Kasi Hlavaty
Final Exam
LITR 5734
Summer 2001

Honor Thy Father; Conquer Thy Mother:

Oedipal Echoes of Colonial Literature and the

Reassertion of the Female in Postcolonial Literature 

Imperialistic efforts always involve domination and subordination. When Europe set out to colonize the world, it did so without forethought (or much afterthought) as to how readily these new lands would accept its influence. The colonizers adopted an attitude of patriarchal benevolence toward the "childlike" natives of Africa, India, and the Caribbean, ignoring the fact that these civilizations actually had centuries old customs and cultures. Literature of the colonial period reflects these prevalent attitudes, yet, looking deeply into two pieces – The Heart of Darkness and Robinson Crusoe – the domination takes on a new twist. The people of Africa and the Caribbean in these novels may seem childlike, but the landscapes themselves are depicted as female – Mother Nature "smiling, frowning, inviting . . . always mute with an air of whispering" – apparently flirting with the conquerors. The invasions, then, take on an Oedipal feel, the vanquisher raping the motherland, rendering it powerless.

In modern rape cases, the powerless female is re-empowered by asserting herself as a strong, independent, powerful individual. Sometimes this means confronting the attacker, other times it involves shaking off the stigmas that even friends and relatives will attach to the victim of a rape. Postcolonial nations entered into this battle when they confronted and shrugged off their colonizers and became independent nations. Literature of the postcolonial era is also teeming with images of women who want to assert themselves, who want to shake off the double burden of being oppressed by European standards and by traditional male dominion. Two novels particularly stand out in allowing the female to speak to her trespassers – The God of Small Things and Lucy. Furthermore, even though he is not a female, postcolonial poet and dramatist Derek Walcott also writes with images that explore the idea of finding and asserting identity after centuries of suppression.

In the colonial novel, The Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad evokes images of male and female throughout the narrative. Kurtz is the product of Europe; he is civilized, literate, somewhat religious, and manly. Although Marlow only sees the physical shell of the man that once was, he knows, from the tales of others, that Kurtz was a commanding and attractive man. He is sent to Africa as a combination missionary/emissary. His dual mission is to convert the souls of the Africans and to convert their resources into capital for England. I couldn’t help feeling as I read his story that Kurtz was a little too eager for glory; he did not stop to think about the dangerous possibilities of facing Africa alone, and this naiveté was a huge part of his downfall. The Africa he found was not the land of the innocents that he expected. It is, in the words of Robert Kimbrough, "dangerous, wild, timeless, feminine, unfettered by letters, deeply religious, and vibrant." In other words, it was sensually arousing. Kurtz eventually found that he could not suppress his lust for this untamed world or its natural inhabitants. He took a native lover, the "savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent" Woman of Africa, and he exploited the land, taking numerous trips far into the interior, plundering ivory and other natural wonders. The exploitation and the violence associated with Kurtz supports the image of rape, of an uncontrolled lust and greed for only personal satisfaction, without regard for the feelings of the dominated female subject. Conrad renders this sexual interpretation by including phallic details, such as a river that "penetrates" the interior of Africa. The river is also likened to an uncoiled snake getting "lost in the depths of the land." Marlow and his crew passed a French war ship that was "shelling the bush" with its "six-inch guns." (Sorry Dr. White, but Conrad wrote it, not me.) Over and over again, the images of sex are mixed with the images of violence, suggesting the rape of Africa, leaving its native inhabitants powerless and voiceless. Terry Goldie, in the PCSR article entitled "The Representation of the Indigene," states that sex and violence are "standard commodities" in colonial literature, and he uses John Richardson’s Wocousta as an example. In that book, an attacking warrior takes on an Indian lover who "tempts the being chained by civilization towards the liberation represented by free and open sexuality." In this quote we find one possible reason for Kurtz’s desire to remain in Africa. Even though he was an invader and an attacker, HE felt more freedom in Africa than at home in England.

Although it lacks the violent images of rape, Robinson Crusoe follows along the lines of male domination of female. I believe Defoe is guilty of what Chandra Talpade Mohanty asserts that many colonial writers did – he "discursively colonize[d] the material and historical heterogeneities of the lives of women in the third world, thereby producing/re-presenting a composite, singular ‘Third World Woman’ (PCSR, 260)." This could possibly explain why no ‘material’ women are included in the narrative; the island itself represents the female. In fact Crusoe’s island is not only a female image, but is also a motherly image waiting to provide for him with fruits like "the wild bananas in the yellowish sunlight . . . dugged like aching cows with unmilked fruit" in Walcott’s poem, "Koenig of the River." Mother Nature provides Crusoe with all his needs and is his spiritual counselor (by way of providing him with time and opportunity to think, observe, and learn). Much like Conrad’s images of Africa, this Caribbean island is wild and unfettered, beckoning him to explore her bounty. Had Crusoe been satisfied with taking what the island provided, the relationship between him and the island would have remained simply caregiver/receiver; however, Crusoe conjures up suggestions of Oedipus when he decides he must possess the island in an attempt to satisfy his needs. Instead of just throwing more seeds out randomly, he "ploughs" the land, clearing and reshaping it in the image he prefers. Crusoe’s intent to devour and dominate is quite clear when he surveys the island and states, "I descended a little on the side of that delicious vale, surveying it with a secret kind of pleasure, . . . to think that this was all my own, that I was King and Lord of all this country indefeasibly, and had a right of possession." The sensual, mouth-watering deliciousness of the island and the intensely personal and ‘secret’ pleasure it gave Crusoe mixed with the desire to dominate does not exactly suggest rape, but there does seem to be something almost sexual happening between Crusoe’s European maleness and the Caribbean island’s femaleness.

