Ryan Smith

Meat

After browsing essays, journals, midterms, and research posts—whose titles are often unintentionally deceiving, besides flowery—I have chosen three selections to consider. My aim was variety; I wanted examples that would be useful when considering the course generally, but also helpful in planning and thinking about future readings, research and work. So I chose two research posts and a final essay based on these vague criteria. Practical power is what is needed, not, in this case, poetry or eloquence. No imagination stirring cloud-thoughts, just content and meat.

http://coursesite.uhcl.edu/HSH/Whitec/LITR/5731/models/finals/f10sp/f10spsuess.htm

            Helena Suess’s final essay caught my eye for its somewhat broad title, “Politics, Aesthetics, and Mentality toward Minority Literature,” in which the political, in particular, enticed. Escaping (or ignoring) the political aspect of reading and studying literature—just as in studying history—is difficult without reading as narrowly and shallowly as possible; one must literally struggle to remain comfortable. The books are always about us, and, as human beings, we are intimately connected and mystically responsible for the people we read about. While the essay did not speak to specific political issues directly, it did address the paradoxical way in which the literature of minorities is often politicized entirely, or reduced to “fiction with some cultural color.” Suess also considers the discomfort of realizing your reading choices are racially/ethnically inclined; she seeks out black authors because they are black, which is, perhaps, not so unusual—but how do the motives hold up? Canonically speaking, the author of almost any widely recognized piece of Western literature before the last hundred years or so is bound to be a white male. Are we wrong (of course I mean, am I) to actively seek out new perspectives? And deeper, is there something esoteric about such literature, something which, perhaps ironically, excludes the uninitiated and the outsider? Neither the essay, nor myself, has managed to successfully answer questions raised, but the inquisitiveness and willingness to adapt I discovered therein has refreshed my desire to avoid stale thinking and see writing from a broader, more social perspective.

http://coursesite.uhcl.edu/HSH/Whitec/LITR/5731/models/projects/resproj10sp/rposts10sp/r1po10sp/rpo1garzaj.htm

            This research post was chosen somewhat arbitrarily because of the title’s connection to Native American culture. A quick reading of Julie Garza’s report revealed the existence of a college, Dartmouth, whose very charter proclaimed “the education and instruction of Youth of the Indian Tribes in this Land.” I became interested—skeptically so; darkly fascinated. The USA does not have a flattering history regarding Native Americans, and this was an institution, a promise, if you will. Ominous clouds rolled in. Some quick research brought up this epiphanic crest:

http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Dartmouth_College_shield.svg&page=1

I continued reading, stopped myself and reread this sentence: “Problems occurred at Dartmouth during its first 200 years when only 19 Native American students graduated.” This was no problem, but an almost total failure of the college’s stated purpose. The post moves on, coolly mentioning some recent successes. But I needed more; I could always chalk this inexplicability up to standard national ambivalence/rancor, but I suspect there is something else going on. Why begin the college with such goals at all? Garza’s research post reminded me that I needn’t research things I already know about—this common sense is not second nature to many students—but that a bit of digging might reveal some revelatory scandal or a merely mundane evil which could be considered at length. As always, I am daunted and impressed by the sheer amount of goings-on our history hides.

http://coursesite.uhcl.edu/HSH/Whitec/LITR/5731/models/projects/resproj10sp/rposts10sp/r2po10sp/rpo2sidle.htm

Still pondering questions of canon, I came across a research post devoted, exclusively, to exploring non-fiction options for a class such as American Minority Literature. Composed almost entirely of book summaries—but containing a relevant coda—Amy Sidle’s research had me considering possible research of my own. If these books were “real life” versions of course texts, then could I not use them, or books very much like them, to delve into reality myself? Olaudah Equiano makes an appearance here, as does David Sedaris, whose name seems to be familiar, despite my never having read him. The selections cover the minorities of the course well, reminding me of the value of non-novel—non-fiction, poetry, and historical information included—context for class books. Again, the possibilities and scope hit me; unless some of these are “bad books” or just poor choices for the course focus, then here are another ten books which could enrich and expand the understand of the topic—books, in most cases, I’d never heard of. Exploring non-fiction parallels, which often amount to personal accounts, to our novels and short stories presents itself as an attractive option. How, for example, might a religious text fit into the course? Besides being pleasantly controversial, I imagine harmonious wisdom for all. This is almost certainly overly optimistic, but so be it.

Paths

There has been great tension present in our first readings between a perceived reality and some other, better reality. There is an ideal realm of being—characterized by freedom, brotherhood, harmony, and so on—which has not been lived, although its (possible) existence is rarely questioned. This description is not to imply some vague, formless future which is never quite attained, however, for it has been defined and imagined quite concretely. Documents such as the United States Declaration of Independence proclaim universal rights and equality with words which vary from rhetorical flourish to details and specific laws. Martin Luther King’s “dream” speech reaches towards the sublime, but assumes that this imagined future can and will be reached. Each of our texts thus far has presented characters (and real people) living in a society which considers them subhuman. But they are never content with their degradations; rather, each takes steps, of whatever size, to regain their dignity and transform their collective dream into reality.

A way of characterizing American minority literature is by identifying its authors as “voiceless and choiceless” but constantly struggling against the dominant culture, as seen in course objectives 1b and 1c. This resistance takes multiple forms, such as double language, but is especially cogent when characters use literacy itself as a weapon and tool (objective 5c). In Frederick Douglass’s narrative, for example, literacy is incredibly empowering, not only because it is imminently practical, but because reading opens up windows of knowledge previously unimaginable. As a slave, Douglass knows his condition is abysmal, but only after he begins to read does his sense of injustice grow into something unbearable.

