Denver -- Death almost doesn't exist. It is not the death itself, but the symbolism of the person leaving (meaning they've stopped loving/being able to love her) that matters. For Denver, who has grown up through adolescence with a sibling who is literally a ghost, "leaving" is worse than death. Her worst experiences have been learning that her brothers are absent and that Baby Suggs is "gone" (145). To her, Paul D taking her mother away would be worse than killing her mother. She requires proximity, a display of love. Without it, she doesn't exist. She labels death a "skipped meal compared to" the feeling that she is "dissolving into nothing" because she "has no world" if she has to "put up with another leaving, another trick" (145).
Beloved -- Beloved's view of death matches Denver's. Beloved is incapable of seeing death as finality (she came back to life!), but the fact that murder symbolizes a pushing away out of life, out of proximity, is what matters. Even though she knows she is literally "beloved," and so the love is not the issue (her mother killed her out of love, not out of hate, and it seems she recognizes this), perhaps she (and Denver?) might almost be more content with slave life with her mother's full attention and proximity than freedom without it. (The issue is that neither of them understand that slavery means no control over this proximity, over this ability to communicate and love.)
Sethe -- Death is safety, because it is a state past exploitation. She is content (well...what is the right word...forced? willing? determined?) to try to kill her offspring ("the parts of her that were precious and fine and beautiful" (192)) to put them somewhere "where they'd be safe" (193) because she "couldn't let...any of em live under schoolteacher" (192). But, at the same time, she is unsurprised that the past (represented by Beloved's ghost) can come back to haunt, that Beloved could have come back from the dead. If she truly believes that her children would be safer in death than in life, but she believes that communication between the living and the dead is possible, what is there to keep her from thinking that her children might be equally injured in death than in life? (see Schoolteacher: further discussion)
Schoolteacher -- Death is unprofitable, so it should be avoided at all costs. Since it is impossible to exploit someone in death, people are something "you were paid to bring back alive" (174).
As we said in class today, Sethe understands this perspective, which strangely legitimizes the murder. If Sethe is willing to trade even mortal injury for exploitation, she apparently values her children's ability for self-respect above their well-being. Is she successful in allowing them to maintain self-respect? To be unexploited? She certainly thinks "it worked" (194). But her children (except Beloved), and seemingly everyone else, value the community's respect as well as their own self-respect...which is the source of some of the mother/daughter tension between Denver and Sethe. So, in a sense, this scene is so tough because Sethe exploits her own children, but for their own sake, so that they will not be exploited in a way she doesn't want them to be.
Baby Suggs -- Death is a hateful manifestation of the suffering of slave life that she has resigned herself to and come to expect after having a seventh child taken away from her (163). As a slave mother, she did not expect that her family members (especially Halle) would stay alive: "she had been prepared for [the news of Halle's death] better than she had for his life" (163). Of all the characters, she is perhaps the most veteraned at death (if that's possible), having had to deal with many in her life. So when she encounters Sethe's situation, she reacts with a how-can-I-salvage-this-situation attitude rather than an oh-my-goodness-this-is-horrendous one. At the same time, I believe she cracks under the pressure of this situation because she never expected that someone would willingly inflict death on someone else they loved. Previously, it was only something to be avoided, because it was part of the injustice inflicted by an unjust system, just like taking children away from their mother.
Stamp Paid -- Death is something to be saved from. He thinks he "saved" Denver from death, so therefore death is bad and should never be desired (208). In this way, his viewpoint is like that of the slave catchers. But, through working toward an understanding of postmortem Baby Suggs, he is also the first outside of 124 who begins to try to understand Sethe's perspective that death might be a better option than life in some cases, even if he's not willing to understand that perspective (212).
Paul D -- Death is something that can be obtained by completely ridding oneself of life. Paul D tries to beat the life out of Life, so that he can live in chain-gang Georgia without having to suffer the "flirt" of Life. However, his idea of death also incorporates safety ("only when [Life] was dead would they be safe" (128)), but he is referring to mental, not physical, safety (from "caring and looking forward, remembering and looking back" (128)). Like Sethe, Paul D believes that death is something that doesn't have to last forever. To him, life can come back, after it has "rolled over dead" (129) if enough hope is present.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
All the Lonely People vs. Run, Mourner, Run
Since we're reading The Symposium in Philosophy, which is all about love, I've been thinking a lot recently about definitions of love. So it's interesting that my daily considerations of a new definition of love in Philosophy so nicely coincided with two different (but both relatable/realistic) depictions of love in these two short stories. I thought I'd try to break down the psychology of each in the context/language that we might use in Philosophy class. For some reason, the definition that Phaedrus presents of love in the context of two unequals, the lover and the beloved, works really well to understand what's going on in each of these short stories.
Traditionally, the "lover" instigates the relationship with the "beloved," who is the person with less power and acts in response to the lover's attentions. The lover should the older of the two, with more experience, and wants to teach the beloved something about how to be virtuous and how to love...because love is about striving to improve another person for their own good (thus the lover must be more experienced than the beloved so that this can be possible). And in Greek society, male-male relationships in this way were quite common: at least among the upper classes, these lover-beloved relationships formed schooling for youths after the equivalent of elementary school.
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McPherson: All the Lonely People
Dennis holds an image of love as a relationship between two unequals. But he turns this idea somewhat on its head: he imagines that those being sought after (which he terms "the hunted," and would potentially parallel "the beloved") as the more powerful in the relationship than those he terms "hunters," who seemingly spend all their time sniveling after the attentions of the hunted. (As an aside, McPherson's terminology also turns biology on its head :D). Dennis wants to be one of the hunted. But perhaps Dennis' definition only concerns sex.
Taking a step back, we see that Dennis sees others suffering and has the uncommunicated capacity to feel pity (or disgust) for other people's social positions in society (like Alfred, Gloria, and even Gerald, perhaps) much more than many of the other people in the short story seem to. If Dennis had the hope that he could try to improve these people's virtue or cared for these people, he would have all the qualities necessary to be a fantastic lover, once he had gotten a little older.
Dennis's problem with himself is that, though he seems to have the capacity for love on a nonsexual level, he doesn't recognize this nonsexual capacity for love as a legitimate means for love. He wants himself to fill the role of the beloved, and initially refuses the attentions of those who hunt him. He is looking to be hunted by a different kind of hunter.
So perhaps this is the a coming of age story, in which Gerald fills the role of Dennis's potential role model, and in which Dennis begins to question his choice of role model. Perhaps Dennis is realizing that love is much more than sex; that, perhaps, love can be something other than sex, or that the true definition of love doesn't have to have anything to do with traditional, societal definitions of love. In fact, according to Plato, it shouldn't: the masses let their apetites and emotions rule over reason. This would make for a very loose reading of the closing line, "I began to wonder about the way I am." But then again, Dennis never says much about what he thinks about himself...he only says what he thinks about others...and it is from this that we gain knowledge about what he thinks about himself...and here he is questioning that...and I am reading into the heavy implications that Dennis's closing questioning has something to do with his sexuality.
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Kenan: Run, Mourner, Run
Dean is clearly in the position of the beloved, a gay man like Dennis (well--Dennis is beginning to consider a possibility). But unlike Dennis, he is willing to accept the affections showered upon him by male lovers. In fact, he goes overboard: he plays their affections to his advantage. He is corrupted by being a beloved. Perhaps it is not his fault: the issue could be that he has never experienced a lover that really loved him in the sense that they wanted to help him improve as a person, and instead he has only encountered people who want sex. Or, perhaps, Dennis doesn't have the innate capacity for improvement.
So he has the opposite problem of Dennis. Dean has a plethora of sex, but what he really needs (wants?) is a relationship that provides him with something more than sex. In this context, it makes sense that he takes Terrell's offer to blackmail Raymond. Terrell speaks as a lover to Dean as the beloved, and Dean does not refuse the offer, because Terrell is doing something that can allow Dean to improve as an individual (well....okay....Dean's judgment is a little off on this one.....).
With this view of events, Dean's problem is that the very person he's blackmailing is the first person who loves him as a person. Dean says, "Don't nobody give a shit about me. My mama, maybe." And Ray responds, "Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that." It is immediately after recalling this encounter that Dean wonders, for the first time, if he had "thought of...how he was to betray this mesmerizing man." Once the events actually take place, Dean realizes his mistake: the beloved can never be more powerful than the lover, because it is the lover who is in charge of the affections to which the beloved responds.
Dean becomes engaged, perhaps overengaged, in self-reflection. If we set the short stories side by side, Dean's thoughts are taking place at the time equivalent to what might be Dennis's thoughts about a week after his story is complete. As Dean thinks through, he is interestingly contemplating what he might have done as a person, what personal defects (never sexual) might have prevented him from gaining the fulfillment of a permanent lover who wants something more than sex. Like Dennis, perhaps, he has now recognized in the present (perhaps after his experience with Raymond?) that what goes into love is much more than sex.
