From Jonah’s Gourd Vine, Emporer Jones, and Birthright
Jonah’s Gourd Vine by Zora Neal Hurston repeats the same authenticity that has made her work so praised. Compared to Emporer Jones, the play by Eugene O’Neill that played off the idea of the innocent primitive black person, Jonah’s Gourd Vine setting takes on a different attitude and mentality, despite being very similar to the jungle Jones stumbles through in the play. Hurston’s opening line frames the setting while describing the physical environment: “God was grumbling his thunder and playing the zig-zag lightning thru his fingers” (719). A channeling of the blues is evident, and this blues-y mentality colors the physical description to make the experiences of the Crittendens all the more vivid and ultimately sorrowful. The items within the setting, such as the drinking gourd, ring with an overt symbolism of slavery. The jungle in Emporer Jones makes Jones more primitive and therefore ultimately more free. Primitivism is given a Romantic pardon—although Jones is a bad guy, his adventure through the jungle, and the larger metaphysical journey of reverting his soul to that primtive nature, makes the reader feel sympathetic, and in the end that primitivism grants Jones his freedom. John in Hurston’s work also strips in the jungle to wade through the creek. But unlike Jones, the freedom of John is not truly attained. While he escaped the despotic Ned, the larger picture remains gloomy. Unfair sharecropping, bounding practices, and a host of other subtle discriminatory economic systems trap the Crittendens in a slave existence. In the end, John resolves to make enough money so that he can return and save his mother, which sounds exactly like a slave saving enough money to buy his or her own freedom.
In Birthright, Peter Siner returns to the South to teach, but ultimately he hopes to open an institute like Tuskegee. The implication in his plan seems to be an argument that racial uplift can occur from blacks learning trades, being succesful, and ultimately moving up classes by virtue of their increased pay from learning more desirable skills. Hurston’s work gives context to Stribling’s musings as a white man writing about black life. The master of the Crittenden shack, Ned Crittenden, seems trapped in the days of the 1800s because of an internalized inferiority from serving as a slave. He cannot think outside his own terms and even evaluates others in what Peter Siner might consider archaic terms, such as judging John based off the cotton he can harvest, the food he consumes. Amy says with a tinge of uplift yearning: “[D]ese heah chillun is diffunt from us... Ah doan know, mebbe hit’ll take some of us generations, but us got tuh ‘gin tuh practise on trasurin’ our younguns. Ah loves dese heah already uh whole heap. Ah don’t want ‘em knocked and ‘buked” (Hurston 722-723). Treasuring youths involves giving them chances, which Ned does not, consciously or not. Existence for the Crittendens means living in practical slavery. Jonah’s Gourd Vine seems open to being read as what systems block racial uplift that earlier Renaissance artists, such as T.S. Stribling, described.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Week 10, entry one
“Drenched in Light” and some from Home to Harlem and other earlier works
I enjoyed reading “Drenched in Light” because I found the protagonist Isie’s zest so refreshing from other readings such as Bennett’s poem “Hatred” and Hughes’ serious essay “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” Characters around Isie seem preoccupied with their own weighty thoughts such as Isie’s grandmother and her antiquated ideals of womanly behavior or the white woman and her melancholy. These attitudes almost appear comical in light of Isie’s carefree nature. Her chief activity is spent looking out onto the road, something fraught with metaphorical import, but for her the activity seems thoroughly based in passing the time, amusing herself with her own thoughts, etc. In some ways she reminds me of Jake from McKay’s Home to Harlem because in the chapter “Snowstorm in Pittsburgh” we see Jake seemingly reject the gaudy symbolism of Pittsburgh the narrator lays out in the opening lines.
Now that’s interesting to explore what it means that a mid-20s man and a child can have that much in common. Just as far as investigating their respective outlooks and what those outlooks mean in the context of the narrative, the social events at the time (such as the Harlem Renaissance and idea of racial uplift), etc.
But still in the light of other readings some parts of “Drenched in Light” read with a slight sting. When Isie is dancing in front of that gaping crowd in red, it is hard not to call the image of Cordelia or Karintha. But I think what makes David Levering Lewis laud the work is its commitment to storytelling, not the grandiose meaning behind actions. You can project Isie to any one of those futures but if that happens it is not because Hurston foreshadows in any way that eventual reality, but rather she authentically tells of a little black girl in Florida and does so with incredible clarity and vividness.
