Ownership of The Word

In African-American Lit last year I remember there being a discussion on the use of the n-word by African-American writers.  There has been a debate going on over it being used in the same sort of context by non African-Americans (namely Whites) and the appropriateness of it.  Essentially those in favor of its use being "decriminalized" believe that if they can say it why cant we?  I must admit I never agreed with this argument but I never really exerted much energy thinking about the issue.  Then as I was reading Mumbo Jumbo I ran across something that I interpreted as a similar thing to me.  Reed is telling the story of the Atonist rise to power in Ancient Egypt with a large section focusing on Moses.  He relates Moses saying to the Osirian Egyptians that, "I will unleash the Holocaust upon you this time if you persist in this action" (Reed 185).  Now I know that holocausts have happened to people all over the world throughout history up to the present, and that the Holocaust (which I grant you I am inferring to mean the one done by the Nazis under Hitler) happened to many more groups of people than just Jews, but this one short sentence out of the entire book offended me.

Earlier, Mr. Mitchell asked our feelings on the portrayal of Whites in Mumbo Jumbo, I didn't have any issue with it.  But because it is Moses saying this, it was just too far for me.  I shouldn't have been offended, and even when I first read this I realized that, yet I still was.  Even nearly seventy five years after it happened, the Holocaust is still such an open wound for Jews worldwide.  Perhaps because it is often misremembered in history as being something that only happened to Jews, or maybe for some reason that I can't think of but the Holocaust is something Jews seem to own now.  My first reaction was along the lines of "What right has Ishamel Reed have to make any kind of ironic joke out of the Holocaust?"  And to some extent I still feel that way, but I'm coming to see it now as less about it being Moses as a Jew and the Holocaust as something that happened in part to Jews, and more about history itself.  Reed is totally rewriting the common understanding of Ancient Egyptian history, so why can't he also make Moses into a Hitleresque figure?  Whose really to say that if you flip their lives that those two men would have been any different?  I think that is the point Reed is trying to get across, though I am still disconcerted by his choice of topic and the language he uses to accomplish it.      

Epigraphical Rebel?

Ishmael Reed is really breaking convention by starting his novel Mumbo Jumbo on the literal first page in the book.  This is so much of a convention, to start it later in the physical book, that when I heard where he put the first chapter, I wondered to myself if that was even legal (perhaps legal is the wrong word, but a violation of some agreement in the publishing world). This sets the tone for the book, as one that will not follow standard literary conventions. What this also does, is make those interim pages between the first and second chapter be seen.  The copyright pages really aren't important to authors I presume, that's in the realm of the publishers.  But the epigraphs really are.  Just like every word in the narrative is chosen by the author, so too are the epigraphs. Why would anyone spend time finding the perfect quotations to put in the epigraph if they didn't want their readers to read them.  

There are three quotes in the epigraph, though it is my understanding that the second and third are both James Weldon Johnson from his work The Book of American Negro Poetry.  Looking at the first one, attributed to Zora Neale Hurston, I couldn't help but feel that this is akin to how Ernest Hemingway put the Gertrude Stein quote "You are all a lost generation" as his first in The Sun Also Rises.  In it, Hemingway is not only describing one theme for his novel, dealing with the generation born out of war, but he is also paying tribute to Stein for being his mentor and helping get him to the place where his modernist novel could make it through publishing.  While I have no biographical knowledge of Reed and Hurston's relationship, if any, I do know that Hurston is one of the most well respected writers to come out of the Harlem Renaissance, helping to pave the way for African-American authors to be accepted by main stream (White) America. Perhaps Reed is not being as rebellious as the location of his first chapter may suggest.

The final two quotes from Johnson are integral, even more so than Hurston's.  Without them, the whole meaning of the first few chapters is unclear.  "jes' grew" doesn't mean much out of context, at least it didn't for me. After the first chapter I started suspecting it was the early forms of Jazz, but as "jes' grew" is a focus for the beginning of the novel, a suspicion of its meaning is hardly something to base your understanding of a novel on.  In the epigraph though, Johnson is telling us, if not explicitly, just what "jes' grew" is.  Reed put that in there so that readers of the epigraph would have a better understanding of his novel.  It would be out of rhythm for him to define it somewhere in the narrative itself, so the logical place is then in the epigraph.  How do you get a reader to read the epigraph?  Put it in the middle of the novel, not before it.  It doesn't look like Reed was being as much of a rebel after all, now does it?