Unfortunately, Dean's story closes with little hope. Dean doesn't seem to have too many qualities of a lover -- and he can't really develop them, because he has never been the beloved of a long-term lover who wants to improve him as an individual. Likewise, it's going to be pretty difficult for him to gain a lover. And while he might be the beloved of his mother, he is unable to pay back her affections...and he doesn't do the little she asks of him (to come inside for dinner), because he's lost in thought about the past. In many ways, this is the most depressing of the novels we have read thus far -- there is literally no way that Dean can improve his situation.
Traditionally, the "lover" instigates the relationship with the "beloved," who is the person with less power and acts in response to the lover's attentions. The lover should the older of the two, with more experience, and wants to teach the beloved something about how to be virtuous and how to love...because love is about striving to improve another person for their own good (thus the lover must be more experienced than the beloved so that this can be possible). And in Greek society, male-male relationships in this way were quite common: at least among the upper classes, these lover-beloved relationships formed schooling for youths after the equivalent of elementary school.
--------------------------------------------------
McPherson: All the Lonely People
Dennis holds an image of love as a relationship between two unequals. But he turns this idea somewhat on its head: he imagines that those being sought after (which he terms "the hunted," and would potentially parallel "the beloved") as the more powerful in the relationship than those he terms "hunters," who seemingly spend all their time sniveling after the attentions of the hunted. (As an aside, McPherson's terminology also turns biology on its head :D). Dennis wants to be one of the hunted. But perhaps Dennis' definition only concerns sex.
Taking a step back, we see that Dennis sees others suffering and has the uncommunicated capacity to feel pity (or disgust) for other people's social positions in society (like Alfred, Gloria, and even Gerald, perhaps) much more than many of the other people in the short story seem to. If Dennis had the hope that he could try to improve these people's virtue or cared for these people, he would have all the qualities necessary to be a fantastic lover, once he had gotten a little older.
Dennis's problem with himself is that, though he seems to have the capacity for love on a nonsexual level, he doesn't recognize this nonsexual capacity for love as a legitimate means for love. He wants himself to fill the role of the beloved, and initially refuses the attentions of those who hunt him. He is looking to be hunted by a different kind of hunter.
So perhaps this is the a coming of age story, in which Gerald fills the role of Dennis's potential role model, and in which Dennis begins to question his choice of role model. Perhaps Dennis is realizing that love is much more than sex; that, perhaps, love can be something other than sex, or that the true definition of love doesn't have to have anything to do with traditional, societal definitions of love. In fact, according to Plato, it shouldn't: the masses let their apetites and emotions rule over reason. This would make for a very loose reading of the closing line, "I began to wonder about the way I am." But then again, Dennis never says much about what he thinks about himself...he only says what he thinks about others...and it is from this that we gain knowledge about what he thinks about himself...and here he is questioning that...and I am reading into the heavy implications that Dennis's closing questioning has something to do with his sexuality.
--------------------------------------------------
Kenan: Run, Mourner, Run
Dean is clearly in the position of the beloved, a gay man like Dennis (well--Dennis is beginning to consider a possibility). But unlike Dennis, he is willing to accept the affections showered upon him by male lovers. In fact, he goes overboard: he plays their affections to his advantage. He is corrupted by being a beloved. Perhaps it is not his fault: the issue could be that he has never experienced a lover that really loved him in the sense that they wanted to help him improve as a person, and instead he has only encountered people who want sex. Or, perhaps, Dennis doesn't have the innate capacity for improvement.
So he has the opposite problem of Dennis. Dean has a plethora of sex, but what he really needs (wants?) is a relationship that provides him with something more than sex. In this context, it makes sense that he takes Terrell's offer to blackmail Raymond. Terrell speaks as a lover to Dean as the beloved, and Dean does not refuse the offer, because Terrell is doing something that can allow Dean to improve as an individual (well....okay....Dean's judgment is a little off on this one.....).
With this view of events, Dean's problem is that the very person he's blackmailing is the first person who loves him as a person. Dean says, "Don't nobody give a shit about me. My mama, maybe." And Ray responds, "Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that." It is immediately after recalling this encounter that Dean wonders, for the first time, if he had "thought of...how he was to betray this mesmerizing man." Once the events actually take place, Dean realizes his mistake: the beloved can never be more powerful than the lover, because it is the lover who is in charge of the affections to which the beloved responds.
Dean becomes engaged, perhaps overengaged, in self-reflection. If we set the short stories side by side, Dean's thoughts are taking place at the time equivalent to what might be Dennis's thoughts about a week after his story is complete. As Dean thinks through, he is interestingly contemplating what he might have done as a person, what personal defects (never sexual) might have prevented him from gaining the fulfillment of a permanent lover who wants something more than sex. Like Dennis, perhaps, he has now recognized in the present (perhaps after his experience with Raymond?) that what goes into love is much more than sex.
Unfortunately, Dean's story closes with little hope. Dean doesn't seem to have too many qualities of a lover -- and he can't really develop them, because he has never been the beloved of a long-term lover who wants to improve him as an individual. Likewise, it's going to be pretty difficult for him to gain a lover. And while he might be the beloved of his mother, he is unable to pay back her affections...and he doesn't do the little she asks of him (to come inside for dinner), because he's lost in thought about the past. In many ways, this is the most depressing of the novels we have read thus far -- there is literally no way that Dean can improve his situation.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
The Modern Graffiti Market
I found a site (http://www.graffitiartnewyork.com/) and thought I'd look up what our graffiti friends from PBS's Style Wars (1983) are up to in their late-middle age...
This is TAKI 183's only work up on the website (I enlarged a lot in hopes of reading some of the smaller text). Most artists linked only two or three.
Whereas TAKI 183's here looks like it is tagging-focused, SEEN seems as if he is trying to have his work appear as a close-up of a more traditionally-artistic, complicated, bright, complex signature that he might have once painted on a train (also for $350):
Both artists' work are less than 2ft by 2ft in size....what??!!! That's out of character. Additionally, SEEN's picture used "marker," which I would guess does not allow for much color layering. TAKI 183 used "silkscreen print"...which seems a little to complicated or fancy for what I'd expect. But who am I to judge? Why must we box graffiti artists into the exact type of work they've completed before? Can't their work evolve as the culture evolves, just like any other art? What exactly do we define as "graffiti-art," anyway? Doesn't that imply that it must be somehow trying to defy some institution/law?
Both SEEN and TAKI 183 do sort of defy standards by listing the colors of the work as his title, for ex., "red and black." And TAKI 183 titles his "Taki183"...a self-portrait?
Also interesting is that SEEN opened a tattoo parlor (Tattoo Seen) that became one of the most successful in NY, and that he now has an exhibit on display in Paris.
Haha but look what I found?
It also looks like many of these guys ended up at the same high school: High School of Art & Design. And yet it was the ones who majored in art and conformed a little more to the "norms" or art are the ones whose works are being sold for higher prices. This one is selling for $5000, by an artist who had a solo show at an art gallery in the Bronx by 1982.
This is TAKI 183's only work up on the website (I enlarged a lot in hopes of reading some of the smaller text). Most artists linked only two or three.
 |
| A modern work by TAKI 183 (made in 2010), selling for $350. Highly ironic that the piece is "signed on reverse," as if that it is the signature that really counts for something. |
Whereas TAKI 183's here looks like it is tagging-focused, SEEN seems as if he is trying to have his work appear as a close-up of a more traditionally-artistic, complicated, bright, complex signature that he might have once painted on a train (also for $350):
 |
Both SEEN and TAKI 183 do sort of defy standards by listing the colors of the work as his title, for ex., "red and black." And TAKI 183 titles his "Taki183"...a self-portrait?
Also interesting is that SEEN opened a tattoo parlor (Tattoo Seen) that became one of the most successful in NY, and that he now has an exhibit on display in Paris.
Haha but look what I found?
 |
| BLADE specifically lists in his "materials" for this that he made it on an "NYC Subway Map" :) Can you see the lines behind the signature? |
It also looks like many of these guys ended up at the same high school: High School of Art & Design. And yet it was the ones who majored in art and conformed a little more to the "norms" or art are the ones whose works are being sold for higher prices. This one is selling for $5000, by an artist who had a solo show at an art gallery in the Bronx by 1982.
 |
| Crafted in 2010 by DAZE, this is on canvas, with perhaps a more standard title: "Nightshade." Not to say that DAZE is trying at all to fit any expectations or not fit them but for some reason his works just strike me as a bit more mainstream. (Wait...which are graffiti artists trying to do now? Do they have to by definition redefine expectations to continue being "graffiti" artists? But how is the same genre if they change styles too much?!!) P.S. I feel like Howie with such a long caption. |
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Illuminating the Blue Spotlight
The spotlight that randomly appears to track Gunnar the night of Yoshiko's "first craving" is perhaps one of the most unlikely aspects of Beatty's novel. Even Gunnar acknowledges how bizarre it is by introducing himself to the 7-Eleven clerk like an alien, "with a robotic 'Take me to your leader' " (216). Interestingly, the spotlight begins to attract attention and allow for Friday-night parties, instead of scaring everyone away. Even more strange is that "drug dealers have their say" and "hoodlums...bare their souls [with] black gunny-sacks stretched over the heads of the wanted ones to prevent the police from using an overhead skycam to identify them" (221) at these gatherings. The people probably know that the police could easily capture and arrest these people, but for some reason they keep their distance and never intervene.
