I agree with Toni Morrison when it comes to the significance of African American literature. It is interesting that an entire culture’s art could be systematically denied a place in a country’s literary canon. I’m not sure if it happened for purely racist reasons, although there could very well be elements of racism intruding into the fray. More likely, the perception of African American literature is an extension of slave writings, or writings about slavery. This is perceived as not having the “universal” quality that so often gets applied to white writers. Critics claim that works concerned with slavery are too focused, and too few readers can relate. This is silly. How many inner-city black kids can relate to a stuffy Jane Austen novel or even James Joyce? They are just as excluded from white canon as a member of the high academic community might be from a gritty slave narrative.

The point is that writing is a form of expression, and as such should be judged on its own merits. I think the significance of African American literature is to give a voice to those who traditionally have struggled to find one. That’s what makes the study of African American literature particularly interesting. Not only have these authors had to struggle with the typical demands of writing, but they have also had to combat a system which works to keep them silenced. I hesitate to use the term “alternative” to describe a body of work like this (it’s an alternative to what, exactly?), but I have greatly enjoyed the discovery of authors who would rarely ever get mentioned in an ordinary “American” literature class, and hope to go on to read many more African American authors. The work can compare with any of the traditional canonical authors, in my opinion.

I missed the Week 6 post, as it was around Spring Break, and I got confused as to due dates, and didn’t even have internet access over the break. I’ve made up for that post now, although you may have to scroll down or visit a previous page to find it.

For the Week 9 post, I basically forgot to do it, being under a mountain of work for my other classes. It’s also down a bit–some scrolling may be required.

The Week 10 (impact of slavery) post is on time, and should be right beneath this one.

Finally, I never had a chance to respond to a question about how I chose Audre Lorde as the subject of my profile from a few weeks ago. Fall semester 2007 I took a course, W St 369, called Queer Identities in Contemporary Cultures, taught by Professor Linda Heidenreich. It was a very enlightening course, in which we read, among others, Langston Hughes, and the interesting and lovable Tatiana de la Tierra. Near the beginning of the semester, we read an essay by Audre Lorde, as well as her famous work, “Poetry Is Not a Luxury.” I was fascinated by her insistence that words can change the world, especially for queer writers and artists struggling to establish their own space in a mostly hetero-normative society. I found Lorde to be a very righteous woman, however we didn’t spend enough time with her in class to discuss the more controversial aspects of her writing–specifically, the backlash of her attacks on white feminists, and other run-ins she had with her peers.

I suppose I hadn’t given much thought to how slavery would exist in the texts of this class. Had I spent some time before the semester trying to picture the works we would read, and what role slavery would play in informing the literature, I imagine I would have guessed “an important one.” Nearing the end of the semester, I see now just how important that role is. Every novel we have read has dealt directly (Kindred, The Known World) or indirectly (Quicksand, Going to Meet the Man, Gabriel’s Story) with slavery and its effects. What I mean is that whether or not a work’s story is directly tied up in slavery, there is always an existing specter in the background.

I think this has much to do with the history of African Americans in America. The reason African Americans exist in America as a race is slavery. This means that slave origins can never fully be extracted from the African-American experience. A sad reality, but nevertheless one that these authors must work within the confines of.

For example, in Nella Larsen’s Quicksand, Helga Crane feels the urge to leave the South, owing to her view that the people around her aren’t as cultured, modern, or cosmopolitan as she is. Perhaps she sees those around her as too close to slavery, instead of the intellectual, worldly being she imagines herself to be. So she moves to New York, and Denmark, and back to New York, all the while trying to find a place where like-minded individuals will embrace her. She never does, and eventually ends up in a rural town, married to a preacher and surrounded by almost slave-minded black women. Her depression reaches a record high, and she wastes away producing a string of babies for her husband. I see Helga as too focused on rejecting society and focusing too much on trying to be an idealized version of herself, rather than truly examining who she is, and being okay with it. This is a sort of double consciousness, except that her subjective view of herself is flawed. This may have been a bit of a digression, I fear…

Obviously Kindred and The Known World are more focused on slavery, setting their stories in the early- to mid-1800s. In Kindred especially, Octavia Butler presents with a woman, Dana, who has no sense of connection to her past. By transporting her back in time, Butler could perhaps be suggesting that we are now so far removed from slavery that we’ve lost touch with the effects it continues to have on our society. Only by forcing Dana to experience it for herself is a deeper understanding and appreciation gained. An extreme example, for sure, but Butler’s point is well-taken.

Edward P. Jones’s The Known World is fascinating. First of all, I might as well address the obvious observations about the writing and narrative style. Jones does not employ a linear, plot-driven style, instead choosing to focus on a sort of all-at-once, overhead view exploring themes and connections. Upon beginning the book, I found this approach somewhat off-putting. Directly after finishing Octavia Butler’s first-person, heavily plot-driven Kindred, it took some time to adjust to the differences in storytelling style. In fact, I was essentially lost in Jones’s narrative for the first 40-50 pages before finally getting a handle on where and when I was while reading.

