James Seth

2 October 2011

Analyzing Themes of Isolation, Growth, and Movement in American Colonial and Postcolonial Discourse

               Before coming into this course, I was familiar with intertextual studies and had read postcolonial works such as Chinua Achebe’s essay about racism in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness after reading Conrad’s novel. However, there are too many postcolonial authors whose works I have not read, though I have heard of authors like Jamaica Kincaid and her literary contributions. My research interest is in the English Renaissance, specifically the social and political effects of mercantilism. Thus, the various texts of this period—plays, tracts, essays, and poetry—have informed my perception of early colonization and trade. Rather than focusing solely on empires of the past, however, I wanted to begin this discussion with an “empire in denial” and how colonial and postcolonial anxiety may be understood through America’s development as a nation.

American nationalism and pride often stems from our origins as thirteen British colonies that rejected our motherland—the hand that fed us and starved us—and decided that we not only wanted but deserved more than our portion. Fighting for the freedom to govern ourselves is a theme that has pervaded all aspects of American history, mythology, and popular culture. As a result, our genesis has both helped and hindered American colonial and postcolonial discourse. Like other colonized countries, America was once under control of a global superpower, but, centuries later, became a superpower itself. The American Dream derives from this narrative, translating the isolation and subsequent growth of America into the lives of its citizens, who may begin as paupers and rise to penthouses through ambition, grit, and determination. From the novels of Horatio Alger to the election of President Barack Obama, stories of overcoming obstacles of class, race, and gender continue to enthrall American society and give reason to keep looking up.

               So what does this make America now? Are Americans still connected to the Minutemen of the Revolution, or have we become the abusive, colonizing giant we were once fighting against? While there is a strong argument for the latter, the former sentiment is still present in our culture.

Robinson Crusoe in Daniel Defoe’s novel of the same name provides a clear representation of America’s national identity. Shipwrecked, Crusoe is displaced from his home country, England, and is then forced to rebuild with materials available on the island and his damaged ships. Crusoe’s zealousness and unrelenting sense of purpose, even when dislocated from society, makes him a character worth following and at times championing for, despite his anxiety and racist attitudes towards native peoples. Even when he “gave over the hopes of the boat, [his] desire to venture over the main encreased, rather than decreased, as the means for it seem’d impossible” (100). He then thinks “whether it was not possible make [himself] a canoe, or periagua” (100). What Crusoe lacks in material he makes up for in ingenuity, aspiring to achieve great tasks that “seem’d impossible.” Crusoe is a model for the self-made man, a character that also represents many American stereotypes and cultural perceptions. Speeches such as Frederick Douglass’ “Self-Made Man” and written works such as Benjamin Franklin’s The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin portray individual growth as beating all odds and rising above the class they were born into. Dissatisfied with “the middle State, or what might be called the upper Station of Low Life,” Crusoe endeavors to rise out of the middle class and become more successful (6).

Crusoe takes issue with his society’s customs and standards, achieving success on his own terms. This is perhaps the most articulate connection with American culture and identity—building a life based on one’s own design, without boundaries or blueprints. Crusoe states that though while he originally thought “the island was certainly a prison to me” he had “learn’d to take it in another sense” since his new condition was “much easier to [his] mind” (78). Without British society monitoring and regulating his actions and his future, Crusoe has freedom that he had never been granted. This freedom becomes the catalyst for both success and failure, giving him liberty to create and exploit. However, this freedom allows Crusoe to gain greater awareness of himself and the people and cultures around him.

Though America attempted to dissociate itself from England in its customs, language, and political structure, British influence was and is still undeniable. Some prevalent questions addressed through postcolonial literature, then, are: How does a nation redefine itself after being ruled by another? Do the former colonizers still have agency over a country’s national identity? Its culture and politics? Jamaica Kincaid’s “A Small Place” answers these questions passionately in its opening lines. The narrator asserts, “The Antigua that I knew, the Antigua in which I grew up, is not the Antigua you, a tourist, would see now. That Antigua no longer exists” (92). For the narrator, there is a “usual reason” for change, which is “the passing of time.” There is also, however, an unusual reason for the change to her homeland, one that seems to go against nature. The “bad-minded people” to blame, English colonists, have infiltrated Antigua not simply through political, economic, or militaristic force but in all aspects of culture, as well. Being “taught the names of the Kings of England,” rather than the rich histories of her native land, the narrator laments over the loss of her home (93).