What is going on here? Beatty could literally be implying that Gunnar's and Yoshiko's lives are now "spotlighted" in the national eye, no matter what they are doing. In fact, they advertise and consciously gather an audience for what might otherwise be a very private, family-level experience: giving birth to a baby. Perhaps they imagine their whole community as family, and that everyone should come to celebrate the life of the community.....but then how does this mesh with Gunnar's active work to convince the world to end the life of this entire community? Perhaps the end is less fatalistic than one's emotions might imply. Objectively, Gunnar and Yoshiko have finally found meaning in their lives, as evidenced by their willingness to die...so, paradoxically, they can now celebrate the life of their child. To each his own...I guess....but their conviction that Gunnar feels he must die in order to fully live will never cease to be heart-wrenching.
In any case, back to the spotlight. I wondered -- why "blue-white"? Why not, say, green? Or red? Or...only white? Blue was probably not Beatty's random choice. As I considered Beatty's reasoning, I remembered that the first color that defined Gunnar's Elementary School view of the world was blue. Specifically, the profanities, fantasies, municipal bus, toilet-paper grenades, and the ocean were blue. Interestingly, Gunnar connects the blue spotlight that showed up at the end of the book when he was buying a blue slushie for Yoshiko's craving to his description of Gunnar's Elementary School definition of blue. The Elementary School Gunnar had a "Slurpee blue" tongue (34). And Eileen, who was Gunnar's only other love in life besides Yoshiko (and, apparently, first-base baseball player Stan "the Man" Musial (33)), had "light-saber blue eyes" that "cut through [him] like lighthouse beacons lancing in the midnight" (34).
So the spotlight in the end of the book that illuminate's Yoshiko's midnight birth is the blue of Eileen's laser-lighthouse eyes. In both cases, Gunnar is being watched. As Eileen watches him, he hopes that she approves of what he does, because he has a crush on her, and she is probably judging him. But as the police watch him, they seem to care less what he does. When Gunnar is first spotlighted, he waits for the "standard drill" of the police, but recieves "nothing" in the way of response at all (216). As Gunnar grows more comfortable with the light's presence, he really could care less whether or not the police approves of what he does. And neither does he try to hide away from the light. Yoshiko describes it as "cool" (217), and both embrace (or ignore? or take advantage of?) its presence from that point onward.
Perhaps Gunnar is trying to convince the LAPD, or anyone, for that matter, to disapprove of what he does, like Monsieur de la Croix in Bamboozled. After Naomi's birth, when the LAPD warns that the child should have "a respect for authority," unlike Gunnar, his response is to hold up the afterbirth in defiance and state, "Thus behold the only thing mightier than yourself" (219). But after initial trepidation for the light and Gunnar's defiant stance toward the LAPD and the world in general, everyone seems accepts everything Gunnar says and does, just like they did with his poetry.
A more sinister reading of the spotlight could view it as more of a cage than an acceptance and illumination. "If [he] moved two feet to the left, the spotlight moved two feet to the left," keeping him "at its center" (216). Interestingly, in Gunnar's Elementary School "abstract impressionism coloring books," he spends his time "trying [his] hardest not to stay inside the lines" (34). So if coloring outside the lines is Gunnar's goal in life, perhaps his goal in writing poetry, then it is interesting that at the end of his life he is kept contained in the center of the beam of light. In expanding this idea, we realize that as Gunnar's published outside-the-lines poetry becomes bestselling, what Gunnar does and says actually becomes the mainstream understanding. He no longer even has the option of doing anything outside the lines. Even if he is asking to plunge outside of history, he no longer can. He is spotlighted, and his advertised plunge has gained awareness....so it becomes important to the world.
With this in mind, let us consider the fact that the beam of light is not only blue, but also white. In Gunnar's Elementary School color definition, he defines white as "the expulsion of colors encombered by self-awareness and pigment" (35). So we obtain the final aspect of the significance of the blue-white beam that the LAPD shines on Gunnar at night as his life draws to a close. Along with the inside-the-lines existence that the light forces Gunnar to live, it also asks him to recognize his life as important and having worldwide significance. There is no way around self-awareness when you are literally spotlighted. So Gunnar's actions and experiences become all the more poignant for readers, because they understand that the whole world will see what Gunnar says and does. But Gunnar thumbs his nose at the idea that the presence of the spotlight could affect how he views himself. By the end of the book, Gunnar seems almost as existentialist as Meursault. But unlike Mersault, he should recognize that the LAPD is right: his life is clearly significant to billions, and his existentialist attitude is being broadcast on national television. Along with his stable and apparently happy family life, this should, by modern logic, absolutely cancel out Gunnar's paradoxical belief that all that matters about his life is that it ends. But it doesn't.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Gunnar's Rap
If Ellison's novel reflects jazz tropes and Hurston's novel reflects blues tropes, then Beatty's novel reflects hip hop tropes, and explores the various stereotypes regarding hip hop artists in modern culture.
First, Gunnar has always used on-the-spot poetic or wordplay comments. He does this both just for fun, but also often to expose social ironies, insights, or criticisms. In Santa Monica, his seemingly MC-echoed comebacks got him the reputation of a "funny, cool, black guy." Everyone assumes this, not only within his school, but outside of it (the doctor immediately calls him this). Perhaps, during this period, Gunnar is seen as conforming to some of the more "Golden-Age" hip-hop styles, with its experimentalism and social commentary.
When he moves to the ghetto, the connection to hip hop culture becomes increasingly clear. He takes a poetry class and does graffiti art...by spray-painting his poem to a wall. He gradually begins doing more poetic work on-the-spot, starting with a poem he "composed" for Pumpkin's funeral then and there, which "signed [his] unofficial ascension to poete maudit for the Gun Totin' Hooligans and by extension the neighborhood."
But though he is living where the "Gangsta Rap"-type forms, and he has exposure to them in the streets, he is distanced from them. When the Stoic Undertakers are filming a music video in front of Gunnar's house, the producer is very specific. He refuses Gunnar as an extra because he is "too studious," and the producer wants" menacing or despondent," not "bookworm junior high larvae" (76). But perhaps this is Gunnar's problem in moving from Santa Monica to the ghetto. He had never been exposed to this idea of what people should be, before. In his previous socialization, popular emphasis was more on humorous funk styles, whereas now he is expected to learn how to act as though people expect him to be menacing or despondent (whether or not, inwardly, people actually are).
Another aspect of hip hop that Gunnar does not yet "fit" is the dance aspect. He claims he "couldn't dance and was deathly afraid of women" (121). But Psycho Loco will probably fix that. And this is the issue -- are the people in his new environment also forcing him into some image of what he should be? I think this is clear evidence that that is so. It is impossible for him to be part of either the Santa Monica or the ghetto social scene without somehow fitting some sort of image, or practicing some sort of behaviors. So this is the irony -- if rap is an experimental form, how can Gunnar continue to be a rap artist and yet still experiment? Perhaps Beatty is saying something about rap music, in general. Not only are the producers the ones who control the tone of the music and how it is presented to the public, but the culture of the people who write the lyrics dictates much of what they can and cannot say. Gunnar describes his poete maudit job as "immortaliz[ing] the rulers and say[ing] enough scholarly bullshit to keep from getting my head chopped off" (105). And after the producer says "cut," Beatty describes the "sybaritic rappers and hired concubines" who are "leaning into the camera with gnarled intimidating scowls" as experiencing an effect exactly mirroring that of the minstrelsy dynamic. The "curled lips snapped back into watermelon grins like fleshy rubber bands" and the previously-menacing despondents ask, "How was that, massa? Menacing enough fo' ya?" (77).
First, Gunnar has always used on-the-spot poetic or wordplay comments. He does this both just for fun, but also often to expose social ironies, insights, or criticisms. In Santa Monica, his seemingly MC-echoed comebacks got him the reputation of a "funny, cool, black guy." Everyone assumes this, not only within his school, but outside of it (the doctor immediately calls him this). Perhaps, during this period, Gunnar is seen as conforming to some of the more "Golden-Age" hip-hop styles, with its experimentalism and social commentary.
When he moves to the ghetto, the connection to hip hop culture becomes increasingly clear. He takes a poetry class and does graffiti art...by spray-painting his poem to a wall. He gradually begins doing more poetic work on-the-spot, starting with a poem he "composed" for Pumpkin's funeral then and there, which "signed [his] unofficial ascension to poete maudit for the Gun Totin' Hooligans and by extension the neighborhood."
