I wrote this recently to a friend of mine, as she was reading Invisible Man (by Elison) for the first time.
***
Many academic minds I've run into, both professor and undergraduate alike, note Ralph Elison's The Invisible Man as playing a pivotal role in their attempt to become culturally concious. The poignant beginning, especially the infamous "Battle Royale" chapter, is one that is considered cannon for anyone trying to build the foundations of "multiculturalism"--even to the point where it is edited, abridged, and passaged in high school literature textbooks.
But unlike many of my peers, the particulars of the "Battle Royale" strike a much more haunting tone than their analysiis. Many critics are keenly focused on the barbaric events in the first portion of the chapter; the narrator is teased by a nude woman, tricked and electrocuted, and then pushed into a brawling match. Each of these events have culturally significant ties to issues of race at the time. But what is most galling for the cause of black solidarity is how the narrator reacts to such a situation; he merely goes along with and at the end presents his speech.It is this speech which holds the dramatic irony of the chapter, and it is often overlooked in light of the more physical acts of bestiality found earlier. The novel's speaker argues in his main point that the black people must work for their success, as highlighted by a quaint tale of a ship which believes it needs water when really it needs to set its buckets into the fresh water below.
Naturally, our young narrator doesn't see the irony in his words. His story of the ship that has only to lower the buckets and drink is misplaced for a talk on race relations. The argument is misguided--in the metaphor, each ship is talking to one another as if they were equals. But the black and white communities at this time (and, arguably still) are not the same in any regard. This fact is punctuated by the entire scene before the speech; the black boys are treated as animals goaded by the white men. Likewise, the plight of the black and white communities reflect this dynamic--the white has the buckets and the black is thirsty. Ultimately, the young narrator trying to win a scholarship is repeating the very thing the whites in power want him to believe. He is allowed the scholarship because he is telling blacks to conform, to listen to the enlightened whites and "help themselves". The irony is that this argument, while a call to industry, is meant by whites as a distraction--by telling the black community to work harder, they can enjoy their relative superiority while the black population toils at a system which is already tipped against color. This young author is unwittingly asking to reconstruct the plantation system.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Bradbury; a Short
Science Fiction is a unique genre in which authors can approach contemporary issues such as war, love, racism, and social diaspora yet remain fresh through unique subject matter. For example, Octavia Butler's Fledgling, while dealing with a the vivid concepts of race and the plight of people caught "in-between" societies, is less threatening to the patriarchal mind because of the innocuous way such concepts are approached: vampires. By basing the entire novel on a suspension of belief, the author can insert controversy yet keep the reader open-minded. Such is one of the advantages of being covert.
But a few SF authors have approached the issue in a very non-suspended way. Bradbury, for example, is well-known for Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles. But he was also a prolific short-story writer, one of which was "The Big Black and White Game." The story, written in 1945, depicts a "friendly" baseball game between a white and black team. In short, the black team dominates their opponent, to the point where the white team members get testy. They start complaining about the silly tradition, and their wives start implying that they shouldn't make time for the game next year.
But then, the black team begins to lose. The members, rather obviously, begin making errors and throwing *just too slow* to get the white runners out. But this is brought to an uneasy head near the end of the story: suffice to say it makes positively clear about who really is rising to the occasion. (Aaand partly because it's been two years since I've read the story)
How well did Bradbury convey an idea? His theme, that the black men and women in the US are fully capable but forced to be *just too slow* for their white peers, is clearly apparent. However, some of the descriptors for the men on the brotha's team are woefully Western. The narrator watches the black team's fielders running out, akin to African gazelle on the plain. He notes their flexing muscles and flawless physical appearance. While his intentions are to glorify a group of men who are competitively superior to their white opponents, he is also promoting a sense of "other" by using African-inspired imagery. But this hardly seems his intent, as it counters the theme of the story.