I enjoyed reading “Drenched in Light” because I found the protagonist Isie’s zest so refreshing from other readings such as Bennett’s poem “Hatred” and Hughes’ serious essay “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” Characters around Isie seem preoccupied with their own weighty thoughts such as Isie’s grandmother and her antiquated ideals of womanly behavior or the white woman and her melancholy. These attitudes almost appear comical in light of Isie’s carefree nature. Her chief activity is spent looking out onto the road, something fraught with metaphorical import, but for her the activity seems thoroughly based in passing the time, amusing herself with her own thoughts, etc. In some ways she reminds me of Jake from McKay’s Home to Harlem because in the chapter “Snowstorm in Pittsburgh” we see Jake seemingly reject the gaudy symbolism of Pittsburgh the narrator lays out in the opening lines.
Now that’s interesting to explore what it means that a mid-20s man and a child can have that much in common. Just as far as investigating their respective outlooks and what those outlooks mean in the context of the narrative, the social events at the time (such as the Harlem Renaissance and idea of racial uplift), etc.
But still in the light of other readings some parts of “Drenched in Light” read with a slight sting. When Isie is dancing in front of that gaping crowd in red, it is hard not to call the image of Cordelia or Karintha. But I think what makes David Levering Lewis laud the work is its commitment to storytelling, not the grandiose meaning behind actions. You can project Isie to any one of those futures but if that happens it is not because Hurston foreshadows in any way that eventual reality, but rather she authentically tells of a little black girl in Florida and does so with incredible clarity and vividness.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Week 9, entry two
10/23
“When the Negro was in Vogue” and Black Manhattan
The part from Hughes’ autobiography further describes the first part of the Harlem Renaissance identified by David Levering Lewis, when an interest from white bohemians propelled black artists to new recognition and also seemingly financial security. Hughes reminisces with the same light heartedness he often writes his fictional prose from, weaving between sarcasm (“I don’t know what made any Negroes think that—except that they were mostly intellectuals doing the thinking”) and an old, weary narrative tone that seems eager in some ways to close the door on this chapter (“It was the period when the Negro was in vogue”). As an artist who received his start in racial uplift publications such as Crisis, and then left those pretensions for communicating the experience of the “common” black person, Hughes uses his own experience to color his outlook of the Harlem Renaissance.
Within the first paragraphs Hughes’ irony illuminates the talent black artists had that only surfaced because of white recognition. In recounting the all-star cast of the early show Shuffle Along, the punch line and “Wow!” in Hughes’ humor comes from the fact that such stars could gather on the same stage, on it or behind it. While Hughes recognizes the show supplanted the primitive depiction of blacks, it seemed to have created a new portrayal in the minds of white consumers who now saw blacks as these partyers who play great music, have catchy dances, and throw great parties. There is no real authentic mixing of the races, much less a genuine, sincere appreciation of black artistic output, it seems. As Hughes comments, white audiences still stared at black performers like animals at a zoo. Some clubs were also segregated in Harlem. It seems like “vogue” for a time replaced the notion of “primitive,” that while blacks could be admired, it was still an admiration from a distance—not a genuine recognition of their humanness. Hughes seems to comment on this when he writes that whites came to Harlem but “saw nothing but the cabarets, not the houses” (Hughes, 78).
In some ways this piece is hard to reconcile with James Weldon Johnson’s work Black Manhattan. Johnson portrays a much better picture of Harlem, one where blacks sustain the life of the city and seem to live happily, for there is no mention of their housing situation. Johnson also focuses on the artistic creativty around many of the works, not the white patronage, or condescenion as Hughes probably sees it, providing the opportunities for such artistic work. Hughes line, “It was the period when the Negro was in vogue,” encapsulates his turn from being preoccupied with racial uplift and toeing the Talented Tenth line to the artist intent on authentically giving voice to the “common” black person’s condition.