But though he is living where the "Gangsta Rap"-type forms, and he has exposure to them in the streets, he is distanced from them. When the Stoic Undertakers are filming a music video in front of Gunnar's house, the producer is very specific. He refuses Gunnar as an extra because he is "too studious," and the producer wants" menacing or despondent," not "bookworm junior high larvae" (76). But perhaps this is Gunnar's problem in moving from Santa Monica to the ghetto. He had never been exposed to this idea of what people should be, before. In his previous socialization, popular emphasis was more on humorous funk styles, whereas now he is expected to learn how to act as though people expect him to be menacing or despondent (whether or not, inwardly, people actually are).
Another aspect of hip hop that Gunnar does not yet "fit" is the dance aspect. He claims he "couldn't dance and was deathly afraid of women" (121). But Psycho Loco will probably fix that. And this is the issue -- are the people in his new environment also forcing him into some image of what he should be? I think this is clear evidence that that is so. It is impossible for him to be part of either the Santa Monica or the ghetto social scene without somehow fitting some sort of image, or practicing some sort of behaviors. So this is the irony -- if rap is an experimental form, how can Gunnar continue to be a rap artist and yet still experiment? Perhaps Beatty is saying something about rap music, in general. Not only are the producers the ones who control the tone of the music and how it is presented to the public, but the culture of the people who write the lyrics dictates much of what they can and cannot say. Gunnar describes his poete maudit job as "immortaliz[ing] the rulers and say[ing] enough scholarly bullshit to keep from getting my head chopped off" (105). And after the producer says "cut," Beatty describes the "sybaritic rappers and hired concubines" who are "leaning into the camera with gnarled intimidating scowls" as experiencing an effect exactly mirroring that of the minstrelsy dynamic. The "curled lips snapped back into watermelon grins like fleshy rubber bands" and the previously-menacing despondents ask, "How was that, massa? Menacing enough fo' ya?" (77).
What Tea Cake has against Miss Turner's brother
Tea Cake describes Miss Turner as a woman who "live offa our money and don't lak black folks, huh?" (148). This view of Miss Turner is a more extreme version of the attitude that the people in Eatonville held for Joe. Joe came to Eatonville with the idea of ruling over everyone else, to make the town more improved than it would be without his presence. His first reaction to the town is: "God, they call this a town? Why 'taint nothing but a raw place in de woods" (34). And though his first words to the townspeople are that he "means to put man hands tuh de plow heah, and strain every nerve to make dis our town de metropolis uh de state" (42). He clarifies this by making it clear that he will do this by making everyone do what he thinks is best for the town, and not what anyone else thinks is best or wants to do. So he continues his initial speech by "So maybe Ah better tell yuh in case you don't know dat if we expect tuh move on, us got tuh incorporate lak every other town" (43). Essentially from that point onward, Joe speaks as if he knows more than everyone else about running the town or how things should be done (esp. to Janie).
So when Janie and Tea Cake encounter Miss Turner, who holds a similar attitude toward the people of the muck that Joe held toward the people of Eatonville, no wonder Tea Cake is so afraid of Miss Turner's brother. Without this parallel between Miss Turner and Joe, it would be unclear why Tea Cake is afraid of Janie's potential interest in Miss Turner's brother until he dies. Tea Cake knows that Janie comes from high standing, and is initially afraid of fully exposing her to his low-class-ness, as evidenced by the scene where he explains how he spent Janie's $200. Though Janie continually reassures him that this is not a problem for her, there is no evidence that Tea Cake is ever completely convinced. So when Miss Turner comes along, and all she can talk about is how good Janie is compared to Tea Cake, how Janie should be in a more high-class situation, how she absolutely dissapproves of the rest of the town, and how her own brother is a good candidate given all of these reasons, no wonder Tea Cake becomes so worried and obsessed. Tea Cake himself has believed (or still believes?) the same things about Janie. Luckily, since Joe's death, Janie she is not affected by what anyone else thinks she should or should not do. But, again, Tea Cake can't know this. He sees Miss Turner's brother as a potential Joe-the-second, and thus a potential rival who could potentially take Janie away from him, without ever having met the brother or knowing that Joe successfully took Janie away from her previous husband.
So when Janie and Tea Cake encounter Miss Turner, who holds a similar attitude toward the people of the muck that Joe held toward the people of Eatonville, no wonder Tea Cake is so afraid of Miss Turner's brother. Without this parallel between Miss Turner and Joe, it would be unclear why Tea Cake is afraid of Janie's potential interest in Miss Turner's brother until he dies. Tea Cake knows that Janie comes from high standing, and is initially afraid of fully exposing her to his low-class-ness, as evidenced by the scene where he explains how he spent Janie's $200. Though Janie continually reassures him that this is not a problem for her, there is no evidence that Tea Cake is ever completely convinced. So when Miss Turner comes along, and all she can talk about is how good Janie is compared to Tea Cake, how Janie should be in a more high-class situation, how she absolutely dissapproves of the rest of the town, and how her own brother is a good candidate given all of these reasons, no wonder Tea Cake becomes so worried and obsessed. Tea Cake himself has believed (or still believes?) the same things about Janie. Luckily, since Joe's death, Janie she is not affected by what anyone else thinks she should or should not do. But, again, Tea Cake can't know this. He sees Miss Turner's brother as a potential Joe-the-second, and thus a potential rival who could potentially take Janie away from him, without ever having met the brother or knowing that Joe successfully took Janie away from her previous husband.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
The Talk of the Town
When Janie moves from Joe Starks to Tea Cake, Hurston (in my reading) makes clear the following changes (perhaps debatable) in Janie's situation. All of them can be thought of as side-effects of the major change that occurred: Janie's stepping down from living as though placed on a pedestal and showered with love from afar onto level ground (Joe was "pouring honor all over her; building a high chair for her to sit in and overlook the world" (62)), where she can shower love as well as be showered with it. The changes, in this order, are effects of one another:
- African American upper-crust --> African American average plebian
- wealth --> poverty
- love through material wealth --> love through emotional/physical wealth
- closed communication --> open communication
- percieved loneliness --> social connections, both within and outside marriage
- marrige subordinacy --> marriage equality
- Janie with necessity to ask permission to do what desires (no free will) --> Janie with free will
Additionally interesting is that Starks judges other people in community (such as "pushin' and shovin' wid they no-manners selves...in all dat mess uh commonness" (60)), whereas Tea Cake never (so far) judges other people in the community as bad or good. Janie never seems to judge in either scenario.
However, there is a parallel between Janie's situations with Joe Starks and with Tea Cake that is a bit surprising in the latter case. In both situations, Janie is portrayed as a central character in the public eye of the town, even though she doesn't seem to realize it much. With Joe Starks, this is fairly self-explanatory, since Jody himself is the town's mayor. Thus, necessarily the porch must develop opinions about Joe and his actions, and Janie is included with Joe in the porch's idea of those in charge. With Tea Cake, this centrality seems to be of less importance, likely because Tea Cake views himself as a part, not a guardian, of the people. However, almost at the beginning of Hurston's depiction of Janie's life as a mucker in the 'glades, she states: "Tea Cake's house was a magnet, the unauthorized center of the 'job'" (132) because "the house was full of people every night" (133). Again, the people are flocking to Janie's porch.
This, interestingly, is the complete opposite experience of both Bigger and the invisible man. Perhaps this difference is significant in showing the difference between the actions/experiences of some of the characters in these books? Is it even possible to show a character who is one of the powerful and influential members of the African American community if one is trying to write a protest novel (Wright), or trying to encompass the whole African American experience, since this is not possible by showing only the upper crust? Or is it actually the case that Janie is unlike Bigger and the invisible man in that she is the talk of the town? Perhaps all three are, at some point, but it manifests itself differently in each. Probably, the best any reader can do is to guess the author's intentions here by reading their own writings on these works.
- African American upper-crust --> African American average plebian
- wealth --> poverty
- love through material wealth --> love through emotional/physical wealth
- closed communication --> open communication
- percieved loneliness --> social connections, both within and outside marriage
- marrige subordinacy --> marriage equality
- Janie with necessity to ask permission to do what desires (no free will) --> Janie with free will
Additionally interesting is that Starks judges other people in community (such as "pushin' and shovin' wid they no-manners selves...in all dat mess uh commonness" (60)), whereas Tea Cake never (so far) judges other people in the community as bad or good. Janie never seems to judge in either scenario.
However, there is a parallel between Janie's situations with Joe Starks and with Tea Cake that is a bit surprising in the latter case. In both situations, Janie is portrayed as a central character in the public eye of the town, even though she doesn't seem to realize it much. With Joe Starks, this is fairly self-explanatory, since Jody himself is the town's mayor. Thus, necessarily the porch must develop opinions about Joe and his actions, and Janie is included with Joe in the porch's idea of those in charge. With Tea Cake, this centrality seems to be of less importance, likely because Tea Cake views himself as a part, not a guardian, of the people. However, almost at the beginning of Hurston's depiction of Janie's life as a mucker in the 'glades, she states: "Tea Cake's house was a magnet, the unauthorized center of the 'job'" (132) because "the house was full of people every night" (133). Again, the people are flocking to Janie's porch.