As mentioned by one member of class, this misstep is likely due to the fact that Bradbury is trying to write as a form of protest which elevates a group of people equal to that of the dominant. Instead of solidarity, he is attempting inclusion. For a white SF writer of this time--and during the "melting, pot" era--it follows a rather progressive idea. But what we see now is the harsh effects of such an idea. By trying to assimilate groups of people into a new, identity-less collective, we compound the existing problems of identity and community. Not only do the disenfranchised already have little means of reconnecting with their cultural/communal past, under the "melting pot" directive, greater society tries to pigeon-hole them into an utterly unresolved perception of self. Naturally, this wasn't likely assumed by Bradbury at the time, and his efforts seem more directed at a white audience--he is trying to convince those readers to break down their preconceived notions (such as the inferiority of the "other" in sports). For trying, his attempt to elevate the black athlete to that of the white is progressive.
But what is now touted is the "salad bowl" idea. Instead of the Borg-esque collective, each can now rest assured that their identity will not come under fire. But seemingly in response to this idea is the attempts of politicians to try to emphasize frivolous ideals and fears to ensure that their dominance as brokers of English or holders of voting citizenship is not compromised.
"For every action..."
(and note this; it seemed a good irony)
But a few SF authors have approached the issue in a very non-suspended way. Bradbury, for example, is well-known for Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles. But he was also a prolific short-story writer, one of which was "The Big Black and White Game." The story, written in 1945, depicts a "friendly" baseball game between a white and black team. In short, the black team dominates their opponent, to the point where the white team members get testy. They start complaining about the silly tradition, and their wives start implying that they shouldn't make time for the game next year.
But then, the black team begins to lose. The members, rather obviously, begin making errors and throwing *just too slow* to get the white runners out. But this is brought to an uneasy head near the end of the story: suffice to say it makes positively clear about who really is rising to the occasion. (Aaand partly because it's been two years since I've read the story)
How well did Bradbury convey an idea? His theme, that the black men and women in the US are fully capable but forced to be *just too slow* for their white peers, is clearly apparent. However, some of the descriptors for the men on the brotha's team are woefully Western. The narrator watches the black team's fielders running out, akin to African gazelle on the plain. He notes their flexing muscles and flawless physical appearance. While his intentions are to glorify a group of men who are competitively superior to their white opponents, he is also promoting a sense of "other" by using African-inspired imagery. But this hardly seems his intent, as it counters the theme of the story.
As mentioned by one member of class, this misstep is likely due to the fact that Bradbury is trying to write as a form of protest which elevates a group of people equal to that of the dominant. Instead of solidarity, he is attempting inclusion. For a white SF writer of this time--and during the "melting, pot" era--it follows a rather progressive idea. But what we see now is the harsh effects of such an idea. By trying to assimilate groups of people into a new, identity-less collective, we compound the existing problems of identity and community. Not only do the disenfranchised already have little means of reconnecting with their cultural/communal past, under the "melting pot" directive, greater society tries to pigeon-hole them into an utterly unresolved perception of self. Naturally, this wasn't likely assumed by Bradbury at the time, and his efforts seem more directed at a white audience--he is trying to convince those readers to break down their preconceived notions (such as the inferiority of the "other" in sports). For trying, his attempt to elevate the black athlete to that of the white is progressive.
But what is now touted is the "salad bowl" idea. Instead of the Borg-esque collective, each can now rest assured that their identity will not come under fire. But seemingly in response to this idea is the attempts of politicians to try to emphasize frivolous ideals and fears to ensure that their dominance as brokers of English or holders of voting citizenship is not compromised.
"For every action..."
(and note this; it seemed a good irony)
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A cat, on an elevator...
"Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there!"
The debate between Professor McKean and Gorse on p. 102 of Whitehead's The Intuitionist seemed to touch on an idea which has been played with often in the realm of quantum mechanics.
The general idea is found in the thought question of Schrodinger's Cat. Suppose we had a cat. Said cat is in a shielded box with a can of deadly gas. The only other thing in the box is an atomic nucleus and a Geiger counter.
Now this nucleus is unstable, and has a 50% chance of decaying in an hour--which will set off the Geiger counter. The clincher is that said counter is hooked up to the deadly gas, and if the Geiger counter senses the nucleus' decay, well, the cat is dead.
