An Homage to the Humanities

Despite the fact that "Sorry To Bother You" was a major mindfuck, I enjoyed it a lot. In many ways, the film was a culmination of the books we've read this semester.

The way Cassius finds himself uncharacteristically and unintentionally boosting the slave labor market in order to support himself is reminiscent of Bigger Thomas' accidental murder on the first day of his new job. The way Steve Lift forces Cassius to rap in front of a cheering white crowd reminds me of the battle royal scene, as both Cassius and the narrator's supposed racially-inherited skills become entertainment for the benefit of white people. Detroit's afrocentric art reminds me of Zora Neal Hurston's poetic prose and focus on life in black communities. WorryFree is a slave labor system capitalizing on circumstances people can't control, a modernized "Beloved." The white voice Cassius uses could be likened to Gunnar's white shuffle, as both characters struggle to cater to two separate groups of people.

Yeah, some of those comparisons were a stretch. But I guess my point is, it's cool to see how the themes we've discussed over the semester connect. The American social systems we've done our best to analyze are infinitely more complicated than one book or poem or film can capture. But by stepping back and seeing how these works are similar, it's easier to get the big picture. Like, how we were able to discuss race and class simultaneously in our discussion about "Sorry To Bother You." It would've been harder to have that conversation if we hadn't had five novels worth of discussion under our belts already. 

I'm not saying five books and a handful of poems granted us a full understanding of the American Social System. I don't think we could quite get there in one semester. And obviously we all came into the class at different places, in terms of our understanding of concepts like race and class. Nevertheless, I think the more we expose ourselves to literature, poetry, and art, the more we'll understand about the world we live in today. Especially if we can connect that literature, poetry, and art to the historical context in which it was made. 

Oof. That was such a Mr. Leff sentence. 

No one told you life was gonna be this way...

I've been thinking about friendship a lot lately.

More specifically, what it means to be a good friend, and why I was suspicious of Gunnar's friend group in Santa Monica.

Gunnar tells the reader that he's known as the "cool funny black guy" among his friends. This implies that Gunnar's friends like him because he's cool and funny and black. This immediately made me wonder what would happen if Gunnar had a bad day. What if Gunnar didn't feel up to making jokes? Would his friends ask him if he was okay? Would they make an effort to support him? Or would they scoff at his inability to entertain and ignore him for the rest of the day?

I'm not saying labels are automatically a bad thing. Most people have labels within their friend groups. There's the soccer mom, the party animal, the jokester, the therapist, the hot mess, the one who's perpetually single, you know. But, in a healthy friend group, these labels are only surface-level. They don't define your entire personality, and your friends don't treat you as such. The problem is, I'm not convinced that Gunnar's friend group transcends surface-level.

Mr. Mitchell mentioned the concept of a "mascot" at the end of class the other day. I think this is a possible analogy for Gunnar's role in his Santa Monica friend group. Gunnar is the kid who gets up and tells a joke, making everyone turn to each other and laugh ("dude he really is funny!") before going back to whatever white things they were previously discussing. Gunnar is not a person in the same way his other friends are to one another. He is 2D, a projection of his friends' expectations of him, never fully seen. If this is giving you Invisible Man vibes, good! Same here.

Gunnar's friendship with David seems more real. They spend more time together, geeking out over WWII aircrafts and other bizarre warfare trivia. I'm wondering whether David being a Jew has anything to do with this more developed friendship. He is a different kind of minority and perhaps feels ostracized in a similar way Gunnar does. I'm not trying to compare the plight of black people to Jews here, but maybe Gunnar and David have more common ground than they do with their other friends. They see each other more clearly than the other boys see them.

Back to the Future: Paul D's Paradoxical Presence

Does Paul D represent the past or the future?

Mr. Mitchell has brought up this question multiple times, though we've never discussed it in depth. To me, this question poses a more important underlying question: is Paul D a suitable partner for Sethe? In this blog post, I will argue both sides and let yall make the final judgement.