This, interestingly, is the complete opposite experience of both Bigger and the invisible man. Perhaps this difference is significant in showing the difference between the actions/experiences of some of the characters in these books? Is it even possible to show a character who is one of the powerful and influential members of the African American community if one is trying to write a protest novel (Wright), or trying to encompass the whole African American experience, since this is not possible by showing only the upper crust? Or is it actually the case that Janie is unlike Bigger and the invisible man in that she is the talk of the town? Perhaps all three are, at some point, but it manifests itself differently in each. Probably, the best any reader can do is to guess the author's intentions here by reading their own writings on these works.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Poetic-Musical Musings
Friday's discussion was at the intersection of African American literature and poetry, but it also overlapped with various types of musical expression (birdsong, rap, and jazz), and I thought I'd like to delve further into the musical aspect of these poems:
1. The first thing I noticed when I saw several Youtube videos of this poem was that none of them included the happy calls of any singing bird. I had imagined that would be the most important part, if anyone were to add music to this poem. Instead, however, all displayed lonely, sadly beautiful images and played depressed piano music that could be considered calming in other contexts. Actually, I posted this particular version because the speaker essentially convinced me that they were an upper-class, suicidal, young girl -- and so it was the most dramatic of the dramatizations. Frankly, I was a little surprised that this seems to be the mainstream interpretation of Angelou's poem. If I were to dramatize the poem, I would read it with the voice of an unpretentious, aging woman, who is speaking from her heart not so much to hear herself lament on her own condition, but to a younger audience as a consciously wiser and more experienced educator. Possibly much of this is my subjective interpretation without much substance in the poem to back it, but two things are clear to me:
- Angelou's speaker understands not only what it is like to be a caged bird, but ALSO what it is like to be a free one. She has risen above both scenarios to write this poem.
- Neither Angelou's free bird nor her caged bird is depressed: the free bird loves, while the caged bird boils hot with anger. Both are strong, in their own way.
Finally, it turns out that whoever posted this video has a whole slew of other poems....and they are all read by the same, young, depressing, effete voice....I disapprove. There is much more depth, much more strength, much more grace to poetry (especially Angelou's!) than this or similar dramatizations can capture.
2. This is a recording of Diggy Simmons rapping his song "What's Going On?," which Surya excerpted for our class discussion. When we were reading this poem in class, I imagined that Diggy would be yelling out these words angrily, because they are so forceful and meaningfully effective. It seemed to me that there was no option but that this was a protest rap. So I found it really interesting when Diggy basically didn't really sound mad. What came through more was actually his uncertainty. His question "Can't you see it's time for change?" actually occurs over a major scale (well...major-ish...). It's not forceful at all. It's actually just asking. And his "tell me what's going on" isn't so much of a challenge as it is a blank expression: it could be confusion, frustration, or a suggestion, but it's not actually much of any emotion. Overall, he doesn't really sound like he is protesting anything specific in the end, unlike what is implied by his words themselves.
Given this, I now ask why that is? Why would he write such angry words, but sing them rather ambivalently? Is he actually afraid of having someone "take [him] out like [they] did Mike Jack/Vick/Tys"? Reading back along the lyrics, I now see that he says "I've got some things I want to say to their face like..." In other words, he doesn't expect the "they" or the "you" he is referring to to ever actually hear his song. He is writing to a group of fellow people, whom he terms "us" or "we." Is this some sort of group whom Diggy was already imagining, or does he expect the group to self-identify. I'm not sure if I can really make any conclusions with this one unless I talk to Diggy, himself. But one thing I can be sure of: Diggy's pretty talented, and I admire the gumption with which he refuses to sugar-coat his perceptions of reality, even if he is consciously questioning whether others percieve reality the same way he does. And I think in this way, he echoes some of both Native Son and Invisible Man as he expresses reality and how he fits into it.
3. This is the Mingus recording that Yusef Komunyakaa referenced in his poem, "Copacetic Mingus." Listening to this recording, I find it again interesting that it is the bassist that is Mingus....the saxes (esp) and also piano/percussion all seem to play such important parts in this recording. In fact, it is really only when everything else drops out that the listener is forced to listen to the bass as the melody, and not the countermelody: and yet listeners do notice that Mingus is, indeed, "copacetic" = "in excellent order" (according to Google...). He is really the only dependably present melodic voice in the whole arrangement, even if he plays with a thumpily-articulated "hyperbolic bass line," an image that makes more sense now that I hear the music. Actually, hearing the music allowed me to reconcile a paradox in Komunyakaa's poem: Mingus is both "tender" and a "hard love"-er. Now, from the way he plays, I note that he sounds as though he loves his instrument and he can get a round, full, warm sound out of it, but that he has to really work to get it to project and not simply to growl and twang and moan, despairingly.
Also interesting is that this piece starts on incredibly dissonant chords: it begins with a minor second in the melody, and then next the equivalent of a tritone between bass and saxes for several measures. It ends with these same chords, along with some saxophone/percussion/piano textured squealings and wailings that are even more unsettling. Somehow, however, it works its way into exremely happy, bright, dancing, carefree chords for much of the middle of the piece. However, there are trains of happiness in the sad sections, and vice versa. Looking back, the poem does a similar thing, using images that are creepily unsettling (like how "art and life bleed into each other") and contented, carefree images (like "blessed wood"). However, even more prevalent are images that could be interpreted either way. Are "fingers of fire" out of a haunted house, or do instead reflect how well Mingus plays? And the image of the bass as a "moon-eyed mistress with gold in her teeth" sounds nice -- she could be innocent, beautiful, and well-to-do -- but implies that she's unstable (she's a mistress...not a "lover" or a "wife," etc.) and that she's had some serious toothaches.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Ellison Echoes Socratic Language and Thought
As the narrator discusses his perceptions from the point of view of Rinehart, he states that, " 'For now we see as through a glass darkly but then--but then--' I couldn't remember the rest" (491). I was reading English just after reading Philosophy, and what struck me as odd was that Socrates used the same image in one of his arguments. Socrates explained that we experience the truth of life, the world, and knowledge as through a "reflection of light" in a "dark glass." He argues that we must try to approach the essence of truth knowing that we see the world in this way, because looking straight at the essence of truth while in bodily form would have effects akin to being blinded by a bright light. Thus, our perceptions of the world are necessarily partially defined by our physical experiences, all of which can mislead us and distract us from the pursuit of true ideas and knowledge, so that we are forced to understand truth while in our physical form only as if we are seeing through a glass darkly.
This language echo really piqued my interest, especially when I considered that Ellison also echoes some of this Socratic thinking. Perhaps the narrator has found truth by blinding himself with light bulbs to remove any possible shadows....but then like Socrates, he seems to know that no one can never quite be sure what how the world works or how they actually fit into it while they are contained within their own bodies. They must transcend their bodies, their physical selves, in order to transcend societal expectations, ideas, and masks that are untrue because they are inherently derived from the human body. It seems that Ellison might be hinting at a similar message. This is the reason I think that the novel is pessimistic about the human condition: while we are all stuck within our bodies, we cannot be freed from ideas or social constructions, because both us and our ideas are tied to this physical world. Ellison's invisible man grapples long and hard with this issue, whether he realizes it or not.
I began to wonder if Ellison was or was not consciously influenced by Socrates. According to his biographical video, he was extremely well-educated and even more well-read. However, neither he, nor any critic, mentions Socrates or Socratic thought patterns in their essays. Regardless, as I continue to consider this book with Socratic philosophy in mind, I continue to notice enlightening parallels.
Another interesting Socratic echo is in the Epilogue. First is the discussion of how "none of us seems to know who he is or where he's going" because whites are busy escaping blackness (but are meanwhile becoming more black) and the blacks are striving toward whiteness (577). The conclusion is that this idea of becoming "one, and yet many" is "one of the greatest jokes in the world" (577). To the average human, this is by no means an obvious conclusion, because we typically take for granted that it is possible to be one and many at the same time, as evidenced by our self-determined definition of our country and culture. The narrator, on the other hand, uses Socratic argues that this assumption is ridiculous for purely logical reasons similar to the way Socrates did. There can be no mixing of true opposites, otherwise each will become the other and no longer be themselves. Furthermore, something that is composed of many parts (or "compounded") cannot be also uncompounded at the same time; these are opposite. It is as if the narrator has read and totally adopted Socratic thinking in order to take an assumption inherent in our society and see its logical fallacies.
