.

Jack: “So, where’s the way out? How do we honor her art without erasing her history?”

Jeeny: “By reading her completely. By letting language and meaning coexist. By not deciding in advance what the art must teach. Morrison said once, ‘The function of freedom is to free someone else.’ Maybe the function of art is to free itself—from categories, from tolerance, from sociology.”

Host: The storm softened. The rain turned to a whisper, as if the sky itself was exhaling. Jack’s eyes lowered to the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe every time we teach a story only as sociology, we’re closing a door it was meant to open.”

Jeeny: “And maybe every time we teach it only as art, we risk forgetting why it had to be written at all.”

Host: Their eyes met—his, cold steel melting into ash, hers, dark flame softening to glow.

Jack: “So it’s both. Art and sociology. But the order matters. We should start with the beauty—and let the meaning follow.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if you start with meaning, you end with pity. But if you start with beauty, you end with understanding.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, then steadied. Outside, the rain ceased. The pavement glistened under the streetlamps, each drop a memory of the storm.

Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet, both staring at the bookshelf where Morrison’s novels stood side by side—spines worn, titles shimmering faintly in the light.

Jeeny reached for one, her fingers brushing the cover.

Jeeny: “We don’t read her to learn tolerance, Jack. We read her to remember what beauty costs.”

Host: And for a moment, the city outside held its breath, as if the world itself understood that art—real art—was not meant to explain life, but to feel it. The camera lingered on their faces, the lamplight warm and forgiving, before fading to black.