Enter the heavy stuff. Schrodinger implies a question which is fundamental to quantum mechanics; can something have a mixture of states, and where do we (the scientist) draw the line for assuming something is both state a and b? One of the major problems in trying to study objects on the quantum level (i.e. uber-small, taken from the word "quanta" which is the smallest amount that energy can be in) is that they are often in two states, and very ambiguous. For example, electrons. Electrons circle an atom's nucleus at incredible speeds--so much so that early scientists thought atoms were little balls; what they really saw was the appearance of a shell caused by the electrons moving fast enough to look like a solid sphere. Anyway, it is an assumption by modern science that a person cannot know both the speed and location of an electron.
This concept rolls right into the rest of quantum mechanics. It implies that the electron has two discrete states, "location" and "speed." Just like our experiment's nucleus. It is at once "stable" and "decaying." It is this uncertainty which makes the scientist assume that because it is both of these states simultaneously, then the Geiger counter records *both*, and releases and doesn't release the poisonous gas.
So did Tiger make it through the experiment? Yes, and no. The idea is that the cat reflects the dual-state of the nucleus. Our kitty is at once alive and dead. Hence the t-shirt.
The big problem with this jump into theory is the observer. How does our intrepid scientist find out if the cat is dead or alive (assuming they are working on such a binary)? They open the shielded box. But doing so contaminates the inside of the box, rendering the experiment unusable. So the scientist, who merely assumes the cat is only alive or only dead, has no way of determining whether the cat is in kitty heaven or not.
Much like knowing whether the elevator is there or not.
How the (hell) does this apply to cultural theory?
We have spoken in class about the concept of an elevator as a symbol of socioeconomic and cultural/racial mobility. In modern society, there is a supposedly a way to transcend certain lower levels of inequality-created living via the existence of an installed machine. But execution of such ideas seem to have mixed results, as recent attempts haven't given all people the chance to reach the penthouse suite of society. But why is this? For the most part, the efforts of a government coerced into passing amendments and making more laws is only partially effective. It is akin to using people to find punishments to fit a crime. While yes, structural inequality must be resolved to ensure the the system is equally weighted to all people, what must also occur is a change of the minds behind such rift-making ideas. People need to be reached beyond the government and laws. It is akin to moving a group of students from extrinsic motivation to the intrinsic*.
And so what we are noticing in contemporary American society is an unique--quantum, if you will--uncertainty principle. For electrons, you cannot know both the location and speed at once. Likewise, for the disenfranchised, you cannot have success without becoming less of one's self. The non-western must become more "White" to be fully accepted by the modern US, especially if they are in the limelight. Conversely, one who is "White," although rich and respected, cannot assume a non-western culture and keep their once-respected place as a part of the dominant group.
Likewise, another take on a cultural uncertainty principle is that at one side we have the official stance of the government that there is a (broken) safety net and an ability to pull oneself up by his or her own bootstraps. But then we see a majority of people who, while they are quick to recognize racism is bad, do not know that racism is more than a word. The elevator, the mechanical system of government restructuring, is broken but workable. It is the question of whether the men and women at the door will let a person try the button. Therein lay the rub, and unlike Schrodinger's tongue-in-cheek approach to decrying the unresolved problems of physics, the modern activist is trying to work with the hardest mineral known to humankind; the mind.
As Stephen Hawking says, "When I hear of Schrodinger's cat, I reach for my gun."
*Lightly contextualizing the concept to my discipline. Blame T&L 325 for the Kohn.
The debate between Professor McKean and Gorse on p. 102 of Whitehead's The Intuitionist seemed to touch on an idea which has been played with often in the realm of quantum mechanics.
The general idea is found in the thought question of Schrodinger's Cat. Suppose we had a cat. Said cat is in a shielded box with a can of deadly gas. The only other thing in the box is an atomic nucleus and a Geiger counter.