The Socratic influence is ultimately also apparent when the reader considers the narrator's habits of civil disobedience, mirroring those that Socrates argues good, dedicated citizens should follow. We know the narrator is a good, dedicated citizen because he willingly becomes part of the state during college. Socrates argues that when this happens (and some other criteria are met), the citizen enters into a contract with the state: to accept all punishments given by the state (even if they are unjust. The power to punish is the only real power the state has, since it is the only power it can actually enforce.) in return for reaping the states' benefits for the citizen and being civilly disobedient if the state fails to do something correctly. We can see the narrator's whole life from this perspective. He is always supportive of the United States, but is also civilly disobedient in the Brotherhood by protesting as he is able, within the state's guidelines. However, when society punishes him by forcing him into a hole, he accepts the punishment. And yet, he wishes to leave, but only because he has decided it is a "social crime" for him to "overstay [his] hibernation" (581). Perhaps, he is afraid that by dropping out of society and writing a book critiquing and explaining society as he sees it, he has exited his contract with society, which he never intended to do. Good citizens are people who love their state and are civilly disobedient, but do not drop out of society. But how can he show that he loves his state when he disagrees with the rightness of so many aspects of the society he lives in, and will thus be civilly disobedient in some way to nearly all aspects of society? This is the dilemma, and why it is unclear what the invisible man will do once he reemerges out of hibernation.
This language echo really piqued my interest, especially when I considered that Ellison also echoes some of this Socratic thinking. Perhaps the narrator has found truth by blinding himself with light bulbs to remove any possible shadows....but then like Socrates, he seems to know that no one can never quite be sure what how the world works or how they actually fit into it while they are contained within their own bodies. They must transcend their bodies, their physical selves, in order to transcend societal expectations, ideas, and masks that are untrue because they are inherently derived from the human body. It seems that Ellison might be hinting at a similar message. This is the reason I think that the novel is pessimistic about the human condition: while we are all stuck within our bodies, we cannot be freed from ideas or social constructions, because both us and our ideas are tied to this physical world. Ellison's invisible man grapples long and hard with this issue, whether he realizes it or not.
I began to wonder if Ellison was or was not consciously influenced by Socrates. According to his biographical video, he was extremely well-educated and even more well-read. However, neither he, nor any critic, mentions Socrates or Socratic thought patterns in their essays. Regardless, as I continue to consider this book with Socratic philosophy in mind, I continue to notice enlightening parallels.
Another interesting Socratic echo is in the Epilogue. First is the discussion of how "none of us seems to know who he is or where he's going" because whites are busy escaping blackness (but are meanwhile becoming more black) and the blacks are striving toward whiteness (577). The conclusion is that this idea of becoming "one, and yet many" is "one of the greatest jokes in the world" (577). To the average human, this is by no means an obvious conclusion, because we typically take for granted that it is possible to be one and many at the same time, as evidenced by our self-determined definition of our country and culture. The narrator, on the other hand, uses Socratic argues that this assumption is ridiculous for purely logical reasons similar to the way Socrates did. There can be no mixing of true opposites, otherwise each will become the other and no longer be themselves. Furthermore, something that is composed of many parts (or "compounded") cannot be also uncompounded at the same time; these are opposite. It is as if the narrator has read and totally adopted Socratic thinking in order to take an assumption inherent in our society and see its logical fallacies.
The Socratic influence is ultimately also apparent when the reader considers the narrator's habits of civil disobedience, mirroring those that Socrates argues good, dedicated citizens should follow. We know the narrator is a good, dedicated citizen because he willingly becomes part of the state during college. Socrates argues that when this happens (and some other criteria are met), the citizen enters into a contract with the state: to accept all punishments given by the state (even if they are unjust. The power to punish is the only real power the state has, since it is the only power it can actually enforce.) in return for reaping the states' benefits for the citizen and being civilly disobedient if the state fails to do something correctly. We can see the narrator's whole life from this perspective. He is always supportive of the United States, but is also civilly disobedient in the Brotherhood by protesting as he is able, within the state's guidelines. However, when society punishes him by forcing him into a hole, he accepts the punishment. And yet, he wishes to leave, but only because he has decided it is a "social crime" for him to "overstay [his] hibernation" (581). Perhaps, he is afraid that by dropping out of society and writing a book critiquing and explaining society as he sees it, he has exited his contract with society, which he never intended to do. Good citizens are people who love their state and are civilly disobedient, but do not drop out of society. But how can he show that he loves his state when he disagrees with the rightness of so many aspects of the society he lives in, and will thus be civilly disobedient in some way to nearly all aspects of society? This is the dilemma, and why it is unclear what the invisible man will do once he reemerges out of hibernation.
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Brotherhood Mask
A few days ago during class, when we were revisiting the topic of Bledsoe's mask and considering the broken bank-of-the-smiling-black-figure-with-huge-red-lips, it occurred to me that all of the Brotherhood men required the narrator to follow certain actions, mannerisms, and figures of speech similar to that imposed on the narrator when he was at college. When at the college, the narrator appears disillusioned: he takes everything only at face value and willingly acts in humility to his own detriment. On the other hand, when the narrator first encounters Brother Jack, he is very mistrustful. I wanted to explore how the narrator moved from mistrust and complete rejection in Chapter 13 to complete acceptance of the Brotherhood's charges against him at the end of Chapter 18.
When Jack first meets with the narrator, Jack acts similarly to the one Bledsoe uses when he speaks to the rich, white college benefactor. Looking back at the scene now, I note that the first thing Jack says is that he is the narrator's "friend" (287) and "admirer" (288), and he is always wearing a smile during their first encounter. The narrator even notices that he seemed as though he was "acting a part" (288). Later, he says, "perhaps it was a trick of some kind" (294).
When he accepts the job, his mistrust of the Brotherhood is slowly dissolved away. Even after overhearing Emma wonder if he "should be a little blacker" (303), he assures himself that the initiation into the Brotherhood is "real," even though it reminded him of "being initiated into my college fraternity" (308). Next, the author hints something with the scene of the bank figure -- we can't be sure what, but we know that the narrator rejects this image. Maybe he is rejecting the idea that the Brotherhood is treating him like such a figure even though they are very successful at acting otherwise. Thus, by the time he makes the speech at the rally, he starts telling himself, "I had to trust them. I had to" (334).
And in trusting them, he accepts that he will need to change himself, and repress himself in humility to their ideals once more, in order to successfully become part of the organization and to act and speak the way they want him to. In other words, he goes to Hambro knowing he will have to be taught something. The Brotherhood is in control of his ideas of how the blacks for whom he is speaking should be improved. The whites are again in control.
At the opening of Chapter 17, the narrator seems to again reflect some of his mannerisms from college. All of a sudden, he is looking up to Brother Jack as a person for whom he wants to work (like he had wanted to work as Bledsoe's assistant). By Chapter 18, when the narrator encounters Brother Wrestrow, who tells him that the Brotherhood "has lots of poison around" (393) and that some people are different to your face than they are to your back, even in the Brotherhood, the narrator is appalled, does not listen, and dislikes him. Similarly, the narrator cannot accept that the racially-charged warning letter might actually be from someone within the Brotherhood. It is against the Brotherhood's ideology, so to the narrator, the idea cannot exist. This is just the opposite of the narrator's inability to accept Bledsoe's advice that blacks not actually be humble, when he was so fully intent in believing the ideology of the college. The narrator, thus, has again been brainwashed in the Brotherhood. This time, however, it is much more effective and seemingly less harmless: the narrator still has a self in this scene. However, if it is actually the case that the Brotherhood does not have all good goals for the narrator, the new brainwashing could be completely detrimental: he thinks he's actually equal (or above) the majority of the people in the rest of the Brotherhood, and the Brotherhood is content to keep him thinking that, while they make him follow their own motives.
Note: I make the Brotherhood sound really sinister here, and I know that they probably aren't....but I wanted to raise the issue that they might very well be, and that maybe they are just so successful in what they are trying to accomplish by teaching the narrator their ideology that even readers may not realize....
When Jack first meets with the narrator, Jack acts similarly to the one Bledsoe uses when he speaks to the rich, white college benefactor. Looking back at the scene now, I note that the first thing Jack says is that he is the narrator's "friend" (287) and "admirer" (288), and he is always wearing a smile during their first encounter. The narrator even notices that he seemed as though he was "acting a part" (288). Later, he says, "perhaps it was a trick of some kind" (294).
When he accepts the job, his mistrust of the Brotherhood is slowly dissolved away. Even after overhearing Emma wonder if he "should be a little blacker" (303), he assures himself that the initiation into the Brotherhood is "real," even though it reminded him of "being initiated into my college fraternity" (308). Next, the author hints something with the scene of the bank figure -- we can't be sure what, but we know that the narrator rejects this image. Maybe he is rejecting the idea that the Brotherhood is treating him like such a figure even though they are very successful at acting otherwise. Thus, by the time he makes the speech at the rally, he starts telling himself, "I had to trust them. I had to" (334).
And in trusting them, he accepts that he will need to change himself, and repress himself in humility to their ideals once more, in order to successfully become part of the organization and to act and speak the way they want him to. In other words, he goes to Hambro knowing he will have to be taught something. The Brotherhood is in control of his ideas of how the blacks for whom he is speaking should be improved. The whites are again in control.
