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LITR
5831 World / Multicultural Literature: |
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Hanna
Mak
21
June 2016
Essay 1: Transmitting the American Dream
I have long been sick of the American Dream. Prior to this class, my
exposure had occurred primarily within the confines of a high school English
classroom, in which there could only ever be one right answer; in this
environment, the term became a conditioning electroshock, an unconscious
prepping for the same stagnant conversation. Through short stories apparently
intended to celebrate the ascension and triumph of the hardworking underdog in a
new land of opportunity, the concept instead came across as little more than a
forcible, virulent optimism that somehow rang hollow, like a too-tight smile
paired with cold, dead eyes. And yet, by now, my intentions should be fairly
clear. Immediately following this cynical disclaimer of mine will be yet another
analysis of the American Dream, measured alongside the work of three prior
students on the same subject. Why? Am I
part of the problem now?
Admittedly, despite the fact that I said
the mention of the American Dream failed to evoke “the triumph of the
hardworking underdog in a new land of opportunity,” I
was the one who mentioned it here.
Clearly, the American Dream narrative—in its immigrant-centric iteration—has
long been injected into my bloodstream and wormed its way into my brain; it’s
too late to recover. And judging by the model assignments of Jonathon Anderson,
Ellen Kirby, and Lori Wheeler, they are infected as well. Naturally, in America,
the narrative is wholly unavoidable. Although each of these students have proven
their analytical capabilities by addressing the same old idea from a variety of
different angles, they each have a common, distinctive thread beyond the bare
mention of the term itself—the essential grounding of the immigrant’s American
Dream narrative in the consciousness of the dominant culture, and implicitly
(though sometimes explicitly), the beckoning of the American Dream-infused media
which the dominant culture projects across the globe.
Even Jonathon Anderson’s title, “In Defense of Reinventing the Wheel,”
captures this firm grounding of the American Dream in the dominant culture. He
traces one of the earliest forms of myth as present in the writings of
Crevecoeur, but tellingly, not long after, he transitions into a reference of
the popular 1980s animated film, An
American Tail; from these examples, we might observe that the health of this
narrative, while substantially bolstered by our public education system, is also
strengthened by its roots in our nation’s history and in pop culture. In tandem
with this, while Lori Wheeler cites the general appeal of the American Dream as
its “eternal optimism,” she also notes that it is essentially “a conglomeration
of social norms and desires that represent the dominant culture”—to transform
one’s life and become the protagonist in a strain of this globally transmitted
story ultimately means assimilation. Implicitly, those who fail to achieve this
are left behind, their stories untold; to ascend in society means to lose
something of yourself. If Anderson and Wheeler are accurate, I may conclude that
while the immigrant narrative and the American Dream are often closely linked,
in many ways, one must already be an American to retell his or her version of
the tale with success and conviction. Perhaps it is this intrinsic limitation
which partially accounts for the often tiresomely formulaic manifestations of
the narrative.
And yet, although the immigrant narrative and the American Dream are
closely linked, Ellen Kirby’s pointed reassertion of the distinction between the
two is both useful and interesting: “The American Dream speaks of unalloyed
victory; the Immigrant Narrative acknowledges the things which must be lost.” In
my experience, the two narratives have often been so closely linked that such a
distinction is useful to remember, especially in so succinct a form. She points
out the necessity of compromise and sacrifice to achieve assimilation, and the
potentially negative impact that loss of culture might have on the immigrant’s
relationship to subsequent generations, who increasingly “become more and more
foreign to them.” This familiar tension must be what lends the combined
narrative an appeal and credibility that could likely not exist with the pure,
unadulterated optimism of the American Dream concept alone; when a snow-covered
Jayanti concludes that “it makes sense that the beauty and the pain should be
part of each other,” she captures the essence of this conflict.
Jayanti, however—unlike her aunt and uncle—is moving on to attain higher
education in the States. Lori Wheeler asserts that it is in the “process of
becoming part of the dominant culture, that [immigrants] find power”—and yet, in
the aforementioned story, this statement only appears to apply to Jayanti. While
Uncle Bikram has in many respects assimilated, both in terms of his American
accent, his Budweiser beer drinking, and his status as a business owner, he is
largely held back by the dominant culture, not empowered by it. With this in
mind, what factors must combine to grant one membership to the dominant culture?