Paul D is the past. He knows Sethe from Sweethome, and she will always associate him with the days she was enslaved. Paul D will continue adding horrifying details to Sethe's inventory of Sweethome memories, which will inevitably lead to her agonizing over these moments. Paul D will keep Sethe from moving on and prohibit any kind of "letting go" she might be capable of. He will perpetuate the haunting nature of the past by attempting to stay in Sethe's life, serving as a constant reminder of what she's lost.

Paul D is the future. He is the only one who understands the horrors of Sethe's past. He can relate to her and support her better than anyone else. They share a deep, personal connection because of the pain they've endured together. They know the value of love better than anyone, and if they truly love each other, they will go to great lengths to ensure the other's happiness. Paul D knows how much Sethe values family because of Sweethome. He wants to make a real family with her, complete with carnivals and babies. Paul D is more motivated than anyone to foster that sense of familial togetherness Sethe has lacked for so long.

I suppose I should've posted this before we read the chapters for last night, as we saw Paul D walk out on Sethe. However, it is still intriguing to think about what exactly Sethe needs most and whether or not Paul D could provide it.

Wright Way to Write?

I'm fascinated by the conflict between Hurston and Wright. From the documentary and Henry Louis Gates Jr.'s afterword, it is clear that the two authors have diametrically opposed stances on black literature. While Wright believes that black authors should write with a clear message critiquing racism in American society, Hurston prefers a snapshot of black community, culture, and life. 

In a way, these opposing visions reflect the opposition between the Brotherhood and the narrator. The Brotherhood is intent on defining every aspect of life in terms of a social problem, to be solved using scientific methodology. Similarly, Wright only wants black authors to write about social problems. He thinks black literature is the only way to address these problems and sees all other genres of black literature as irrelevant and unproductive. 

On the other hand, the invisible man emphasizes the complexity of humanity. He refuses to be defined as a symptom of the Brotherhood's vague social problems. The narrator is more intent on finding his own personal truth, which is why he resorts to hibernation (interestingly, Hurston also resorts to a form of hibernation towards the end of her life). Hurston is also an advocate of individualism. There were times when she didn't want to identify as black because she didn't want to be stuck in a category of people. All of her anthropological and literary work focused on black towns, where there were no black-white tensions. She was inspired by folklore and dialect, which are cultural aspects of the black community, as opposed to political. 

Wright harshly criticizes Hurston for writing with "no theme, no message, no thought." This is similar to how the Brotherhood condemned the narrator for his eulogy. His speech didn't politically organize the people, and therefore was a waste of time and words. It didn't matter that the narrator had a more powerful, personal, raw message to share. 

Hurston criticizes Wright for writing a "treatise on sociology" instead of a black novel. Similarly, the narrator stands up for his eulogy after the Brotherhood insults it. The narrator points out that the Brotherhood fails to include people like the zoot suiters in their methodology, just like Hurston implies that Wright fails to include black culture in his novels. 

I realize that this is a biased analogy. If you agree with Wright that Hurston's novel should have a more direct political message, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Whatever your opinion is, I think the Wright/Hurston and Brotherhood/narrator conflicts have some compelling similarities. In both cases, there is a social science side and a humanity side. A systematic side and an individual side. 

I do see one similarity between Wright and Hurston, however. Both believe they have a personal responsibility to write in the way they do. This at least distances Wright from the soulless nature of the Brotherhood. 

A Different Kind of Read-Aloud

I've only read the first three chapters of their eyes were watching god, but I'm already amazed by Hurston's use of language. I've never read a novel that's forced me to slow down and consider the meaning behind the words as much as this one.