“When the Negro was in Vogue” and Black Manhattan
The part from Hughes’ autobiography further describes the first part of the Harlem Renaissance identified by David Levering Lewis, when an interest from white bohemians propelled black artists to new recognition and also seemingly financial security. Hughes reminisces with the same light heartedness he often writes his fictional prose from, weaving between sarcasm (“I don’t know what made any Negroes think that—except that they were mostly intellectuals doing the thinking”) and an old, weary narrative tone that seems eager in some ways to close the door on this chapter (“It was the period when the Negro was in vogue”). As an artist who received his start in racial uplift publications such as Crisis, and then left those pretensions for communicating the experience of the “common” black person, Hughes uses his own experience to color his outlook of the Harlem Renaissance.
Within the first paragraphs Hughes’ irony illuminates the talent black artists had that only surfaced because of white recognition. In recounting the all-star cast of the early show Shuffle Along, the punch line and “Wow!” in Hughes’ humor comes from the fact that such stars could gather on the same stage, on it or behind it. While Hughes recognizes the show supplanted the primitive depiction of blacks, it seemed to have created a new portrayal in the minds of white consumers who now saw blacks as these partyers who play great music, have catchy dances, and throw great parties. There is no real authentic mixing of the races, much less a genuine, sincere appreciation of black artistic output, it seems. As Hughes comments, white audiences still stared at black performers like animals at a zoo. Some clubs were also segregated in Harlem. It seems like “vogue” for a time replaced the notion of “primitive,” that while blacks could be admired, it was still an admiration from a distance—not a genuine recognition of their humanness. Hughes seems to comment on this when he writes that whites came to Harlem but “saw nothing but the cabarets, not the houses” (Hughes, 78).
In some ways this piece is hard to reconcile with James Weldon Johnson’s work Black Manhattan. Johnson portrays a much better picture of Harlem, one where blacks sustain the life of the city and seem to live happily, for there is no mention of their housing situation. Johnson also focuses on the artistic creativty around many of the works, not the white patronage, or condescenion as Hughes probably sees it, providing the opportunities for such artistic work. Hughes line, “It was the period when the Negro was in vogue,” encapsulates his turn from being preoccupied with racial uplift and toeing the Talented Tenth line to the artist intent on authentically giving voice to the “common” black person’s condition.
Week 9, entry one
10/23
“The Negro Art Hokum”
I think implicit in Schuyler’s argument for a lack of difference in black and white art is a lack of difference between white and black people. Schuyler seems ahead of his time in recognizing socialization when he writes: “…[W]hen [blacks respond] to the same political, social, moral, and economic stimuli in precisely the same manner as his white neighbor, it is sheer nonsense to talk about “racial differences” as between the American black man and the American white man” (98). Schuyler and Hughes would agree that black art should be evaluated seriously, because Schuyler sees condescension in a critic’s appraisal towards black art while Hughes only sees stereotypes available to the black artist such as being a clown.
While Schuyler is ahead of his time in socialization my only concern about his piece is the over generalization I think he makes about segregation and Jim Crow. Schuyler seemingly chalks this as just another factor that could shape just about any race. It was only a matter of chance that blacks were enslaved and developed so many musical forms in part as a result of their condition throughout the 1800s and 1900s. Schuyler really merges race with the condition of the blacks at the time of his writing. It seems like getting at Schuyler’s definition of race reveals his own values on aesthetics because for Schuyler, aesthetics indicates some heritage and condition.
“The Negro Art Hokum”
I think implicit in Schuyler’s argument for a lack of difference in black and white art is a lack of difference between white and black people. Schuyler seems ahead of his time in recognizing socialization when he writes: “…[W]hen [blacks respond] to the same political, social, moral, and economic stimuli in precisely the same manner as his white neighbor, it is sheer nonsense to talk about “racial differences” as between the American black man and the American white man” (98). Schuyler and Hughes would agree that black art should be evaluated seriously, because Schuyler sees condescension in a critic’s appraisal towards black art while Hughes only sees stereotypes available to the black artist such as being a clown.