Dropping the Gloves

Being a lifelong sports fan, and especially a baseball one, when I read that Father was going to take his son to a game I was very excited.  I expected none other than Honus Wagner or Ty Cobb to come marching in to the Polo Grounds, and just so happen to talk to Father and the boy.  Instead, we get a rivalry game between Boston (pre-Ruth) and the Giants.  Father only picks up on the ugliness of the sport, the fighting, the cursing, spitting, etc.  Attention is specially paid to the team "mascots," Boston's midget, and New York's fool.  Charlie Faust, the Giant who is mocking the game delusionally was actually a real member of the Giants in 1911 by the way.  Towards the end of the game Father thinks to himself that, "What he saw was not baseball but an elaborate representation of his own problems accounted, for his secret understanding, in the coded clarity of numbers that could be seen from a distance" (231).  And I think he is right, in part.

I too saw the connection of this game to Father's life, though more so in the events of the game than the numbers they created.  Essentially, the way Father describes it, fans are paying to watch the violent intensity of the game.  They egg on the players, cheer when one side draws the blood of the other, and will go home happy when a hard fought (literally) game was put on for their amusement.  Indeed sports have often been explained as a metaphor for war, only one more socially acceptable than say gladiators fighting to the death. Is this not what is happening in New Rochelle?  Coalhouse starts things off by attacking the Emerald Isle Fire Station.  After that the other side responds with a manhunt.  But things really start once the press gets involved.  Coalhouse saves one of the firemen in an attempt to extract Conklin's location.  But this also allows him to report the events in detail to the police, and the press.  Coalhouse also delivers two letters to the press within the hour of the attack.  He wants the public spectacle, he wants "the crowd" cheering him on like they do during the baseball game's fight.  After his second attack on Fire Station No. 2, the New York press come into town to cover the story.  Here the tale of the vengeful Coalhouse reaches national notoriety, much like say a big baseball game.

Ultimately the game serves as a tangible representation to Father of the two sides of the fight that he is watching unfold right in from of him.  There is Willie Conklin, the home team, who abuses his authority under the belief that the fans will "root, root, root for the home team."  Then we have Coalhouse as the away team interloper, upsetting the balance of New Rochelle.  When Conklin overplays his hand, the townspeople abandon him, and then only focus on the violence, locals living in fear of it, nonresidents watching in earnest.  It would seem Coalhouse defeats the home team, but then they both go to the New York for a continuation of The Series, this time on Coalhouse home field.  Who's going to win the pennant? I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

A Portrait of the Explorer as a Tourist Man

In Ragtime, Peary's journey to the pole is fictionalized with Father being our eyes and ears into that adventure.  Here is one of the canonical events of American exploration, right up there with Lewis and Clark and the Moon landing.  Doctorow is writing in the early 1970s, a very patriotic time because of the bicentennial, though with the Vietnam War still fresh in the American Conscience, triumphs like these, battles against nature not man were less divisive things to wave the flag over.  Yet Doctorow makes this triumph of American will and spirit into a scene from Apocalypse Now only older and colder.  I admit I don't really know what happened on the expedition, and that I'm not wholly discounting Doctorow's version, but I do think it's important that we recognize that Doctorow is trying to do something here beyond tell the story of the expedition.

This is really a story about Father, Doctorow could have chosen to set the chapter framed from Peary or even Henson's point of view, but instead it stays with Father.  This is to accomplish his goal of showing the 20th century man.  We've seen Tateh representing the immigrant man, we've seen Mother's Younger Brother as a Septimus Warren Smith-esque young man, but Father is the missing piece of manhood, the distinctly American part (so much so that he owns a patriotic supplies shop).  Father is our more stereotypical image of the American turn of the century man in his moral views and appearance.  In this chapter though, we see the Teddy Roosevelt image being shown as just a front.  Father isn't a Rough Rider, as Peary explains to him "This was from no lack of heart...but from the tendency of his extremities to freeze easily" (79).  His reason for being there is laughable, his society donated enough money so Father got to come along, as essentially a dressed up tourist.

The short talk between Henson and Father over who will go with Peary to the Pole is also telling.  Father admits to himself that Henson has a right to that honor probably more so than anyone else.  He relates his skill in building shelter and driving the dogs.  Yet he resents him for his confident nature, compounded by the fact that he is African-American.  He never says this as such, though it seems clear to me because in the same sentence that Father tells us of his resentment over "Henson's presumption" that he challenged "the Negro" over why he thought it would be him (77).  We knew Henson was African-American already so this isn't telling us something we didn't know, only something that clearly matters to Father.  Father's racism also carries over to the Eskimos, more so actually.  He treats them not as people but as animals.  They're used as unnamed assistants, indeed the Eskimos were always going accompany Peary to the Pole yet he still said he was going to do it alone.  Then there's Father watching two Eskimos have sex in the same way someone might at a zoo of two caged animals.  Later, when Father tells of his relations with an Eskimo woman he refers to her as "the stinking fish" (111).  This fills in our picture of the American man as Doctorow shows him--racist and fake.