Now this nucleus is unstable, and has a 50% chance of decaying in an hour--which will set off the Geiger counter. The clincher is that said counter is hooked up to the deadly gas, and if the Geiger counter senses the nucleus' decay, well, the cat is dead.
Enter the heavy stuff. Schrodinger implies a question which is fundamental to quantum mechanics; can something have a mixture of states, and where do we (the scientist) draw the line for assuming something is both state a and b? One of the major problems in trying to study objects on the quantum level (i.e. uber-small, taken from the word "quanta" which is the smallest amount that energy can be in) is that they are often in two states, and very ambiguous. For example, electrons. Electrons circle an atom's nucleus at incredible speeds--so much so that early scientists thought atoms were little balls; what they really saw was the appearance of a shell caused by the electrons moving fast enough to look like a solid sphere. Anyway, it is an assumption by modern science that a person cannot know both the speed and location of an electron.
This concept rolls right into the rest of quantum mechanics. It implies that the electron has two discrete states, "location" and "speed." Just like our experiment's nucleus. It is at once "stable" and "decaying." It is this uncertainty which makes the scientist assume that because it is both of these states simultaneously, then the Geiger counter records *both*, and releases and doesn't release the poisonous gas.
So did Tiger make it through the experiment? Yes, and no. The idea is that the cat reflects the dual-state of the nucleus. Our kitty is at once alive and dead. Hence the t-shirt.
The big problem with this jump into theory is the observer. How does our intrepid scientist find out if the cat is dead or alive (assuming they are working on such a binary)? They open the shielded box. But doing so contaminates the inside of the box, rendering the experiment unusable. So the scientist, who merely assumes the cat is only alive or only dead, has no way of determining whether the cat is in kitty heaven or not.
Much like knowing whether the elevator is there or not.
How the (hell) does this apply to cultural theory?
We have spoken in class about the concept of an elevator as a symbol of socioeconomic and cultural/racial mobility. In modern society, there is a supposedly a way to transcend certain lower levels of inequality-created living via the existence of an installed machine. But execution of such ideas seem to have mixed results, as recent attempts haven't given all people the chance to reach the penthouse suite of society. But why is this? For the most part, the efforts of a government coerced into passing amendments and making more laws is only partially effective. It is akin to using people to find punishments to fit a crime. While yes, structural inequality must be resolved to ensure the the system is equally weighted to all people, what must also occur is a change of the minds behind such rift-making ideas. People need to be reached beyond the government and laws. It is akin to moving a group of students from extrinsic motivation to the intrinsic*.
And so what we are noticing in contemporary American society is an unique--quantum, if you will--uncertainty principle. For electrons, you cannot know both the location and speed at once. Likewise, for the disenfranchised, you cannot have success without becoming less of one's self. The non-western must become more "White" to be fully accepted by the modern US, especially if they are in the limelight. Conversely, one who is "White," although rich and respected, cannot assume a non-western culture and keep their once-respected place as a part of the dominant group.
Likewise, another take on a cultural uncertainty principle is that at one side we have the official stance of the government that there is a (broken) safety net and an ability to pull oneself up by his or her own bootstraps. But then we see a majority of people who, while they are quick to recognize racism is bad, do not know that racism is more than a word. The elevator, the mechanical system of government restructuring, is broken but workable. It is the question of whether the men and women at the door will let a person try the button. Therein lay the rub, and unlike Schrodinger's tongue-in-cheek approach to decrying the unresolved problems of physics, the modern activist is trying to work with the hardest mineral known to humankind; the mind.
As Stephen Hawking says, "When I hear of Schrodinger's cat, I reach for my gun."
*Lightly contextualizing the concept to my discipline. Blame T&L 325 for the Kohn.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Creating a Contiuum
A few decades after Billie Holiday's songs faded from the limelight, a new jazz musician became a preeminent influence on a variety of styles which were being born. Charles Mingus, bassist and band leader, composed music which was as exacting as it stylistically diverse. Influences from gospel and blues are common in many works such as "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" and "Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting," and his aptitude strayed into the Latin genre with "Haitian Fight Song" and "Eat that Chicken." While incorporating styles from across the spectrum of jazz at the time, Mingus was also one of the only vocal figures in the political scene of the late 50's and early 60's.