I appreciate the way that The Known World is set up. I find the God-like, aerial, all-time-exists-at-once-but-we’ll-only-focus-on-one-thing-at-a-time narration unique and well realized. At first, I was horribly confused as to how Jones had won a Pulitzer Prize for this novel. It wasn’t until I was about halfway through or so that things began to come together, and the themes and connections between the characters started to show themselves more clearly.

I liken The Known World to a grand-scale, sweeping, epic film, in the vein of The English Patient or Lawrence of Arabia in terms of scope and vision. Jones seeks to give us the biggest picture of slavery that he can, through the use of an entire region of the country. I find it particularly interesting how whenever we’re introduced to a new character, Jones quickly (or sometimes not so quickly) diverts from the main story to give us details on that character’s life. That can include the story of their death, or something interesting and telling from their life. The sense of community is reinforced strongly through these digressions, which often include other characters we’re already familiar with.

Overall I was extremely impressed by Jones’s work. I can’t really recall another novel I’ve read that told its story in this manner.

Paul Laurence Dunbar was an African-American poet active around the turn of the 20^th century. His parents were former slaves, his father being a veteran of the American Civil War. Significantly, he was a standout student in college in Dayton, Ohio, working as both class president and editor of the student newspaper, both achievements almost unheard of for a black man at that time.

An interesting aspect of Dunbar’s work is his use of both traditional American English, and African-American dialects. He later grew skeptical of the novelty of his slangy, phonetic, dialect poems, and became weary of being pigeonholed. His work outside of these novel poems encompassed a graceful use of language in giving a voice to slavery.

For an essay in my English 373 class, I examined one of his poems in particular, “We Wear the Mask.” It is a fantastic example of Du Bois’s notion of double consciousness, although Du Bois would not write of the idea until almost ten years later in The Souls of Black Folk. Dunbar’s poem describes the “mask” that blacks wear to hide the suffering they experience. White society perceives blacks as characters in a minstrel show, dancing and referring to whites as “massa.” The poem beautifully gives us insight into how false this is.

Sadly, Dunbar was diagnosed with tuberculosis in 1900, shortly after taking a job at the Library of Congress. He moved to Colorado with his wife to reduce his stress during his final years. He died at the woefully young age of 33 in 1906. He is interred in his hometown of Dayton, Ohio.

Audre Lorde was a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet.” Lorde was born in 1934 and died in 1992, and the bulk of her output came between the years of 1970 and 1990. She is best known as a leading voice in contemporary feminist thought and literature. Significantly, she attacked white women for their complicit role in the patriarchy of society. Among her peers, she was viewed with an amount of disdain, as her views were very accusatory and confrontational. She very controversially equated white feminists with white slave-masters, claiming that their failure to acknowledge the differences among women simply continued traditions of oppression.

A better way to describe these differences is this: the experience of black women is necessarily different from white women. However, white women are considered the “normal” subset of women and black women are considered the “outsiders” even within the gender. Also, lesbians are considered “outsiders” within the construct of feminism. It is these separations that Lorde argued against. She sought to validate the experience of all women, black, white, lesbian, straight, etc. Unfortunately, the critics of her theories believed that by calling out feminists who were guilty of these generalizations, she would not help to unite those fighting for similar causes. It was thought that despite the common goal, infighting and personal vendettas would mar the ideal instead of promote it.

After Lorde’s death, an organization was formed in New York to promote progressive ideas among queer people of color. The center, called the Audre Lorde Project, is an important part of LGBT activism in America.

Again it failed to be mentioned in class (partially my fault, I neglected to speak up) that Kindred’s present-day storyline takes place in 1976. I think the significance of this cannot be overlooked. Our class touched on many excellent points regarding the importance of Dana’s arm being severed during her final return to the present. However, I feel like the bicentennial year cannot be ignored. The severing of her arm represents the mark that slavery leaves, both literally and symbolically, in the form of physical scars and emotional pain, on its victims. Despite being safe and secure back in 1976, she is reminded constantly of slavery’s cost. I think it is particularly poignant that Butler set this novel in 1976 because of the bicentennial, as I mentioned in my last post. Obviously I was not alive then, but from what I’ve learned the celebrations were lavish. I think Butler also has Dana’s final journey take place on July 4. Hmm. The juxtaposition of the horrors of slavery with the blind patriotism that a bicentennial celebration inspires shows us how little we talk about the systems that built this country in the first place. With all the talk of democracy, freedom, liberty and justice for all, it is still shocking, to me at least, just how hypocritical the American rhetoric is. Perhaps it is just the pinko commie liberal-progressive in me, but whenever I hear someone spouting the virtues of our just, moral American system, I cannot help but feel a little bit embarrassed.