Jon Anderson points out that one of the most substantial differences between
Jayanti and her uncle are their attitudes and “interpretation of the world
around them.” He notes that while Bikram compares the country to a witch that
“pretends to give and then snatches everything back,” Jayanti “rationalizes . .
. not accepting the dystopia.” This assertion of the inherent need for optimism
seems to align with other tales of the immigrant’s American Dream; Lori Wheeler,
too, traces the note of American optimism at the close of
In the American Society, and claims
that it indicates towards a pattern of assimilation—despite the fact that it
does not necessarily successfully depict its arc within the story. Ellen Kirby,
contrary to the previous two students, attributes many successful immigrant
experiences to luck, or to the “actions and intentions of the people around
them.” In short, while both Anderson and Wheeler seem to allot an important and
functional place for the American Dream’s optimism (although Anderson appears to
prioritize it more than Wheeler), Kirby seems to foster a lingering suspicion of
it, pointing to the greater emphasis of
Soap and Water’s protagonist on the “respect and friendship” of an American
woman at the story’s close, rather than any other measurable personal success.
It is
interesting that while Anderson, Wheeler and Kirby each pinpoint the
source of the American Dream
narrative as fundamentally part of the dominant culture—and as a tale highly
communicable throughout the world, as a shining advertisement for a more
prosperous life—they each still prioritize somewhat different qualifications for
successful membership within the dominant culture club. While they mention the
same basic ingredients (optimism, hard work, luck), they seem to add them into
the mix in a different order and manner, as well as in different quantities.
Furthermore, while Anderson prioritizes optimism, and Kirby notes the importance
of luck and dominant culture friendships, neither seems
wrong in their assertions.
In
this sense, while the basic American Dream story is relatively easy to
understand in terms of its bare narrative structure and essential ideology, the
dominant culture from which it apparently originates is deceptively less
transparent for what it demands and represents. While overly polished optimism
is often bland and uninteresting, the American Dream narrative’s
resilience within our culture is a
different matter. The ways in which successful immigrant literature reconciles
this resilient optimism with the constraints of reality (by way of the unmarked
and impersonal dominant culture) is ultimately a tale that must continue to be
told and redeveloped, necessarily as infectious a strain as the American Dream
itself.
Essay 2: Patterns of Assimilation in the Immigrant Narrative
The subject of assimilation is understandably contentious, and not just
for reasons that are specific, logical, and rooted in history. The pull of
identity is emotional; while the American immigrant experience cannot be so
facilely summarized for all its diversity of culture, era, and individual
experience, certain patterns of pressure may still be traced throughout much of
its literature. Perhaps the most decisive overarching influence on an immigrant
or minority’s perspective towards assimilation is that of his or her individual
power, or social capital. As points of vulnerability increase in number and
severity—whether they are financial, psychological, or bodily threats—the
anxiety towards negative assimilation generally escalates. These negative points
may also be counterbalanced by the positive elements of one’s individual power,
such as higher levels of education, supportive family and community networks,
and the possession of certain skills or attitudes that are valued within the
dominant culture. These individual elements of power, when traced throughout
immigrant and minority literature, progressively form a working map for both the
positive and negative aspects of assimilation.
As an immigrant authoring the magical story of his successful social and
financial ascent long after it had already been assured, Andrew Carnegie’s
narrative displays much in common with many American Dream success stories to
follow. As a white, English-speaking, European male, however, his anxiety
towards assimilation is decidedly slighter than most. First, on his family’s
arrival in New York, other Scotch families surrounded them, providing an
immediate, insulating network of support and traditional Scotch values (2.15).