At the opening of Chapter 17, the narrator seems to again reflect some of his mannerisms from college. All of a sudden, he is looking up to Brother Jack as a person for whom he wants to work (like he had wanted to work as Bledsoe's assistant). By Chapter 18, when the narrator encounters Brother Wrestrow, who tells him that the Brotherhood "has lots of poison around" (393) and that some people are different to your face than they are to your back, even in the Brotherhood, the narrator is appalled, does not listen, and dislikes him. Similarly, the narrator cannot accept that the racially-charged warning letter might actually be from someone within the Brotherhood. It is against the Brotherhood's ideology, so to the narrator, the idea cannot exist. This is just the opposite of the narrator's inability to accept Bledsoe's advice that blacks not actually be humble, when he was so fully intent in believing the ideology of the college. The narrator, thus, has again been brainwashed in the Brotherhood. This time, however, it is much more effective and seemingly less harmless: the narrator still has a self in this scene. However, if it is actually the case that the Brotherhood does not have all good goals for the narrator, the new brainwashing could be completely detrimental: he thinks he's actually equal (or above) the majority of the people in the rest of the Brotherhood, and the Brotherhood is content to keep him thinking that, while they make him follow their own motives.
Note: I make the Brotherhood sound really sinister here, and I know that they probably aren't....but I wanted to raise the issue that they might very well be, and that maybe they are just so successful in what they are trying to accomplish by teaching the narrator their ideology that even readers may not realize....
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Bledsoe = Narrator's God?
The narrator views Bledsoe with a final-judgment-type mentality throughout his college experience, and possibly throughout the rest of the book. As he is driving Mr. Norton, he expects Bledsoe to find out exactly all of his moves and to judge him for it, and Dr. Bledsoe exactly meets this expectation. The narrator even describes the scene with the white visitors -- appropriately set in a chapel -- as a "formal ritual" which is "performed to God's own acting script" (111). In the same scene, the narrator describes the college as his "Eden," and states that "our world...out horizon and its earth, its seasons and its climate, its spring and its summer, [etc.]" is described to the listeners. Thus, while on the college campus, the narrator views himself and the other college students as a collectively living in an Eden of which some God is in charge...and it is Bledsoe who "demanded that everyone attend these sessions" (115).
However, when the narrator actually talks to Bledsoe, the idea that the narrator has committed some sort of initial sin that he cannot overcome goes hand in hand with the literal narration. And what was the narrator's initial sin? It was the act of giving Mr. Norton true knowledge about the campus. To push the allegorical theme farther, Trueblood (or the Golden Day, perhaps?) could represent the devil, and the vet could represent the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. The wonders who could "intercede" for him during the judgment of his actions, but "knew that there was no one" (115); he must be alone. Bledsoe's resulting judgment is one of punishment for sin, not love in spite of mistake. His essential argument to the narrator is that "instead of uplifting the race, you've torn it down" (140), and that the narrator's "got to be disciplined, boy" (141). Thus, for giving Norton knowledge, he must himself be thrown out of the Eden of campus, despite the fact that he had previously been an exemplary student.
The narrator is then quite literally moved to a much less idealistic and far more realistic place: New York. There, his first real action is to turn "to the book of Genesis" which he "could not read" since it "made [him] homesick" (162). Yet the narrator remains attached to the idea of Dr. Bledsoe as somehow a good God: he says that "Dr. Bledsoe" knows "what's best for [him]" (189).
Yet all this changes when he reads Dr. Bledsoe's letter (191) and decides to "go back and kill Bledsoe," which he owes "to the race and to myself" (194). He has suddenly rejected what had been his God and his Eden through the rest of his life and has instead decided to follow devilish behaviors. He suddenly feels no necessity to bow down to those in technically charge of him in Chapter 10, and instead thinks of himself as an individual. He has detached himself from any one specific set of criteria that dictate how he should act at all times, and begins doing what he thinks is right in the moment. He is in the degenerate New York, where no one follows rules of conduct and each fends for himself against everyone else.
However, when the narrator actually talks to Bledsoe, the idea that the narrator has committed some sort of initial sin that he cannot overcome goes hand in hand with the literal narration. And what was the narrator's initial sin? It was the act of giving Mr. Norton true knowledge about the campus. To push the allegorical theme farther, Trueblood (or the Golden Day, perhaps?) could represent the devil, and the vet could represent the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. The wonders who could "intercede" for him during the judgment of his actions, but "knew that there was no one" (115); he must be alone. Bledsoe's resulting judgment is one of punishment for sin, not love in spite of mistake. His essential argument to the narrator is that "instead of uplifting the race, you've torn it down" (140), and that the narrator's "got to be disciplined, boy" (141). Thus, for giving Norton knowledge, he must himself be thrown out of the Eden of campus, despite the fact that he had previously been an exemplary student.
The narrator is then quite literally moved to a much less idealistic and far more realistic place: New York. There, his first real action is to turn "to the book of Genesis" which he "could not read" since it "made [him] homesick" (162). Yet the narrator remains attached to the idea of Dr. Bledsoe as somehow a good God: he says that "Dr. Bledsoe" knows "what's best for [him]" (189).
Yet all this changes when he reads Dr. Bledsoe's letter (191) and decides to "go back and kill Bledsoe," which he owes "to the race and to myself" (194). He has suddenly rejected what had been his God and his Eden through the rest of his life and has instead decided to follow devilish behaviors. He suddenly feels no necessity to bow down to those in technically charge of him in Chapter 10, and instead thinks of himself as an individual. He has detached himself from any one specific set of criteria that dictate how he should act at all times, and begins doing what he thinks is right in the moment. He is in the degenerate New York, where no one follows rules of conduct and each fends for himself against everyone else.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Clang of Steel
(I will be concise in efforts to redeem myself for the lengthy and rambling qualities of my last post, which were excessive for the reader in hindsight...sorry!)
Before moving away completely from Native Son, I would like to juxtapose the first and last images in the book and to make some conclusions about the somewhat bizarre parallelisms. The book opens with an onomatopeiaic imitation of an alarm clock that "clanged" (3) and closes with "the ring of steel against steel as a far door clanged shut" (430). Wright's focus on the unnatural, metallic sounds of the door closing is potentially to highlight an obvious metaphor for the end of Bigger's life. His focus on the alarm clock's incessant "tinny ring" (3), if we allow for a bit of interpretive rubato, serves to hint that Bigger has so little free will that even an inanimate alarm clock has the upper hand. Also highlighting Bigger's lack of control and power in the first scene is the fact that he is within "a narrow space between two iron beds" (3). This image has an illuminating parallel to an image elicited at the book's closing, when Bigger "held on to the bars" of his prison cell (430). Presumably, Wright shaped these similarities to emphasize the idea that ultimately, Bigger's life before prison and murder was just about equivalent to his life a few hours before death. Neither gave him rights, control, free will, safety, or any peace of mind.
Before moving away completely from Native Son, I would like to juxtapose the first and last images in the book and to make some conclusions about the somewhat bizarre parallelisms. The book opens with an onomatopeiaic imitation of an alarm clock that "clanged" (3) and closes with "the ring of steel against steel as a far door clanged shut" (430). Wright's focus on the unnatural, metallic sounds of the door closing is potentially to highlight an obvious metaphor for the end of Bigger's life. His focus on the alarm clock's incessant "tinny ring" (3), if we allow for a bit of interpretive rubato, serves to hint that Bigger has so little free will that even an inanimate alarm clock has the upper hand. Also highlighting Bigger's lack of control and power in the first scene is the fact that he is within "a narrow space between two iron beds" (3). This image has an illuminating parallel to an image elicited at the book's closing, when Bigger "held on to the bars" of his prison cell (430). Presumably, Wright shaped these similarities to emphasize the idea that ultimately, Bigger's life before prison and murder was just about equivalent to his life a few hours before death. Neither gave him rights, control, free will, safety, or any peace of mind.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Money's Role for Wright and Bigger
If I had not read Native Son, but only knew that it is commonly labeled a protest novel and that it followed a rebellious, frustrated African American man in an urban setting, I would have expected money to be more at the forefront of Bigger's conciousness. I've grown up thinking that most of the public actions that extremely poor people would make are driven by their need to alleviate their destitution. For Bigger, this is not the case. It's not that money is not important to him (In fact, it is very important to him -- he risks leaving the kidnapped note to get more of it), but that he does not think about the importance of having money itself nearly as much as he considers the social and emotional implications that accompany destitution...and, of course, being black. I can't help thinking that if Bigger had been excessively fearful, driven, and angry because of destitution and the fact that whites controlled money, he would have been a much healthier person. He would have done what he could to get money -- and if he got frustrated and committed a crime relating to money-related race relations in the process, he would have had a more solid defense statement, been considered sane by both sides of the case, and probably would not have recieved the death sentence.
Considering this perspective, I was shocked by the fact that money, as an issue in and of itself, did NOT appear in Mr. Max's interpretation of events in the slightest. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if Mr. Max's nurture-type explanation of Bigger's actions had been the central point of his argument. Our society seems to be currently conditioned to feel sympathy for people like Bigger because their lack of money is what caused the lack of resources, opportunities, experience, etc., which other people can take advantage of.