Brand Loyalty

Magdalene called Lena tells Milkman that "When you got grown enough to know the difference between a woman and a two-toned Ford, everything in this house stopped for you" (215).  It got me thinking about Macon Dead II especially in light of the story Lena tells Milkman about going to the ice-house.  She sets it up as "You see, he took us there so they could see us, envy us, envy him...And when he talked to the men, he kept glancing at us, us and the car.  The car and us" (216).  What Lena interprets as a being more about making the poor Blacks jealous, I would say is really more about Macon.  He missed that maturation step where he could tell the difference between a woman and a two-toned Ford.  The reason that Macon is so domineering is because to him there is no difference.  Women (and really I would say men too) are just objects that he drives until a newer model comes out and then he either trades them in or leaves them sitting in the garage.  If you will indulge me with this metaphor...look at Ruth.  She was the big name import brand that made all the other guys stand in awe as he paraded around with in.  Soon though, the mouth agape factor wore off, and she needed a a lot more TLC than was expected.  Macon keeps her confined within the home, never really taking her out anymore, forcing her to sit and waste her life away.  Because Macon sees the people around him in near car-like roles, he just fills them up with gas every now and then and thinks they'll be fine.

Like a lot of gearheads, we see Macon try and pass this on to his son.  We see how intent he is that Milkman develop the same feelings towards other people as Macon feels himself.  He is insistent that Milkman work with him at Sonny's shop, even making him the guy to collect all the rents so he experiences that feeling of superiority.  Macon wants for his son to inherit everything, the business, his personality, and with that the "cars."  Where conceivably, are Lena and Corinthians going to live in Macon's mind? Probably in the house, like they have for the first forty five years of their life, making them Milkman's responsibility.  This really is just a spin off of the old slavery rooted idea that people can be property, only for Macon they aren't just generic property they are cars.  Look back throughout the book and there are a lot of cases where cars come into play along with the notion of Macon--and Milkman--being Black on the outside but really with the "heart of a White man" (266).  The literal cars are a status symbol for Macon, by making people into car-like figures he is further classifying them, and then Morrison is showing us then, that this takes on the added level of a racial pride aspect to go with class identification.  This could then be rooted down to "Brand Loyalty."  

The Goddess of Speed

*Note: This comes from a 1928 5th Series 528 Formal Sedan. Though the scene in Song of Solomon occurs sometime around 1936, from 1929-1942 Packard changed their logo to a more chiseled masculine hood ornament.

Toni Morrison doesn't add superfluous details, anything that makes it into the book is something worth noting.  So why then, is the one thing Milkman can see outside of the car this image of a woman shown above?  And then what is the importance of it being in front of him, while looking behind makes him uneasy?  Let's tackle the former first.  The most obvious reading is the freedom she represents.  Her wings allow her to fly away from anything she wants, nothing can hold her down.  This is of course very different from Milkman's life, true he is only six or seven, but even at this young age he recognizes the domineering nature of his father.  Macon Dead II lives his way, and makes sure his entire family does as well.  In the car, the time when Milkman sees this image of the goddess of speed, he is quite physically constrained between his mother and his father.  His father controls everything about Milkman in the car, even something as basic as when he can go to the bathroom.  When Milkman starts squirming his father is reluctant to stop the car, he only does so when Magdalene tells him he could stop (Morrison 33).  Then there is the independence that the goddess having a tire suggests.  Even if a tire ruptures, she can still keep the car moving because she has an extra tire.  It isn't next to her, she isn't standing on it, it is in her outstretched arms ready for use.  Milkman doesn't have anything to give him independence.  It isn't until later that he does anything against his father's wishes (visiting Pilate's house) and only much later that he asserts anything to his father by punching him.  

I would argue though, that it is the action pose the woman has that makes this small thing such an important detail.  Look at her, she's running (or flying).  In the first chapter Milkman doesn't do anything, everything happens to him.  In the start of the second chapter Milkman's first real action that we see is him having to go to the bathroom--notice how we don't actually see him pee on his sister--that is relayed to us back in the confined car.  Like I said earlier, Milkman is physically constrained at the time he sees this image, and I think we can all remember being a 6 year old kid and wanting to do anything rather than sit in the car (moving at a crawl no less!).  Later Guitar and Milkman talk about how Milkman doesn't fit in, he lives on Not Doctor Street, but he hangs around Southside (103).  He wants something to do but the big old house that his grandfather created confines him just as much as his father does.  He can't just go in the backyard or to the park to play, and it isn't like he can throw a ball around with his dad.  Milkman is stuck, physically and emotionally, and this hood ornament is the only "role model" he has for escaping his current state.