Later, when other boys taunt him with, “Scotchie! Scotchie!” he answers their
teasing with self-assured pride for his heritage; the incident, while targeting
him for his immigrant status, remains relatively brief and mild, escalating into
neither physical violence, nor fear and self-doubt (3.11). Furthermore, by the
time of his family’s arrival, fellow Scotsmen had already established themselves
in profitable businesses, such as Mr. Hay, who provided Carnegie with one of his
first stepping-stones out of manual labor, in large part for their cultural
connection (3.6). Ultimately, much of the concern for ‘assimilation’ that
Carnegie does display is to be found in his sense of nostalgia for the Old
World—both in the loss of the pastoral, and in his mother’s stewardship; despite
this, his wealth remedies the former, with the purchase of a new home in the
countryside (7.7), and his family’s entirely voluntary acquisition of the
“inevitable servant girl” demonstrates little genuine concern for the latter
(7.5). Carnegie’s experience of assimilation is largely as positive as it is
complete; his belief in free market capitalism and heroic individualism aligns
him ideologically with the dominant culture, just as his appearance and language
skills align in an outward or physical sense.
Apart from the benefits of his support network, as well as his status as
a white English-speaker, however, it should also be noted that some of the most
definitive mentions of Carnegie’s Scotch culture were housed in domestic spaces,
inoffensive to the dominant culture for its privacy; his mother would regale her
boys with “the gems of Scottish minstrelsy which she seemed to have by heart, or
told tales which failed not to contain a moral” (2.18). Despite the status of
such lore and his nuclear family upbringing as an important remnant of the Old
World, therefore, he remained largely unmarked in public, with the exception of
his surname. Unlike Carnegie, the Ihedigbos of Nigeria, while largely successful
in their selective assimilation, were sometimes unable to balance a peaceful
life with the retention of their identity, describing their status as an
“African in Massachusetts” as akin to “a black panther walking in the snow”
(163). On the one hand, the Ihedigbos make some minor concessions in an attempt
to blend in, such as the temporary adoption of American names during grade
school (172), and the usage of deodorant and shampoo (167-8); these changes
demonstrate the family’s ability to selectively assimilate, for these sacrifices
are relatively superficial, yet contribute to their acceptance within the
dominant culture. On the other hand, at one point, Onyii is bullied for her
traditional hairstyle, and she receives a horrible letter from a classmate for
her lack of “nice clowhs” and not being of the same “kind” (165). While the
family is able to harmlessly assimilate in some ways, therefore, they also
demonstrate physical markers of their heritage—some that cannot, and others that
should not, be altered; this is a difficulty that the equally optimistic and
enterprising Carnegie never seriously confronts in his narrative, and likely
accounts for much of his lesser anxiety towards the negative aspects of
assimilation.
The Ihedigbos successfully retain their culture in other ways in which
they need not compromise, however, and it is notable that many of these
substantial retentions of culture occur within the private or domestic sphere,
in a similar fashion to Carnegie’s folk lore. The family participates in large,
festive gatherings of fellow Nigerians with “great food, and lots of aunties,
uncles, cousins, and music,” which impart a “sense of acceptance and
connectedness” (159). Here, the Ihedigbo children privately receive a colorful
cultural education without the potentially isolating, anti-assimilating effect
of living in an ethnic enclave. Within their private home, they often eat
traditional meals of “palm oil, egusi soup, stews, rice, yams,” (171) and they
maintain their upwardly mobile nuclear family within the dominant culture of the
suburbs. While much of their culture is retained in private, their model
minority values are public, and contribute to their successful, positive
assimilation. The boys use their skill in sports as a cultural bridge, earning
the respect of the other boys (155), and the family collectively works hard to
turn their home into a “beautiful masterpiece,” which publically signals their
compatibility with the dominant culture to the entire suburban community (153).
Closely related to the model minority’s traditional value of hard work,
the impact of their emphasis on education should also be taken into account.
While education may have the potential to serve as a negative agent of
assimilation—particularly in terms of social pressures “that silently demand
conformity,” as the Ihedigbo children experience in public school—most forms of
education are positive and empowering facilitators of assimilation in immigrant
literature (159). Due to the parents’ values of higher education and industry,
Ihedigbo family is finally able to move into their own house (151); while this
move is a form of assimilation, due to the dominant culture’s values of
literacy, home ownership, and nuclear family life, the family’s essential
fulfillment of the American Dream has provided them with financial freedom that
can exist alongside elements of their original cultural identity in terms of
their food, religion, and regular community gatherings. In addition to an
education obtained within the United States, however, education that has been
completed prior to an immigrant’s arrival can also serve as a positive agent of
assimilation. In The English Lesson,
Stephan Paczkowski of Poland was a professor of music history, and his English
teacher, Mrs. Hamma, is described as “almost breathless” in his presence (27).