So I began to wonder why Wright seemingly ignores the issue of money as a cause or factor in the explanation of Bigger's character and personality development, both in Native Son, and in "How 'Bigger' was Born." Was it intentional or unintentional? If Wright intentionally disregarded the issue of money in Mr. Max's narrative of events, he could have been protesting against the fact that destitution as cause for rebellion is considered a more solid defense statement than the experience of a vile amount of racial baggage. Possibly Wright is attempting to communicate that such racial baggage is so completely upsetting and frustrating that one can forget to provide for one's life necessities. Yet it is likely that Wright disregarded the fact of Bigger's destitution in and of itself unintentionally. He never once mentions the issue of poverty in "How 'Bigger' was Born." On the contrary, Wright refers to "the sympathies, loyalties, and yearnings of the millions of Bigger Thomases in every land and race..." (446). He discusses the typical Bigger as having a "deep sense of exclusion" (443), a "revolutionary impulse" (444), feeling "oppressed" (444), having "agonizing doubts and chronic suspicions" (445), and generally being "a hot and whirling vortex of undisciplined and unchannelized impulses" (445). And those impulses are fed by "emotional and cultural hunger" (447), not by a wish to improve one's physical situation by buying one's way out of it.
Given the fact that the issue of money was not meant initially to be an important issue in the book, the role it does play in Bigger's conciousness is slightly bizarre. From the opening few pages, we see that Bigger's attitude toward money---whether he doesn't care, is forced to realize it's a necessity, or is jealous of those who have it---is absolutely inconsistent, and depends only on whatever thoughts or feelings he is preoccupied with at a given time. As an example, we can examine Bigger's reaction to his mother's insistence that he take the job so that she "can fix up a nice place for you children. You could be comfortable and not have to live like pigs" (11). Bigger's only reaction is anger, a feeling that they his family had made him "surrender" into taking the job, and a repetition of the statement, "I wish you'd let me eat" (12). He does not consider the money or benefits of the job at all. And yet his VERY next statement is a demand for "carfare"--- for the day's money! Then, when he goes outside the house and is confronted with Buckley's richness ("I bet that sonofabitch rakes of a million bucks in graft a year" (13)), he decides he wants money, because, "if he did not get more than he had now he would not know what to do with himself for the rest of the day" (13). He ignores the fact that the job could get him money for the rest of his life, because he does not want the job---it would be conceding to his family's wishes. Instead, he remembers his friends and the excitement of robbing Blum's for money. But later, Bigger becomes "fascinated with...and a little afraid of" the idea (23), ultimately pulling out with violence to disguise fear.
It is important that these scenes, which constitute the entirety of our knowledge of Bigger's life before accepting the job, are all essentially struggles about money. And yet the issue of lack of money itself does not actually emerge as the main focus of Bigger's conciousness in the text. Everything has a double-meaning for Bigger. Buckley's money is not just his money, but the fact that people like him "own the world" (22). This lack of ownership is the real issue that Bigger has with his own lack of money. He has no ownership without any money.
So when discussing the concept of free will in Native Son, it is interesting to note that the ownership of Mary's money is what gives Bigger the impression that he has free will. After his murder, he feels the "roll of crisp bills in his pocket" protects him because "he could always run away" (129). And having planned to send the kidnap note he feels, for the first time, that he "could handle things, ... take life into his own hands and ... he need not be afraid" (149). This is extreme confidence, arguably achieved because of his control of the money. And even when the bones are discovered in the furnace, he says "It was all over. He had to save himself" (221). But once he throws the money down the air-shaft with Bessie, he thinks he is "in for it," that he has "seven cents between him and starvation and the law and the long days ahead" (239). The difference is subtle, but the loss of the money is what really makes him give up that he will be able to get away from the law. He does not want to admit it, but he recognizes that seven cents will not keep him alive. Again, he has no ownership, even over himself and his own fate, because he has no money.
With this in mind, it is easy to see why Bigger gives up on talking and eating once he has been captured. But it is his time in jail talking to Mr. Max that changes his attitude toward the necessity of free will and ownership in the world, which, from his perspective, had previously been defined by his lack or abundance of money. Suddenly, instead of assuming that his self has no value and that it is what he has and does which have value, he gains a "sense of the value of himself," albeit "fleeting and obscure" after talking to Max (361). It is only then, in his last days and hours, when he can first even try to dare to mentally transcend racial and class boundaries and consider possible connections with other human beings.
Considering this perspective, I was shocked by the fact that money, as an issue in and of itself, did NOT appear in Mr. Max's interpretation of events in the slightest. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if Mr. Max's nurture-type explanation of Bigger's actions had been the central point of his argument. Our society seems to be currently conditioned to feel sympathy for people like Bigger because their lack of money is what caused the lack of resources, opportunities, experience, etc., which other people can take advantage of.
So I began to wonder why Wright seemingly ignores the issue of money as a cause or factor in the explanation of Bigger's character and personality development, both in Native Son, and in "How 'Bigger' was Born." Was it intentional or unintentional? If Wright intentionally disregarded the issue of money in Mr. Max's narrative of events, he could have been protesting against the fact that destitution as cause for rebellion is considered a more solid defense statement than the experience of a vile amount of racial baggage. Possibly Wright is attempting to communicate that such racial baggage is so completely upsetting and frustrating that one can forget to provide for one's life necessities. Yet it is likely that Wright disregarded the fact of Bigger's destitution in and of itself unintentionally. He never once mentions the issue of poverty in "How 'Bigger' was Born." On the contrary, Wright refers to "the sympathies, loyalties, and yearnings of the millions of Bigger Thomases in every land and race..." (446). He discusses the typical Bigger as having a "deep sense of exclusion" (443), a "revolutionary impulse" (444), feeling "oppressed" (444), having "agonizing doubts and chronic suspicions" (445), and generally being "a hot and whirling vortex of undisciplined and unchannelized impulses" (445). And those impulses are fed by "emotional and cultural hunger" (447), not by a wish to improve one's physical situation by buying one's way out of it.
Given the fact that the issue of money was not meant initially to be an important issue in the book, the role it does play in Bigger's conciousness is slightly bizarre. From the opening few pages, we see that Bigger's attitude toward money---whether he doesn't care, is forced to realize it's a necessity, or is jealous of those who have it---is absolutely inconsistent, and depends only on whatever thoughts or feelings he is preoccupied with at a given time. As an example, we can examine Bigger's reaction to his mother's insistence that he take the job so that she "can fix up a nice place for you children. You could be comfortable and not have to live like pigs" (11). Bigger's only reaction is anger, a feeling that they his family had made him "surrender" into taking the job, and a repetition of the statement, "I wish you'd let me eat" (12). He does not consider the money or benefits of the job at all. And yet his VERY next statement is a demand for "carfare"--- for the day's money! Then, when he goes outside the house and is confronted with Buckley's richness ("I bet that sonofabitch rakes of a million bucks in graft a year" (13)), he decides he wants money, because, "if he did not get more than he had now he would not know what to do with himself for the rest of the day" (13). He ignores the fact that the job could get him money for the rest of his life, because he does not want the job---it would be conceding to his family's wishes. Instead, he remembers his friends and the excitement of robbing Blum's for money. But later, Bigger becomes "fascinated with...and a little afraid of" the idea (23), ultimately pulling out with violence to disguise fear.
It is important that these scenes, which constitute the entirety of our knowledge of Bigger's life before accepting the job, are all essentially struggles about money. And yet the issue of lack of money itself does not actually emerge as the main focus of Bigger's conciousness in the text. Everything has a double-meaning for Bigger. Buckley's money is not just his money, but the fact that people like him "own the world" (22). This lack of ownership is the real issue that Bigger has with his own lack of money. He has no ownership without any money.
So when discussing the concept of free will in Native Son, it is interesting to note that the ownership of Mary's money is what gives Bigger the impression that he has free will. After his murder, he feels the "roll of crisp bills in his pocket" protects him because "he could always run away" (129). And having planned to send the kidnap note he feels, for the first time, that he "could handle things, ... take life into his own hands and ... he need not be afraid" (149). This is extreme confidence, arguably achieved because of his control of the money. And even when the bones are discovered in the furnace, he says "It was all over. He had to save himself" (221). But once he throws the money down the air-shaft with Bessie, he thinks he is "in for it," that he has "seven cents between him and starvation and the law and the long days ahead" (239). The difference is subtle, but the loss of the money is what really makes him give up that he will be able to get away from the law. He does not want to admit it, but he recognizes that seven cents will not keep him alive. Again, he has no ownership, even over himself and his own fate, because he has no money.
With this in mind, it is easy to see why Bigger gives up on talking and eating once he has been captured. But it is his time in jail talking to Mr. Max that changes his attitude toward the necessity of free will and ownership in the world, which, from his perspective, had previously been defined by his lack or abundance of money. Suddenly, instead of assuming that his self has no value and that it is what he has and does which have value, he gains a "sense of the value of himself," albeit "fleeting and obscure" after talking to Max (361). It is only then, in his last days and hours, when he can first even try to dare to mentally transcend racial and class boundaries and consider possible connections with other human beings.
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