While Schuyler is ahead of his time in socialization my only concern about his piece is the over generalization I think he makes about segregation and Jim Crow. Schuyler seemingly chalks this as just another factor that could shape just about any race. It was only a matter of chance that blacks were enslaved and developed so many musical forms in part as a result of their condition throughout the 1800s and 1900s. Schuyler really merges race with the condition of the blacks at the time of his writing. It seems like getting at Schuyler’s definition of race reveals his own values on aesthetics because for Schuyler, aesthetics indicates some heritage and condition.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Week 8, entry one and two
10/19
“Cordelia the Crude” and “Negro-Art Hokum”
Thurman’s short story “Cordelia the Crude” has slang and dialect interspersed in the narrative, which is helped understood by George Schuyler’s work, “Negro-Art Hokum.” Schuyler concludes whites and blacks are all subject to the same socialization and therefore produce similar art. Schulyer writes: “…[T]heir work shows the impress of nationality rather than race. They all reveal the psychology and culture of their environment—their color is incidental” (98). Thurman’s short story seems to wrestle with this issue because he retells the events of somebody who does not have all that unique of circumstances. Schuyler writes in his work: “Again, the Africamerican is subject to the same economic and social forces that mold the actions and thoughts of the white Americans” (97-98). Cordelia leaves South Carolina for New York because of her family and eventually falls into prostitution because of her defiance to her family and because Harlem is conducive to that lifestyle with its concentration of people in one area.
What is hard to reconcile in light of Schuyler’s work though is the slang and dialect evident in “Cordelia the Crude.” The breaks in the narrative are easily spotted and especially glaring in light of the articulate narration. What these breaks in the narrative seem to suggest is the local flavor of Harlem. While Schuyler is correct that the forces that animate people are indeed national forces, not so much racial ones, the response to those products seems distinctly local. Any woman is capable of becoming “bountiful in the matter of bestowing sexual favors upon persuasive and likely young men,” but perhaps only in Harlem is she “a fus’ class chippie” (Thurman 629, 631). Thurman describes the narrator interacting with Cordelia, flirting with her and everything, but that behavior has the label of a “sheik.” (Thurman 632). The narrator even does not live up to that label when Cordelia says that he “was different from mos’ of des’ sheiks, and when pressed for an explanation [she] brazenly told me in a slightly scandalized and patronizing tone that I had not even felt her legs…!” (Thurman 632). Cordelia has already adopted the language of Harlem to label people and anticipate outcomes based on the labels she attributes to people.
These distinct breaks in narrative do not wholly answer Schuyler’s driving question central to his essay: “How, then, can the black American be expected to produce art and literature dissimilar to that of the white American?” (98). In some ways, the slang and dialect could be boiled down to the different ways people say tomato. There is no suggestion that race is linked to being a “fus’ class chippie” or a “sheik.” When describing Cordelia’s past, he speaks of the Stokeses and their “bad mixed blood in ‘em,” but even the badness of the mixed blood reflects the larger Southern view of interracial people, not just racial views (which Thurman thoroughly explores in The Blacker the Berry).
Entry two
“Hatred,” “Mulatto,” and “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain”
In Hughes’ essay “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” Hughes argues that embracing the beauty of being black enables black artists to create truly liberating art. The selected poems show a preoccupation with whiteness by making their hatred for white people the focus of the poem.
Bennett’s poem “Hatred” seems to have a preoccupation with having the speaker’s hatred validated by instilling fear in white people. The poem ends with the kicker: “Memory will lay its hands / Upon your breast / And you will understand / My hatred.” In some ways the speaker seems incomplete without instilling fear in the white people. I feel like Hughes would argue this poem fails in being meaningful because it is preoccupied with whiteness, still. Despite its venomous tone, its hatred, and even its rash pronunciation of black empowerment (the “rekindled fires” in the speakers’ eyes), it is still this internalization of whiteness. “Hatred” can be read as an attempt to traverse the racial mountain before black artists. The tools are there with the darts of singing steel but the speaker is immersed in that culture where whiteness is regarded as superior, not the culture Hughes sees holding the great Negro artist: “These common people…will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself” (Hughes 92). That culture of the common folk, as Hughes describes it, is firmly planted in the present, jovial, and vibrant. They hardly seem like the type to play hatred as “a game / Play with cool hands / And slim fingers” (Bennett 223).