Although the former professor currently works as a porter due to his
underdeveloped English skills, his education and dignified manner has also lent
him an element of social power over the awed teacher; in conjunction with this,
he seeks a path to citizenship that, with his level of education, would likely
be readily attainable. Lastly, in the same story, Lali’s educational attempt to
improve her English serves as a form of female empowerment. While she
voluntarily immigrated to America with her much older husband, and left behind
few prospects in her village, in her expectation for “great changes in her
life,” she encountered more negative changes than positive, living in isolation,
“without friends or relatives, and …long hours of work” (29). While her learning
within the story is slight, and she could hardly be called assimilated by its
end, as she continues to live in a primarily Spanish-speaking ethnic enclave,
her education is a positive moment of empowerment. Her anxieties during this
process are more related to the frightening act of gradually gaining an
independence that she has never had, as opposed to a fear of losing her culture
in assimilation; while many immigrants fear to lose their culture, the
traditional, often suffocating gender roles that govern Lali’s life are one of
its aspects that she can potentially shed through education, to positive effect.
The impact of education on positive or negative assimilation may be
considered from yet another angle, however. If an individual, wealthier
immigrant comes to America with education as their primary goal—as opposed to an
entire family seeking prosperity—the experience of assimilation is dramatically
altered from the usual pattern. In
Monsoon Diary, there is no substantial element of family, which instead
focuses on the individual, removing any immediate concern for a generational
loss of culture in the process of assimilation. In addition, while the
protagonist is a model minority in many respects, her story does not follow the
usual immigrant narrative arc, which typically features a gradual societal
ascent from modest means, via hard work and dedication—ultimately, the narrator
begins with great financial and educational opportunities, and at the
narrative’s close, accrues slightly more, “experiencing the thrill of creation”
in composition class (222), and the exhilaration of power tools (224) that were
denied her as a female in her home country. Her extreme polarity to the minority
narrative is in large part exemplified via her childlike openness as a “tabula
rasa” (220), as well as her carefree attitude, seeming nearly incapable of
taking offense; when Natasha’s old boyfriend, Greg, imitates an Indian accent,
she is “endeared” to him (230). In a sense, this story is a useful example of
the ways in which overarching narrative trends are incapable of capturing the
entire picture, and exposing where patterns often cannot reliably apply—not all
immigrants follow the same laborious path. And yet, in
Monsoon Diaries, as with Carnegie’s
autobiography, it may be observed that both narrators speak from a position of
great self-assurance, privilege, and individualism; both also report few
negative repercussions from their experiences of assimilation. Where individual
power and agency is stronger, there is often less fear for a loss of identity.
On the opposite end of this spectrum, the minority narrative typically
reflects an involuntary loss of identity, as well as a sustained resistance to
assimilation. In American Horse, the
family is vulnerable financially, psychologically, and bodily; they live in junk
and squalor, display a level of distrust for the government that does not appear
to be unwarranted, and fully expect the boy to be carried away, with no recourse
aside from violence. Vicki Koob, the social worker, says: “I want to find that
boy and salvage him . . . the old man crazy as a bedbug, the mother
intoxicated somewhere” (215). In the story, there is no
direct evidence of her claims against
the mother, and the uncle is strange and erratic, but seems essentially
harmless; the child is taken away by force, cyclically confirming the suspicions
of the family, as expressed by Uncle Lawrence: “Oh, it’s all a damn scheme”
(215).
The immigrant experience is necessarily varied and complex, and yet,
certain trends are perceptible throughout much of immigrant literature. The tone
of the immigrant narrative, on the whole, is overwhelmingly positive—many
readers identify with it for that reason—but a current of precariousness is also
present throughout many of these works as well, often reflecting a delicate
balance of both optimism for the future and a subtle fear for a total loss of
the past.