When I started reading the dialogue, I found myself saying the words out loud to understand what the characters were saying. At first, I was frustrated because I couldn't read as quickly as I wanted to. However, our discussion on Tuesday changed my mind. Hurston is a genius! If you have trouble reading the dialect, that probably means you haven't had extended exposure to people who speak with the dialect. By writing in the dialect, Hurston facilitates the reader's understanding of the characters by making them slow down and speak the words aloud. The reader becomes the characters as they read because they are paying such close attention to each word.  Hurston no doubt wrote the dialogue phonetically on purpose, perhaps to address the possibility of backlash to her novel. If you become the characters you read, it would be significantly more difficult to invalidate their experiences and perspective.

I also appreciate how Hurston celebrates the dialect she writes in. We discussed in class how many novels in the 20th century used African-American vernacular to portray characters in a demeaning and racist way. This is not at all how Hurston portrays her characters speaking the dialect. She uses epic metaphorical language within the dialect, as if all the people in her novel have special access to "poetry on tap," as articulated by Mr. Mitchell. The language is truly beautiful and further encourages the reader to reflect on the conversations between characters.

As I continue reading, I predict there will be a positive correlation (haha thank you Psych 100) between my reading pace and my understanding of the characters. Weirdly, this relationship between time and understanding reminds me of my time at Spring Initiative over the summer. When I first started working with the kids, I had a lot of trouble understanding them because they spoke in a dialect I wasn't used to. As I spent more time with them, I not only literally understood them better, but I learned more about them as people. They told me about their families, their favorite foods, and whether or not they liked to play dodgeball. Every detail helped me understand their perspective better. I look forward to learning more about the characters in their eyes were watching god. I can tell they've got some fascinating stories to share.

A Death, A Birth

I want to talk about the narrator's eulogy for Clifton in chapter 20. I believe this is the first time the narrator expresses original, expressive thought without concern for how others will interpret it. In other words, development of unique consciousness!

Up to this point, the narrator is known for giving flowery speeches that cater towards a certain audience. In the beginning, this speech was at the battle royal and the audience was a group of white men. The white men largely influence the narrator's speech and even interject to make sure his message aligns with their beliefs. The next major speech the narrator gives is for the Brotherhood. Although he doesn't follow their ideology (because he doesn't know what it is), the narrator isn't conscious of the words he is projecting. After the narrator gives his speech, he has trouble recalling "the sequence of the speech." He asks himself, "What had I meant by saying that I had become 'more human'?". The narrator didn't have an outline for his Brotherhood speech and instead catered to the emotional roars of the audience who craved profound and enlightening (but seemingly vague) announcements. The narrator delivered, but it doesn't seem like his words held any specific deep meaning. At this point, the reader doesn't really know what the narrator believes, and it's unclear whether the narrator has any personal beliefs.

Then, comes the eulogy. Right away, I noticed a stark difference in the language the narrator used to speak to the mourning crowd. The narrator speaks almost exclusively in clipped phrases: "I've told you to go home." "What are you waiting for?" "His name was Clifton and they shot him down" "Aren't you sick of the blood?". The short statements draw the attention of the crowd, while the questions put the crowd on the spot and force them to reflect. Instead of howling and roaring like the audiences at the battle royal and the Brotherhood speech, the crowd is "listening intently." The narrator also reveals his true feelings about Clifton's death. He believes the funeral "doesn't matter" because Clifton simply "forgot his history....[and] lost his hold on reality" and there's nothing anyone can do.

The narrator manages to give the most successful political speech of his life by avoiding his traditional political rhetoric entirely. By intensely downplaying Clifton's death, the narrator draws attention to the twisted way society views police brutality. The narrator repeatedly tells the crowd there is nothing to be done while describing, in gory detail, the scene of Clifton's death. One can easily imagine the crowd transitioning from mournful and hurt to confused and defiant to (most importantly) hopeful for change. The narrator is basically using reverse psychology to inspire political action. It's as if he is challenging the crowd: "There's nothing you can do...unless, of course, there is."