Hughes poem “Mulatto” is interesting because it tells of a speaker killing his father to gain racial freedom. Yet Hughes does not choose the jazz form he is so known for, but really an arguably “white” form, the sonnet. Like the speaker in “Hatred,” the speaker in “Mulatto” is preoccupied with validating his or herself by having the whites feel the hatred the speaker experiences. What is unsaid in Benett’s poem is explicitly laid out in Hughes’, however; the aim of the hatred is to create a future for the speaker by liberating himself from the whiteness of heritage. The whiteness has given the speaker a “bastard birth-mark,” a constant reminder of the whiteness within. It would appear from that liberation the speaker can identify only his or her black race, and perhaps embrace that.
“Cordelia the Crude” and “Negro-Art Hokum”
Thurman’s short story “Cordelia the Crude” has slang and dialect interspersed in the narrative, which is helped understood by George Schuyler’s work, “Negro-Art Hokum.” Schuyler concludes whites and blacks are all subject to the same socialization and therefore produce similar art. Schulyer writes: “…[T]heir work shows the impress of nationality rather than race. They all reveal the psychology and culture of their environment—their color is incidental” (98). Thurman’s short story seems to wrestle with this issue because he retells the events of somebody who does not have all that unique of circumstances. Schuyler writes in his work: “Again, the Africamerican is subject to the same economic and social forces that mold the actions and thoughts of the white Americans” (97-98). Cordelia leaves South Carolina for New York because of her family and eventually falls into prostitution because of her defiance to her family and because Harlem is conducive to that lifestyle with its concentration of people in one area.
What is hard to reconcile in light of Schuyler’s work though is the slang and dialect evident in “Cordelia the Crude.” The breaks in the narrative are easily spotted and especially glaring in light of the articulate narration. What these breaks in the narrative seem to suggest is the local flavor of Harlem. While Schuyler is correct that the forces that animate people are indeed national forces, not so much racial ones, the response to those products seems distinctly local. Any woman is capable of becoming “bountiful in the matter of bestowing sexual favors upon persuasive and likely young men,” but perhaps only in Harlem is she “a fus’ class chippie” (Thurman 629, 631). Thurman describes the narrator interacting with Cordelia, flirting with her and everything, but that behavior has the label of a “sheik.” (Thurman 632). The narrator even does not live up to that label when Cordelia says that he “was different from mos’ of des’ sheiks, and when pressed for an explanation [she] brazenly told me in a slightly scandalized and patronizing tone that I had not even felt her legs…!” (Thurman 632). Cordelia has already adopted the language of Harlem to label people and anticipate outcomes based on the labels she attributes to people.
These distinct breaks in narrative do not wholly answer Schuyler’s driving question central to his essay: “How, then, can the black American be expected to produce art and literature dissimilar to that of the white American?” (98). In some ways, the slang and dialect could be boiled down to the different ways people say tomato. There is no suggestion that race is linked to being a “fus’ class chippie” or a “sheik.” When describing Cordelia’s past, he speaks of the Stokeses and their “bad mixed blood in ‘em,” but even the badness of the mixed blood reflects the larger Southern view of interracial people, not just racial views (which Thurman thoroughly explores in The Blacker the Berry).
Entry two
“Hatred,” “Mulatto,” and “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain”
In Hughes’ essay “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” Hughes argues that embracing the beauty of being black enables black artists to create truly liberating art. The selected poems show a preoccupation with whiteness by making their hatred for white people the focus of the poem.
Bennett’s poem “Hatred” seems to have a preoccupation with having the speaker’s hatred validated by instilling fear in white people. The poem ends with the kicker: “Memory will lay its hands / Upon your breast / And you will understand / My hatred.” In some ways the speaker seems incomplete without instilling fear in the white people. I feel like Hughes would argue this poem fails in being meaningful because it is preoccupied with whiteness, still. Despite its venomous tone, its hatred, and even its rash pronunciation of black empowerment (the “rekindled fires” in the speakers’ eyes), it is still this internalization of whiteness. “Hatred” can be read as an attempt to traverse the racial mountain before black artists. The tools are there with the darts of singing steel but the speaker is immersed in that culture where whiteness is regarded as superior, not the culture Hughes sees holding the great Negro artist: “These common people…will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself” (Hughes 92). That culture of the common folk, as Hughes describes it, is firmly planted in the present, jovial, and vibrant. They hardly seem like the type to play hatred as “a game / Play with cool hands / And slim fingers” (Bennett 223).