In 1957 the governor of Alabama, Orval Faubus, resisted the attempt of nine black students to integrate a Little Rock school by bringing in the National Guard. Soon after, Mingus and his band recorded the "Fables of Faubus."
***
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em shoot us!
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em stab us!
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em tar and feather us!
Oh, Lord, no more swastikas!
Oh, Lord, no more Ku Klux Klan!
Name me someone who's ridiculous, Dannie.
Governor Faubus!
Why is he so sick and ridiculous?
He won't permit integrated schools.
Then he's a fool! Boo! Nazi Fascist supremacists!
Boo! Ku Klux Klan (with your Jim Crow plan)
Name me a handful that's ridiculous, Dannie Richmond.
Faubus, Rockefeller, Eisenhower
Why are they so sick and ridiculous?
Two, four, six, eight:
They brainwash and teach you hate.
H-E-L-L-O, Hello.
***
Columbia records first released the album without the words, opting instead for a version which had a series of nonsensical moaning. Skirting controversy and editing the song for a more "free jazz" tone, the act implies a fundamental theory about protest in modern America. US citizens are prone to ignoring a group of people in protest, quick to imply that change need not occur--or if at all very ,slowly.* Likewise, change-makers can only be accepted if they are a Founding Father, Abe Lincoln, or Martin Luther King Jr. Other figures are decried as godless commies (W.E.B. Dubois) or Islamic militarists (Malcom X), when in truth all are an inevitable reaction to an action, an action which has proven unrelenting in asserting itself as dominant since the country began its own solidarity against an Imperialist Britian.
So where is that in the scheme of post-bop jazz? Simply, it implies the likelihood of an 'activist'-labeled musician's words reaching the listener. To assert oneself and decry an act, one must be something else before they break into the realm of the political/human rights. Toni Morrison must be an Oprah's Book Club author before Paradise is read, Octavia Butler's Fledgling must be compared to Gibson's Neuromancer, and Mingus must be a gospel/blues/latin post-bop bassist before he speaks out against a racist governor.
*Nina Simone notes; "me and my people just about due / ... They keep on sayin' go slow! / But that's just the trouble"
MLKj notes; waiting "340 years for constitutional and God-given" rights is certainly long enough for a system to change of its own volition--now is the time for making tension and change.
In 1957 the governor of Alabama, Orval Faubus, resisted the attempt of nine black students to integrate a Little Rock school by bringing in the National Guard. Soon after, Mingus and his band recorded the "Fables of Faubus."
***
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em shoot us!
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em stab us!
Oh, Lord, don't let 'em tar and feather us!
Oh, Lord, no more swastikas!
Oh, Lord, no more Ku Klux Klan!
Name me someone who's ridiculous, Dannie.
Governor Faubus!
Why is he so sick and ridiculous?
He won't permit integrated schools.
Then he's a fool! Boo! Nazi Fascist supremacists!
Boo! Ku Klux Klan (with your Jim Crow plan)
Name me a handful that's ridiculous, Dannie Richmond.
Faubus, Rockefeller, Eisenhower
Why are they so sick and ridiculous?
Two, four, six, eight:
They brainwash and teach you hate.
H-E-L-L-O, Hello.
***
Columbia records first released the album without the words, opting instead for a version which had a series of nonsensical moaning. Skirting controversy and editing the song for a more "free jazz" tone, the act implies a fundamental theory about protest in modern America. US citizens are prone to ignoring a group of people in protest, quick to imply that change need not occur--or if at all very ,slowly.* Likewise, change-makers can only be accepted if they are a Founding Father, Abe Lincoln, or Martin Luther King Jr. Other figures are decried as godless commies (W.E.B. Dubois) or Islamic militarists (Malcom X), when in truth all are an inevitable reaction to an action, an action which has proven unrelenting in asserting itself as dominant since the country began its own solidarity against an Imperialist Britian.