That idea of the goddess of speed being his role model I would propose as why that is the only thing he can see out the front.  Milkman can't actually see the wide open expanses of lakes or neighborhoods, but up on the hood the goddess of speed can.  She isn't constrained by anyone or anything, the world literally opens up to her as the car moves, she is the first to see the new land.  By being the first thing anyone sees as the car approaches she is the face of the car.  Contrast this to the scene at Feather's pool hall, where Milkman is denied entrance because of who his father his.  Even though Macon isn't there, his image is strong enough that it projects over that son, casting a shadow that everyone notices.  Out front the goddess is always traversing the new, virgin, frontier.  Macon assumes after Milkman works for him for many years that he will take over, even Milkman says that he kind of assumes it as well (107).  But Milkman from the very beginning wants to be different, he doesn't want to follow his father in to real estate.  It just doesn't interest him because it's what he's always grown up knowing.  Yet, unlike his sisters and mother he won't content himself to living statically, he needs change, and he wants somewhere that his father hasn't touched already, where he could be Macon Dead, not Milkman, and no one would mistake him for his father.  The goddess represents everything Milkman wants, and the fact that she's the one thing he can see out front, in his future, shows his determination to get what she has.

Native Stranger

There is perhaps no more harsh criticism of the society of this country, with a special focus on the societal structures around crimes than Richard Wright's 1940 novel Native Son of a poor Black man who finds himself waiting for the electric chair.  Bigger Thomas is 20 years old and lives in a one room apartment with his mother, brother, and sister.  He is constantly pushed by his mother to get a job to support his family, with the final impetus being their threatened eviction if he does not begin work.  He has a few "friends" that together form a gang, committing muggings and small time robberies, as well as Bessie, a girl that he really only keeps around for sex.  His job is to be the chauffeur for the rich Dalton family.  One night (actually his first night on the job) Mary Dalton, roughly the same age as Bigger, goes out with her boyfriend Jan.  She is so drunk by the end of the night that Bigger must carry her from the driveway up to her room.  As he gets Mary to her room, her blind mother walks in, and to keep Mary quiet he puts a pillow over her face.  She dies accidentally, but Bigger realizing how it will look, hides her body and goes on the run.  Along the way he picks up Bessie to assist in his fake ransom scheme before raping and killing her.  He is subsequently caught and put on trial.

Sound familiar? Camus writes a (relatively) similar story with The Stranger.  In both the trial and punishment phase take on an entire section of the novel.  Each trial is much more an indictment of the ideas Bigger and Meursault represent then the men themselves.  The trials are sensational on both sides, the prosecutors in each play the role of the keeper of righteousness, while the defense lawyers make impassioned speeches detailing the humanity of their clients (Wright spares us no detail in the closing argument of the lawyer, Mr. Max.  The argument lasts roughly 30 pages in total).  Both clients are sentenced to death, and in each we see what prison does to them, with special emphasis paid to their disbelief of religion.

Each author is arguing against the court systems, for they are killing someone just as much as Bigger or Meursault did.  For each of the men, the death by their hand was an accident of sorts, while the all powerful court is very deliberate in its murder.  The outcome seems decided before the trial really begins, with the witnesses serving more as stories for the press than the jury.  Bigger is tormented by everyone around him, Whites hate him for killing Mary Dalton, Blacks hate him for the negative attention he has brought their ghetto.  Meursault of course hopes for the hatred of the masses on the closing page.

Christianity also has a similar role in each novel.  Both Bigger and Meursault violently reject the religion that pervasively dominates their cultures.  For each, it is seen as a giving up of hope for the current life, and is tied very closely to the idea of escaping their prisons (for Bigger this extends earlier into his childhood prison of the Black Belt).  This rejection alienates them from everyone, though this is met with some level of appreciation that they no longer have to try to explain themselves to others.

Both authors are calling for people to start valuing the current life and stop shutting their eyes in prayer for the next one.  Many viewed Wright's story as a call to arms of sorts, to get Blacks up on their feet and push, physically if necessary, for more equal rights.  Camus is writing during the Nazi occupation of France, and as an active member of the Resistance, he too it can be argued is making a similar call to his compatriots.  Their anti-justice system views make sense, as the system only works if it goes along with whatever group is in charge, even if that means bastardizing the principles of its laws, and at that point the justice systems of the U.S. and Vichy France were seriously doing just that.

While certainly the philosophies of existentialism and naturalism that so greatly influenced these two works are different, the approach to a similar end can be to some extent disregarded.  These two novels were published within only a few years of each other, and in relatively similar social environments (though importantly Meursault comes from the ruling side, while Bigger is part of the exploited side) so the use of them in conjunction with each other I find is a compelling one.  That is not to say that they are sister novels, meant intentionally to compliment one another, but I certainly see that it works out that way.