Hughes poem “Mulatto” is interesting because it tells of a speaker killing his father to gain racial freedom. Yet Hughes does not choose the jazz form he is so known for, but really an arguably “white” form, the sonnet. Like the speaker in “Hatred,” the speaker in “Mulatto” is preoccupied with validating his or herself by having the whites feel the hatred the speaker experiences. What is unsaid in Benett’s poem is explicitly laid out in Hughes’, however; the aim of the hatred is to create a future for the speaker by liberating himself from the whiteness of heritage. The whiteness has given the speaker a “bastard birth-mark,” a constant reminder of the whiteness within. It would appear from that liberation the speaker can identify only his or her black race, and perhaps embrace that.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Week Seven, entry one
10/8 “Wedding Day”
The events of “Wedding Day” all occur in France, which allows some exploration of the effect place has on the characters. Montmartre, particularly rue Pigalle, is described as as the Harlem of Paris, with its concetration of black jazz musicians musicians who are expatriates of the U.S. Besides being concentrated into living in one area, the blacks in Paris also frequent “The Pit,” which recieved its name from the density of blacks resembling a thick colony of fleas. What seems unsaid in both of these descriptions is why are blacks living in one place and socializing in just one place, especially with just their own race? The blacks portrayed in the story are musicians with no relationship to their white patrons, which is ironic when you think of the communicative power of music, especially the individuality invested in each jazz improvisation. Still, the story indicates no exchange between the whites and blacks. Perhaps this implies some disconnect in values—the Parisians see the music as exotic and something pleasant to dine to while the blacks see their music as parts of themsevles by virtue of its form, jazz.
While what is unexplained is troubling in “Wedding Day,” some of the plot illuminates the various opportunities blacks have in Paris. Paul appears to be able to have a wedding befitting of the passion and romance in the relationship he had with the white American prostitute, Mary. Paul eagerly dresses for the day and then immediately looks into contacting Mary to express his jubilation with the succinct phrase: “Happy wedding day” (Bennett, 368). That phrase seems to say a lot for the new outlook Paul briefly had and some of the opportunity available to blacks in France.
While the blacks in “Wedding Day” are away from the United States, they still bring some of that racial consciousness to bear in their new surroundings. In some ways it seems place cannot erase the cultural formation of certain vulnerabilities, as one musician predicts: “Oh you ain’t so forty. You’ll fall like all the other spades I’ve seen. Your kind falls the hardest” (Bennett, 366). While Paul took advantage of his new place, Paris, and its leniency on blacks (after all he hasn’t done much jail time and he openly beats up white people), others still see him as an American black male susceptible to women, including white women. One of the musicians snickers about Paul’s former racial outlook, saying how he detested white males, but was vulnerable to white females (Bennett, 367). In fact, the news of Paul’s new relationship is centered on his break from the social and gossiping nexus of the Pit to some other place. In Paris there appears some transportation of the former United States culture to new surroundings as much out of comfort as it is out of possibility. The blacks don’t appear entirely integrated in Parisian society but they are clustered very similarly like they are in the United States.
Bennett, G. “Wedding Day.” Harlem Renaissance Reader. Ed. David Levering Lewis. New York: Penguin, 1994. 363-369.
The events of “Wedding Day” all occur in France, which allows some exploration of the effect place has on the characters. Montmartre, particularly rue Pigalle, is described as as the Harlem of Paris, with its concetration of black jazz musicians musicians who are expatriates of the U.S. Besides being concentrated into living in one area, the blacks in Paris also frequent “The Pit,” which recieved its name from the density of blacks resembling a thick colony of fleas. What seems unsaid in both of these descriptions is why are blacks living in one place and socializing in just one place, especially with just their own race? The blacks portrayed in the story are musicians with no relationship to their white patrons, which is ironic when you think of the communicative power of music, especially the individuality invested in each jazz improvisation. Still, the story indicates no exchange between the whites and blacks. Perhaps this implies some disconnect in values—the Parisians see the music as exotic and something pleasant to dine to while the blacks see their music as parts of themsevles by virtue of its form, jazz.