As an answer to this violence and subjugation of women, some postcolonial authors have embarked seemingly on a mission to re-establish female authority in the postcolonial nations. The God of Small Things is possibly the best example of this that I have read so far. In it, the character of Ammu has the daunting double struggle to free herself of the heavy weight of colonial impositions, but she also grapples with disengaging herself from the traditional class distinctions and taboos passed down from the ancient Indian culture. She makes several attempts to assert herself as a woman of the new world order. Early in her life, she runs away from home, unwilling to accept the life of an unmarried woman when her parents cannot afford a dowry. In another city, she meets and marries a Hindu man, which causes her serious strife with her Syrian Christian parents. When the marriage does not work out, she again rebels against the image of the ‘Third World Woman’ when she chooses to end the marriage in divorce. She even seems resigned to live life back at home as a scorned woman, as long as she has her children with her. Yet, passion and self-assertion are lurking in Ammu, and beginning with the moment she looks at Valutha and her children interacting together, her desires begin to simmer. Eventually, they reach a point where they boil over. She sees Valutha at the rally/parade and seems to decide that if he can enjoy a life beyond the boundaries of his untouchable status, she ought to be able to enjoy life beyond the societal restrictions of her femaleness. The final chapter of this book is so powerful, and that is the key word. Ammu, when she enters into the sexual relationship with Valutha, is asserting her power as an individual, to chose what she does with her own body and with whom and without regard for either colonial rules or time-honored class divisions. Finally, Ammu’s character ascends to power as a role model for her daughter, thus serving as a new paradigm for the next generation of Indian, and other Third-World, women.

Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy also seeks to establish a postcolonial woman as a powerful individual. Lucy repeatedly resists the attempts by her mother to control her, making her the "well-behaved, soft-spoken Afro-Saxon" that Lucy (O.K., Kincaid) rebelled against becoming. Numerous passages from the narrative show Lucy’s contempt for the mother who only wanted a carbon copy of herself to show off to the neighbors. Lucy considers this a form of suppression and powerlessness. Kincaid further expresses this in the character of Mariah, who seems to be a Xerox copy (have to get in our black and white paper imagery) of European ideals. Mariah begins as the effervescent, sickeningly happy, stay-at-home mother, and perfect wife (housekeeper and cook, too). Mariah is powerless when her world crumbles in front of her, rendering her bitter and empty of self-worth. This is not to say that Lucy does not also admire Mariah at times. She says that the American woman sometimes reminds her of the more pleasant aspects of her mother, and she even wishes she could borrow a few of Mariah’s qualities. Yet even though Lucy loves Mariah, she also expresses moments of contempt for her employer, believing she has paid too high a price to live the way she does. This belief is not expressly stated, but implied in the repeated question, "How does a person get like that?" Lucy cannot even imagine living a life like Mariah’s because she cannot imagine giving up her autonomy. At the end of the novel, Lucy has that autonomy, but still seems to lack something. The closing line reveals that what she is looking for is still out there; that she is a young women with more hope for the future, more blank pages to fill. The wonderful statement this ending makes is that, even though at this ending she may feel empty, SHE is powerful enough to make a future for and by herself.

I believe that postcolonial writers are striving towards a new feminism in their new nations, but they still have a long way to go. Long-standing native traditions of female domination combined with masculine colonial power over women make a formidable weight to throw off. The God of Small Things and Lucy both show that female postcolonial authors are making an attempt to work through some of these issues, and as readers perhaps we can further the cause simply by understanding and learning from their experiences.

Dear Kasi,

This was a terrific exam, so thanks. Pardon if I should remember, but did you take the Women’s Studies course this summer that dealt with similar issues?—I know Jill Petersen in our class also took that course. Some more attributions of the gender theory in the background of your insights would have been welcome—that is, as much as profs welcome thought from any source, we particularly like to know the lineage (like sniffy genealogists). Regardless, you blend the feminist theory effortlessly (that is, with integrity) into the literary study of these primary sources. The phrasing is confident and confidence-inspiring.

And the results are impressive. The use of Kurtz as a background for seeing similar attitudes in Crusoe works well, but I’m especially struck by the new insight I gain into attitudes and actions by Ammu and Lucy.