I think Kindred helps us remember the values that this country was founded on. Values that we cannot continue to sweep under the rug in the name of freedom and prosperity.

There are a few interesting dynamics in Octavia Butler’s Kindred. As was noted in class, the main character Dana really has no idea what is happening to her. Butler’s use of a first-person narrative forces the reader to follow alongside, and in the mind of Dana as she discovers more and more about the situation. At first, this is painstaking. Both Dana and the reader are anxious to know the explanation for her time travel. Slowly we begin to gather pieces of the puzzle, eventually learning that she is drawn back to the past when Rufus’s life is in danger and he needs her help. She comes back to the present whenever she feels her life threatened.

I found that Dana quickly accepts that she is a time traveler, and proceeds from there. After her second trip, she decides to arm herself in preparation for the next time. I thought it interesting that she was able to suspend her disbelief so immediately. Some people might dwell on the fact for a while before composing themselves and thinking rationally.

Another point I thought was worth exploring was the setting of the present-day portions of the novel. The modern story is set in 1976, a year known primarily for the bicentennial celebrations that took place. America “turned 200” that year, and patriotic displays were commonplace. There is no way this was not done intentionally on Butler’s part. I think it is meant to accentuate the blight that slavery is on the history of America. I wasn’t alive at the time, but I’m certain that celebrations of America’s formation didn’t include a retrospective of slavery in the south. Dana’s journey between bicentennial America and the antebellum south is an interesting juxtaposition.

I have no religious upbringing and am not familiar with the stories of the Bible. Because of this, I think I missed some of the larger themes that David Durham writes about in Gabriel’s Story. Through talking to classmates in small groups, the only bit of illumination I have received is that Gabriel, in the Bible, was something called an “archangel.” Naturally, my curiosity was piqued, and I did some research to find out both what an archangel is, and what Gabriel’s role in the Old Testament was, as it seemed likely that this information would shed light on the story.

What I found is that an archangel is essentially a high-ranking angel, one who works closely with God. The only two ever named explicitly are Michael and Gabriel. Gabriel’s most significant act, from what I found, was delivering the news to Mary that she was pregnant with the baby Jesus, a event referred to in Christian tradition as “The Annunciation.” Well, that doesn’t really help me any.

The only useful thing I found came from the book itself. In the epilogue, a man we can assume is Hiram tells of the acts of violence that angels have done in the name of God. Raphael smote Asmodeus, Elijah smote the prophets of Baal, and Michael smote Satan’s army. Gabriel did the same. Marshall can be read as a devil figure, or a representation of evil. Gabriel and his family are angels of God, harbingers of justice and beacons of light. The act of killing Marshall is in effect a Biblical act, wherein an angel is justified in its destruction of an evil entity.

Durham’s thesis can then be summed up in a passage from the epilogue:

“… a battle won in the name of good, for protection of family against the devil’s agents, is a blessed thing. Remember that the angel Uriel, who guarded the gates of Eden, stood with a fiery sword in his hands. … There is no sin in this. Not even the angels live in peace. At least, not yet.”

The origins of Africans in America are rooted in violence. As a people, African-Americans would not even be present in this country if not for the slave trade during America’s formation. Slavery is by definition an exercise in suffering, as the victims are treated as subhuman. I see this as being reflected in the literature of African-Americans. Violence pervades their experiences. Their history is in fact built upon it. Even through the early part of the 20^th century, racially based murders were common in the South. The authors we are reading lived through these turbulent times, and their experiences were molded by them.

Baldwin’s “Going to Meet the Man” is a particularly poignant example. In the story, we get an extremely graphic depiction of a lynching. I am not sure if Baldwin ever witnessed this act in person, but even if he never did, his description is likely very accurate. The violence we see here is obviously shocking to the reader, but for the characters involved, it is thrilling, exhilarating, and entirely justified. Despite the inhumane and torturous act, the people carrying it out feel as if they are carrying out God’s will, or something equally deranged and misguided.

Quicksand to me does not depict suffering in the same way. Helga Crane’s turmoil is internal, and indirectly a result of her situation. Her problems stem from an unhealthy childhood, although it could be said that her half-black, half-white genes exacerbated the problem. Still, I see Helga’s suffering as not so much a continuation of the plight of blacks in America but more a result of a traumatic upbringing.

Gabriel’s Story, although I am only about a third of the way through, feels like it is going to explode into a rousing, violent epic. As of my posting this, I haven’t begun the second part of the novel, so I am still unsure of what will befall Gabriel and James during their journey. I think, however, that there will be a violent confrontation at some point, resulting in the death of one of the boys, most likely James.