While what is unexplained is troubling in “Wedding Day,” some of the plot illuminates the various opportunities blacks have in Paris. Paul appears to be able to have a wedding befitting of the passion and romance in the relationship he had with the white American prostitute, Mary. Paul eagerly dresses for the day and then immediately looks into contacting Mary to express his jubilation with the succinct phrase: “Happy wedding day” (Bennett, 368). That phrase seems to say a lot for the new outlook Paul briefly had and some of the opportunity available to blacks in France.
While the blacks in “Wedding Day” are away from the United States, they still bring some of that racial consciousness to bear in their new surroundings. In some ways it seems place cannot erase the cultural formation of certain vulnerabilities, as one musician predicts: “Oh you ain’t so forty. You’ll fall like all the other spades I’ve seen. Your kind falls the hardest” (Bennett, 366). While Paul took advantage of his new place, Paris, and its leniency on blacks (after all he hasn’t done much jail time and he openly beats up white people), others still see him as an American black male susceptible to women, including white women. One of the musicians snickers about Paul’s former racial outlook, saying how he detested white males, but was vulnerable to white females (Bennett, 367). In fact, the news of Paul’s new relationship is centered on his break from the social and gossiping nexus of the Pit to some other place. In Paris there appears some transportation of the former United States culture to new surroundings as much out of comfort as it is out of possibility. The blacks don’t appear entirely integrated in Parisian society but they are clustered very similarly like they are in the United States.
Bennett, G. “Wedding Day.” Harlem Renaissance Reader. Ed. David Levering Lewis. New York: Penguin, 1994. 363-369.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Week six, entry two
10/5 from The Blacker the Berry and Quicksand
Gender roles react with the shade of blackness for both Emma Lou and Helga Crane in their respective stories. Emma Lou thinks to herself that being a darker black woman condemns her to sorrow and disappointment, while a black man can get along just fine. Larsen frames Crane’s experience with the excerpt from Langston Hughes, where the mixed heritage creates a new identity ostracized by both races of the ancestors. That ostracism is seen in the lack of place for Helga, and her migration is partially in response to that perception she has and what others think of her. The exchange between her and Axel caps years of being branded as the exotic dark woman from America, and Helga succinctly reflects on her time as much as the picture Axel presents her: “It wasn’t, she contended, herself at all, but some disgusting sensual creature with her features” (Larsen, 83).
Part of the opportunities that present themselves to the respective women in light of their gender expectations are seen through the colors they adorn. Emma Lou remembers how her skin restricted the colors she wore, excluding white for it not being “complementary to her complexion” (Thurman, 637). Helga assesses the current colors and styles available to black people and claims that black, brown and gray are “ruinous to [black people], actually destroyed the luminous tones lurking in their dusky skins” (Larsen, 16). Dusky skins seems to suggest not complete blackness, as is Emma Lou’s pigmentation, so Crane’s attitude towards those very dark black people remains ambiguous. The clothes are important because they hold much of societies expectations, and as we see from the texts, Helga appears to have a fuller, more colorful wardrobe to choose from. She is not as limited by her skin as is Emma Lou. Emma Lou understates her appearance, attempting to alter her skin tone, straighten her hair, really trying to find some measure of whiteness in some characteristic, though ultimately she completes the package by wearing what she calls “Arline’s less pretentious afternoon frocks” (Thurman, 640).
Gender roles react with the shade of blackness for both Emma Lou and Helga Crane in their respective stories. Emma Lou thinks to herself that being a darker black woman condemns her to sorrow and disappointment, while a black man can get along just fine. Larsen frames Crane’s experience with the excerpt from Langston Hughes, where the mixed heritage creates a new identity ostracized by both races of the ancestors. That ostracism is seen in the lack of place for Helga, and her migration is partially in response to that perception she has and what others think of her. The exchange between her and Axel caps years of being branded as the exotic dark woman from America, and Helga succinctly reflects on her time as much as the picture Axel presents her: “It wasn’t, she contended, herself at all, but some disgusting sensual creature with her features” (Larsen, 83).