So where is that in the scheme of post-bop jazz? Simply, it implies the likelihood of an 'activist'-labeled musician's words reaching the listener. To assert oneself and decry an act, one must be something else before they break into the realm of the political/human rights. Toni Morrison must be an Oprah's Book Club author before Paradise is read, Octavia Butler's Fledgling must be compared to Gibson's Neuromancer, and Mingus must be a gospel/blues/latin post-bop bassist before he speaks out against a racist governor.
*Nina Simone notes; "me and my people just about due / ... They keep on sayin' go slow! / But that's just the trouble"
MLKj notes; waiting "340 years for constitutional and God-given" rights is certainly long enough for a system to change of its own volition--now is the time for making tension and change.
On Music
I was taking the History of Jazz course at WSU last year and thoroughly enjoyed it. However, the professor once noted in passing that jazz musicians--especially the non-contemporary ones--often strayed away from politics in their music. There are a few exceptions to this trend, the most known of which are shocking in their quiet power.
Billie Holiday is considered one of the mothers of jazz vocalists, and is remembered for her unique tone and general disregard for traditional standards of singing. However, her approach to song proved to be just the release that the early jazz age sought. Although wildly popular, this was the 1930's in the east and south of the United States. Holiday could only perform in integrated clubs and theaters, and the dominant US society was seemingly content with a slave-free country with a maladjusted approach to equality. Holiday had a song called "Strange Fruit," the lyrics of which were based on a lynching poem written by a schoolteacher in the Bronx. She first performed it in 1939 at a club, and it quickly became her most popular--and arguably powerful--song.
***
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
***
The author of the poem is said to be inspired by this picture, in which the hanging Abram Smith and Thomas Shipp are surrounded by gleeful figures. Within the poem itself is a series of ironies which heighten the mournful tone; the pastoral scene is hardly pastoral--rather, it is marked by grotesque images of strangulation. Magnolias, known as beautiful flowering trees of the south, are beset by burning bodies. The 'strange fruits'--the bodies of the lynched men--are described as decrepit and rotting. The hundreds of years of slavery in fields is implied by describing such men as strange fruit. Now their bodies are still a commodity, but instead of gatherers they are unwilling entertainers killed for fun.
Part of the reason Holiday was loved by audiences is through her delivery; she is often seen arcing her head back or smiling broadly during a performance, reflecting the tone of her piece. She put her own personality into her music, and is respected throughout the jazz community as a musician who had "soul." "Strange Fruit" is a chilling contrast to her often-excited delivery; she moves from mournful to disgusted, reflecting in her voice the images described. This was no entertaining gimmick--Billie Holiday was breaking into music a taboo reality of being considered the "other." The fervor of her words when performing this piece call to an unjust truth which she and many other artists of the time struggled to engage.
Billie Holiday is considered one of the mothers of jazz vocalists, and is remembered for her unique tone and general disregard for traditional standards of singing. However, her approach to song proved to be just the release that the early jazz age sought. Although wildly popular, this was the 1930's in the east and south of the United States. Holiday could only perform in integrated clubs and theaters, and the dominant US society was seemingly content with a slave-free country with a maladjusted approach to equality. Holiday had a song called "Strange Fruit," the lyrics of which were based on a lynching poem written by a schoolteacher in the Bronx. She first performed it in 1939 at a club, and it quickly became her most popular--and arguably powerful--song.
***
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
***
The author of the poem is said to be inspired by this picture, in which the hanging Abram Smith and Thomas Shipp are surrounded by gleeful figures. Within the poem itself is a series of ironies which heighten the mournful tone; the pastoral scene is hardly pastoral--rather, it is marked by grotesque images of strangulation. Magnolias, known as beautiful flowering trees of the south, are beset by burning bodies. The 'strange fruits'--the bodies of the lynched men--are described as decrepit and rotting. The hundreds of years of slavery in fields is implied by describing such men as strange fruit. Now their bodies are still a commodity, but instead of gatherers they are unwilling entertainers killed for fun.