Learning to look at reading, writing, and language this way, as political devices, was important for me. Coincidentally, maybe ironically, my understanding of this came from three sources at once—each of my courses this semester. I’ve just described realizing, through our slave narratives, the political implications of literacy, and in Dr. Kovic’s Human Rights & Social Justice a comparable awareness came about by reading the story of Maria Teresa Tula, a human rights activist from El Salvador. Maria was raised in poverty and ignorance, but as she increasingly gained knowledge of her and her communities’ injustice, her sense of outrage and her will to action grew. Similarly, through the theoretical readings of Dr. Diepenbrock’s course on Composition, I’ve read of the history of literacy/writing, and have again come to understand its inherent social power. These references are not always explicitly concerned with the experience of minorities—although, at times, they are—but are nonetheless applicable. Oppression and exploitation require ignorance (and usually brute force) to function, so the experience of gaining access to literacies and discourses previously withheld is inherently resistant and empowering.

Layering oppressions, we have had the chance to discuss “double minority,” a term I am somewhat familiar with but have been glad to revisit. Harriet Jacob’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl had the class considering not only the ethnic/racial minority status of our characters—of which real people will count—but the sexual status as well. Jacobs shares the abuses of other slaves, but has an additional strike against her in the form of her womanhood. Her gender is delegated to servitude and sexual slavery; it is remarkable that Jacobs is able to struggle and keep her sexual volition for as long as she does. Both she and Douglass, in their stories, detail one of the many dark secrets of the South—its plethora of mixed race people, often children of rapes by slaveholders. This history was not something I’d ever seriously considered, and my knowledge never extended beyond general trivia usefulness concerning Thomas Jefferson’s slave children. Once again, the subject branches into the political, messily. There is, of course, the three-fifths personhood clause, among other travesties, but the complexity and murkiness of slaveholder-slave children is incredible. The words of our writers have incomparable power to inform and influence public opinion, to transform social realities into imagined and promised realities.

The poetry of Langston Hughes exemplifies the tension between possible futures. In “Harlem,” he asks, “What happens to a dream deferred?” He then lists possibilities, most of which imply a wearing away or spoiling because of disuse—unless they burst into being fantastically. Important here is the word “deferred.” As I believe we have discussed in class, the dream is not destroyed, nor is it stolen, abandoned or lost—it is postponed, perhaps (as some definitions suggest) in an effort to submit to another’s authority. If the dream, and we may assume a collective one, is postponed for practical reasons—i.e. it can’t yet be realized—then we have a hopeful poem of sorts; the future may well be a burst of renewed freedom. But if the dream has been deferred as a sort of mock-acceptance of dominant culture values and norms—as in, I defer to your judgment—then that hope sours and becomes bitter, the explosion becomes one of violent anger instead of possibility. Struggling against one another, in the span of a few brief lines, these interpretations are representative of the tension between past, present and future which so often haunts our writers.

Toni Morrison’s rival men in Song of Solomon embody this tension. Milkman and Guitar are friends, almost brothers, yet they can not agree on either the current status of their underprivileged race, or what actions should be done to bring about justice and equality on a social level. Milkman moves, however slowly, from a relatively comfortable suburban mindset to an increasingly spiritual one, which involves, among other things, the veneration of mystics like Pilate. He ultimately finds joy, even peace, in the history of his family (and, more broadly, of his race), as well as a new spirit of action, motivated by a long-overdue sense of responsibility. His shadow, Guitar, instead operates from an extremely literal interpretation of justice, taking a life for a life, Old Testament style. The inevitable failure of this violence leads him to consider his best friend a traitor and thief, blurring the lines between friendship, family, and race. Milkman is enlightened into a state of being which implies harmony—and perhaps the only-occasionally-violent resistance of Pilate—while Guitar devolves into animalistic revenge-taking. Their final confrontation suggests a battle between these two paths, one that is, literally, up in the air.

Challenge

            In the introduction to Neidhardt’s Black Elk Speaks, Vine Deloria, Jr. briefly suggests that the spiritual practices described in the book may develop and coalesce into a functional religious force. This book, and several others, he says, could form the “core of a North American Indian theological canon which will one day challenge the Eastern and Western traditions as a way of looking at the world.” This must be explored. Now, of course, I can’t simply speculate about the future, but I can look into such a powerful statement. This sort of resurgence would require the practice of millions and a host of good writers as well. Are the makings there, the raw materials for such a religious tradition? And could it actually come to pass?

I would like to do two things with my research that I have never done, but have been meaning to do. First, I plan on doing the work early and submitting my research over two posts—either expanding the first, or letting my progress take me somewhere different but related. I am also going to seriously look into Native American culture, spirituality, literature, etc. This has long been an idea of mine, but has never managed to actually happen. There is no time but the present.

Tentatively, I’d like to look at Native American spiritual beliefs in particular. This may include religious texts, stories and mythology, but also literature and non-fictions sources as well. This may find a way to organize itself into two separate posts, but if it doesn’t naturally, a possibility for expansion might begins with a question like this: what is the current state of Native American culture, generally speaking, or perhaps, as a whole? My general understating of Native American history is limited to little more than: they were here, we came, we wiped them out, they are mostly gone now. A certain amount of historical veracity may exist here, but surely in a thoroughly oversimplified, possibly erroneous manner. I’d like to know the actual state of affairs, and while history is absolutely crucial to knowledge of this kind, the future of these cultures interests me specifically.