Perhaps this is the best speech the narrator has ever given because he finally has a personal connection to the material. He witnessed Clifton's death firsthand. The narrator finally has a concrete reason for speaking, a purpose, and a crowd who actually cares about what he has to say. Because this situation is unfamiliar to the narrator, he doesn't think to pull out the formulated rhetoric he learned from college professors. Instead, the narrator simply is himself (gasp!). Subsequently, I payed way more attention to this speech than the other speeches the narrator gave. I found myself feeling proud of the narrator for finding his voice. For the first time, the reader and the narrator are in agreement that change is coming, and the narrator could be at the heart of it:

"And through the haze I again felt the tension. There was no denying it; it was there and something had to be done before it simmered away in the heat."

Not Your Average Palaver

I would like to explore the implications of the double-meaning of "palaver" used in Invisible Man. The narrator uses the word to describe the interaction he and the doctor have after his brain surgery: "It's been quite pleasant, our little palaver, sir." According to the OED, a palaver is "action or talk" between characters. However, an older etymology reveals that a palaver can also be a negotiation between a "colonial official" and "local people," usually meaning West-Africans. You can imagine how fair this negotiation would be.

There are many ways Ellison could be winking at us by using the word "palaver" in a situation like this. In case you forgot, the narrator had just been on the receiving end of a completely unconsented medical experiment performed by a couple of white doctors. This scene is scarily reminiscent of the experiments done on enslaved black men, making the alternative definition of "palaver" even more powerful and relevant. The white doctors could easily be likened to colonial officials, asserting their white dominance wherever they please while framing their actions as carrying out fair transactions. Although there are strong similarities between the role colonial officials played and the role the white doctors played, I'd like to argue that the definition of "palaver" could also be reversed so that the narrator is the colonial official and the doctors are the local people. Let me explain.

There are various characters throughout the novel who play with this idea of role-reversal. The first and most obvious is the grandfather, who explicitly instructs the narrator to act cordially towards white people while pursuing your own identity on the down-low. The grandfather says, "life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days," implying that he was actually the one holding the reigns despite the illusion that white people controlled him. Bledsoe has a similar narrative. He reveals to the narrator that he spent a long time kissing up to white people to achieve his level of status. Bledsoe, like grandfather, was playing a game to reach a goal that white people would never allow him to reach overtly.

I think the narrator, perhaps consciously perhaps not, began toying with this idea of role-reversal when he used the word "palaver." The narrator had just finished interrogating the doctor about Mr. Norton, which left the doctor dismayed and confused but still secure in his authority over the narrator. However, there is reason to believe that the narrator is undermining the doctor's power by mentioning Mr. Norton and then using the word "palaver." The narrator asks the doctor if he knows Mr. Norton to point out how similar all of the authority figures in his life are. The narrator then laughs, possibly because he realizes how absurd it is that he once worshipped these authority figures. By then calling his interaction with the doctor a palaver, he mocks the power the doctor believes he has over the narrator. In this moment, the narrator is the colonial official and the doctor is the local. In this moment, the narrator holds the power over the doctor because the narrator understands something about the way the world works that the doctor doesn't. Although the narrator hasn't quite developed a secret goal for himself like his grandfather and Bledsoe, he is finally tapping into that idea of pretending to occupy one role while covertly occupying another.

This scene gives me (hesitant) hope for the narrator's development of consciousness. I'm hopeful because the narrator was able to laugh after coming to a nuanced conclusion about the way his world works. Laughter seems like a better response than anger, for example (I can't help but think of Bigger in this moment and how different Native Son would be if Bigger had laughed instead). I'm hesitant, however, because I don't know how successful this game is in the end. The most Bledsoe seems to get out of it is a couple of Cadillacs. We don't know the details of grandfather's life, or if the game he played was worth the effort. Nevertheless, I am confident that the narrator will continue to grow throughout the novel and eventually develop a consciousness that transcends what we ever expected of him in chapter one.