Part of the reason Holiday was loved by audiences is through her delivery; she is often seen arcing her head back or smiling broadly during a performance, reflecting the tone of her piece. She put her own personality into her music, and is respected throughout the jazz community as a musician who had "soul." "Strange Fruit" is a chilling contrast to her often-excited delivery; she moves from mournful to disgusted, reflecting in her voice the images described. This was no entertaining gimmick--Billie Holiday was breaking into music a taboo reality of being considered the "other." The fervor of her words when performing this piece call to an unjust truth which she and many other artists of the time struggled to engage.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Assumptions Unltd.
What is a fundamental property of Black Canon?
This question was posed a few weeks ago as a continuing query in which to guide our studies. And, three books into the course, I had found a solid set of qualities that seemed intrinsic to developing a definition of Black Lit. The first was one I had toyed around with from my reading of 100 Years of Solitude; that within the scope of "Black Lit" there is in the landscape or setting an element of mystic, surreal, or extra-ordinary. The second was posed by the instructor; issues of identity, specifically that of isolation, disjointedness, and out-and-out awkwardness.
I was sharing this with my roommate the other night. His ability to analyze cultural or social issues is practically intuition, and he picked up on a topic that I had not even had the foresight to "queer."
We were sharing our thoughts, and I was going through my reasoning of Black Canon having elements of mysticism--especially with regards to the land. In Morrison's Paradise there is a mysterious couple constantly having sex in the wilderness. In Danticat's Dew Breaker the mountains of Haiti are romanticized while the people in the villages seem spiritually attuned. In Jones' All Aunt Hagar's Children a character is miffed that a root worker is able to heal her mother better than any nurse or doctor. I had found a definite trend.
But as I was sharing, my roommate asked why we call that "mystic." I was confused at first, as it seemed the best word for the trait. "Voodoo" was too limiting, and had bad connotations...like the concept of snake oil--just with an evil edge. But that was his point: we never call the dominant forms of spirituality "mystic". For instance, none of the Book of Genesis would sound right called "mystic"--such a word would seem inappropriate. Paradise Lost is not called "mystic", but rather "mythic". There is a connotation associated with the word "mystic" which implies that it is a lesser spirituality. "Mystic" is a word relegated to the other, the third world, and the less important. "Religious", on the other hand, seems to occupy the other side of the binary as a wholesome and entirely acceptable title.
But why would such a spectrum exist? One need only look at those in a position of dominance. Christianity, in its myriad forms, had dominated the theology of the West--decrying other spiritualities/mysticisms as, well, mystic. Even large religions such as Hinduism are described in a mystic light in British Lit, reinforcing the idea that mysticism is the spirituality of the oppressed, while religion is for the first world. These mysticisms were also actively pressed against by the West, who sought to de-validify and marginalize the belief systems of the other.
Christianity has also had a definite "witch hunt" in regards to rooting out or converting "pagan" ideas. Hawthorne satirizes early American ideas of religion with many of his works, which include scenes of hypocrisy and witchcraft. Which bring up the idea of potency. Witchcraft was viewed as a very tangible way to condemn one's soul in order to work supernatural acts of evil. But voodoo, on the other hand, seemed only to have power when in the hands of the natives. The idea of religion versus mysticism is also shown in how we (a reader affected by the Western view of religion=Christianity) see their respective malicious forms. The voodoo priests are brushed off, while the witches are burned at the stake. Christianity, even in a malicious form, is more powerful/dangerous.
But back to the main point. We don't call elements of Christianity "mystic," but we are quick to call root workers and a surreal environment "mystic." This shows an unbalance between the concepts in language, which is determined by prestige, which is held by the dominant classes.
So where did this leave my idea? I didn't have many other words which had the appropriate connotation for the idea of "spirituality in environment." "Voodoo," as stated above, wouldn't work. "Spirituality" sounded too New Age, and "religion" implied something to ordered or Western. I wanted to express the concept of "the ethereal subtly present in Black Literature", but "mystic" had the best ideas associated with the theme I was trying to express.