Isolation is a thread that connects both colonial and postcolonial texts, though each is looking a different direction. While colonial texts look to the future, imagining scenarios of success and overlooking the past, postcolonial texts do the very opposite, looking back and reclaiming history with a critical eye to the marginalization of colonized nations. While Crusoe “look’d back upon [his] past life with such horror” (78) and reveled in the isolation, the narrator of “A Small Place” sees herself among “millions of people” as “orphans” with “no motherland, no fatherland, no gods, no mounds of earth for holy ground, no excess of love” and “most painful of all, no tongue” (94). The image of Friday’s tongue being cut out, presumably by Crusoe, comes to mind. While this “painful” process is portrayed literally in Robinson Crusoe, Kincaid uses it to show the pain of forgetting one’s native language. A scene shown during the in-class film presentation of The Man Who Would Be King starring Michael Caine and Sean Connery addresses the racial tension elicited by elitist colonial attitudes. In the scene, an educated Indian man eats a watermelon, spitting the seeds on the floor, and is subsequently thrown off by Dravot (Connery). The scene illustrates the way that colonizers react to a set of customs or values that are not aligned with their own—complete elimination.

Attempts to rigidly define cultural or national identity are dismantled by lifestyles that are able to merge two or more cultures. Transnational migration complicates issues of cultural and national identity, and it refers to a considerable number of people in America. While I was aware of this kind of cross-cultural lifestyle, I had not before realized the complexities of it, nor had I known how long people had been engaging in this lifestyle. Since America has been historically depicted as a land of opportunity, it has, as early as the 1900’s, been a popular destination for transnational migration. In her 2009 midterm exam, Camille Buxton eloquently defines transnational migration as “leaving a homeland for economic opportunities in another country, and bringing the customs of the old country into the new.” She also notes that “Transnational migrants do not typically sever all ties with their homelands, but choose to live between two homes, countries, or cultures. They are able to combine aspects of both worlds into a new and original way of life that represents them as bi-national.” Though this lifestyle is not new, it has become increasingly relevant in the last twenty years given technological advances—computer, cell phone, Internet, and social media—that have broadened communication and interaction between people of various nationalities and backgrounds.

Rather than narrowly focusing on the politics of one country, transnational migrants attempt to achieve success in a new country while being connected to their homelands. Author Jamaica Kincaid and poet Derek Walcott are two examples of high-profile transnational migrators, who share their national identities with two countries. Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy is an excellent example of transnational migration, as the titular protagonist leaves her native home in the West Indies for what she imagines will be a great new life in America. Like Robinson Crusoe, Lucy has ambitions of a higher standard of living. However, her class, race, and gender become obstacles to her success, as well as the extreme culture shock she experiences when arriving. Kincaid’s novel speaks to the disillusionment of transnational migrants when attempting to pursue the American Dream.

Political alignment and sympathies are also more complex with transnational migration. According to the Migration Policy Institute, “Most migrants are occasional transnational activists. At some stages in their lives they are more focused on their countries of origin while at others they are more involved in their countries of reception. Similarly, they climb two different social ladders, moving up, remaining steady, or experiencing downward mobility, in various combinations, with respect to both sites.” In a scenario of transnational migration, the American Dream is not merely the Ragged Dick story of domestic social change, but rather, it looks at change on “two different social ladders.” Americans who migrate and affiliate with other nations have a multifaceted spectrum of success, since success is gaged differently in different parts of the world.

A question raised by the Migration Policy Institute is that “if few migrants engage in transnational activities on a regular basis, do their activities really merit serious attention?” The institution answers yes for the following reason: “The regular activities of a few combined with those who participate periodically add up. Together, they can transform the economy, culture, and everyday life of whole source-country regions. They challenge notions about gender relations, democracy, and what states should and should not do.” This progressive sentiment understands the world as a series of connections, rather than commodities. While colonial texts value the increase of economic and political power, postcolonial texts value the power of interconnectivity and the ways that economy and culture may positively transform through a bi-national lifestyle.