Part of the opportunities that present themselves to the respective women in light of their gender expectations are seen through the colors they adorn. Emma Lou remembers how her skin restricted the colors she wore, excluding white for it not being “complementary to her complexion” (Thurman, 637). Helga assesses the current colors and styles available to black people and claims that black, brown and gray are “ruinous to [black people], actually destroyed the luminous tones lurking in their dusky skins” (Larsen, 16). Dusky skins seems to suggest not complete blackness, as is Emma Lou’s pigmentation, so Crane’s attitude towards those very dark black people remains ambiguous. The clothes are important because they hold much of societies expectations, and as we see from the texts, Helga appears to have a fuller, more colorful wardrobe to choose from. She is not as limited by her skin as is Emma Lou. Emma Lou understates her appearance, attempting to alter her skin tone, straighten her hair, really trying to find some measure of whiteness in some characteristic, though ultimately she completes the package by wearing what she calls “Arline’s less pretentious afternoon frocks” (Thurman, 640).
Week 6, entry one
10/5 from “The Closing Door”
What does Lewis mean when he calls Grimke “a true aristocrat of color”? Does this title have anything to do with the metaphor of the closing door?
Grimke’s aristocratic stature developed from her use of a high form of fiction to comment on the current social realities. In a previous post I attempted to draw some similarities between Grimke’s work and Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher.” I feel the connections are warranted and reasonable, and based on that I think Grimke’s use of this high form of fiction helps cast her as a true aristocrat of color. Grimke’s work appears in the first stage of the Harlem Renaissance, when white Bohemia was fascinated with the savage black person while simultaneously the black artists of the time were responding to the Red Summer with poems such as “If We Must Die” and Grimke’s short story. Lewis writes, “For the whites, art was the means to change society before they would accept it. For the blacks, art was the means to change society in order to be accepted into it” (xxi). The assumption in these beliefs is that art must foremost have some political dimension, and that would seemingly be an aristocratic belief because the higher class for the most part consumes the works of literature that combine language and other literary tools to comment on social realities.
By writing “The Closing Door” Grimke is entering into that aristocratic circle by using a high form of fiction developed by one of the original American masters to comment about race. The central horror to the story, the infantcide, reflects Lewis’ line about blacks understanding of art—they must change society in order to be accepted into it. When Agnes Milton realizes society will not change to embrace her race, she supposes the best option is to kill her child rather than letting the child mature into just another “instrument.” Her decision is contained in the multi-dimensional symbol of the closing door, Lewis points out, whether it represents the isolation, the depression, or in the larger picture, the loss of opportunities for blacks across America suffered during the violent Red Summer of 1919 (486).
What does Lewis mean when he calls Grimke “a true aristocrat of color”? Does this title have anything to do with the metaphor of the closing door?
Grimke’s aristocratic stature developed from her use of a high form of fiction to comment on the current social realities. In a previous post I attempted to draw some similarities between Grimke’s work and Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher.” I feel the connections are warranted and reasonable, and based on that I think Grimke’s use of this high form of fiction helps cast her as a true aristocrat of color. Grimke’s work appears in the first stage of the Harlem Renaissance, when white Bohemia was fascinated with the savage black person while simultaneously the black artists of the time were responding to the Red Summer with poems such as “If We Must Die” and Grimke’s short story. Lewis writes, “For the whites, art was the means to change society before they would accept it. For the blacks, art was the means to change society in order to be accepted into it” (xxi). The assumption in these beliefs is that art must foremost have some political dimension, and that would seemingly be an aristocratic belief because the higher class for the most part consumes the works of literature that combine language and other literary tools to comment on social realities.
By writing “The Closing Door” Grimke is entering into that aristocratic circle by using a high form of fiction developed by one of the original American masters to comment about race. The central horror to the story, the infantcide, reflects Lewis’ line about blacks understanding of art—they must change society in order to be accepted into it. When Agnes Milton realizes society will not change to embrace her race, she supposes the best option is to kill her child rather than letting the child mature into just another “instrument.” Her decision is contained in the multi-dimensional symbol of the closing door, Lewis points out, whether it represents the isolation, the depression, or in the larger picture, the loss of opportunities for blacks across America suffered during the violent Red Summer of 1919 (486).
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