My roommate, after we worked through the above concepts, agreed. Our ideas concerning "religion" were enlightened, but how many of our peers had had the same discussion? And so I felt resigned to fall back to calling my concept "mystic setting." But then, when someone uses mystic, are they intending to imply second-class spirituality?
This question was posed a few weeks ago as a continuing query in which to guide our studies. And, three books into the course, I had found a solid set of qualities that seemed intrinsic to developing a definition of Black Lit. The first was one I had toyed around with from my reading of 100 Years of Solitude; that within the scope of "Black Lit" there is in the landscape or setting an element of mystic, surreal, or extra-ordinary. The second was posed by the instructor; issues of identity, specifically that of isolation, disjointedness, and out-and-out awkwardness.
I was sharing this with my roommate the other night. His ability to analyze cultural or social issues is practically intuition, and he picked up on a topic that I had not even had the foresight to "queer."
We were sharing our thoughts, and I was going through my reasoning of Black Canon having elements of mysticism--especially with regards to the land. In Morrison's Paradise there is a mysterious couple constantly having sex in the wilderness. In Danticat's Dew Breaker the mountains of Haiti are romanticized while the people in the villages seem spiritually attuned. In Jones' All Aunt Hagar's Children a character is miffed that a root worker is able to heal her mother better than any nurse or doctor. I had found a definite trend.
But as I was sharing, my roommate asked why we call that "mystic." I was confused at first, as it seemed the best word for the trait. "Voodoo" was too limiting, and had bad connotations...like the concept of snake oil--just with an evil edge. But that was his point: we never call the dominant forms of spirituality "mystic". For instance, none of the Book of Genesis would sound right called "mystic"--such a word would seem inappropriate. Paradise Lost is not called "mystic", but rather "mythic". There is a connotation associated with the word "mystic" which implies that it is a lesser spirituality. "Mystic" is a word relegated to the other, the third world, and the less important. "Religious", on the other hand, seems to occupy the other side of the binary as a wholesome and entirely acceptable title.
But why would such a spectrum exist? One need only look at those in a position of dominance. Christianity, in its myriad forms, had dominated the theology of the West--decrying other spiritualities/mysticisms as, well, mystic. Even large religions such as Hinduism are described in a mystic light in British Lit, reinforcing the idea that mysticism is the spirituality of the oppressed, while religion is for the first world. These mysticisms were also actively pressed against by the West, who sought to de-validify and marginalize the belief systems of the other.
Christianity has also had a definite "witch hunt" in regards to rooting out or converting "pagan" ideas. Hawthorne satirizes early American ideas of religion with many of his works, which include scenes of hypocrisy and witchcraft. Which bring up the idea of potency. Witchcraft was viewed as a very tangible way to condemn one's soul in order to work supernatural acts of evil. But voodoo, on the other hand, seemed only to have power when in the hands of the natives. The idea of religion versus mysticism is also shown in how we (a reader affected by the Western view of religion=Christianity) see their respective malicious forms. The voodoo priests are brushed off, while the witches are burned at the stake. Christianity, even in a malicious form, is more powerful/dangerous.
But back to the main point. We don't call elements of Christianity "mystic," but we are quick to call root workers and a surreal environment "mystic." This shows an unbalance between the concepts in language, which is determined by prestige, which is held by the dominant classes.
So where did this leave my idea? I didn't have many other words which had the appropriate connotation for the idea of "spirituality in environment." "Voodoo," as stated above, wouldn't work. "Spirituality" sounded too New Age, and "religion" implied something to ordered or Western. I wanted to express the concept of "the ethereal subtly present in Black Literature", but "mystic" had the best ideas associated with the theme I was trying to express.
My roommate, after we worked through the above concepts, agreed. Our ideas concerning "religion" were enlightened, but how many of our peers had had the same discussion? And so I felt resigned to fall back to calling my concept "mystic setting." But then, when someone uses mystic, are they intending to imply second-class spirituality?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)