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Paternal Legacies and Hybrid Identities

6/6/2020

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The underlying issue of globalization is perhaps one of the strongest forces driving the conflicts within the stories by South Asian, Commonwealth, and Black British writers that we are reading this week, and although all of them were written prior to 9/11, they anticipate many post-9/11 issues and fears. At the same time, the texts deal with an enduring theme within modern culture, and the modern world—and by modern, I mean beginning in the late 16th Century, which is often referred to as the Early Modern Period—when global exploration began to increase (due to technological advancements) alongside the rise of imperialism and settler colonialism. These systems exacerbated the enduring human conflict between "self" and "other," only now re-positioned in binary terms of white vs. black, civilized vs. savage, west vs. east.  
 
Imperialism, colonization, globalization—all of these inevitably lead to multiculturalism, multiplicity, pluralism. However, because it seems that it is human nature to fear diversity (though I’m wary of ascribing anything like racism, sexism, or any -ism as an inherent trait rather than socially and culturally learned), then multiplicity and pluralism seem anathema to any individual, communal, or national sense of identity, at least those invested in patriarchal and/or imperialist systems, which rely on the rejection and repression of otherness in order to maintain a sense of unified wholeness for those in power. To open oneself up to multiplicity makes one vulnerable to the fractured, fragmented self, or, requires empathy and identification with the other rather than hatred and repulsion. Or, put more simply, as examined in this week’s texts, each of the authors explore how due to massive influx and waves of immigration in post-WWII Britain (and often on the invitation of the British), in the late 20th Century Britain has found itself struggling with the clash between cultural traditions and diverse identities. British culture and Britain, as a nation, has been struggling with the need to redefine itself in light of its postcolonial realities and imperialist history, and the Brexit crisis is in many ways an extension of this.
 
In much of contemporary British literature, and more specifically the contemporary/postmodern historical novel, many of the texts function according to a complex temporal relation: they are shaped by the past, but, being part of the present literary landscape, they also reconfigure our understanding of Britain’s socio-cultural and political heritage of imperialism. Thus, it’s imperative to focus on examining the purposes and effects of contemporary authors’ appropriations of the past while simultaneously reiterating it in the environment of present post-colonial discourses by asking the following questions: How does the (post)colonial nation imagine and narrate itself through literary texts from both past and present eras? How do we transmit our knowledge of the past, or more problematically, how do we even know the ‘truth’ of the past? Does British culture dream its way back to the British Empire in order to find a way to articulate the social insecurities that pertain to existing in a globalized world? What are the dangers of nationalist nostalgia and to what extent do these texts critique the myths of nation and empire? These questions also lead to a more enriched understanding of those thematic aspects of nationhood, immigration, assimilation, diaspora, race, gender and class, which are explored in a great deal of postmodern, postcolonial, and popular British literatures. 
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As we see in the stories from this week, the characters and families, as representative of the broader global community, are still dealing with the paternal legacies of imperialism and patriarchy, which is clearly evident in the symbolic prominence of father figures in the texts and the conflicts with paternal authority and/or tradition that ensue. Embedded in this conflict with the “law of the father” is an examination of religious fanaticism, or, cultural fanaticism, that simply cannot adapt to the (post)modern world, where absolute truths and grand narratives have been called into question and closely scrutinized. According to the postmodern viewpoint, broadly speaking, instead of clinging to rigid certainties we are now required to dwell in doubt and exist in liminal spaces, embracing ambiguity and hybridity as our only mode of survival. Throughout the 20th and even more so in the early 21st centuries, we seem to be undergoing a massive shift in worldviews, new technologies, and realities, and at an increasingly rapid pace. So, it’s no wonder that we also have a tightening of reactionary (religious or political) movements, desperately clinging to tradition, as well as a rise in apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic literature, film, and television shows, which tend to express the current cultural climate of anxiety. As I mentioned in my post on Eliot, Loy, and Yeats, although the apocalypse indicates degradation and the dying of a corrupt world, it also promises a break with history and a renewal of hope in clearing up all the old detritus and allowing for a new beginning. However, this can also express the longing for a nostalgic return to the “old” world, the old paradise before things got so bad, and in turn only indicates a cyclical movement of violence and destruction.
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Apocalyptic themes are also located in the clash between religion and secularism. We can read this in the poems by Heaney and Boland, who examine the legacy of British colonialism in Ireland, but I’m mainly thinking of Zadie Smith’s White Teeth here. Smith’s novel, published in 1999, plays with the notion of apocalypse and religious/cultural fundamentalism through her exploration of the clash between “east” and “west” in late 20th century multicultural Britain and all the anxieties this has given rise to in British culture. Indeed, the novel begins with an “An End of the World Party” in the 1970s and ends on the millennial New Years Eve of December 31st, 1999; though yes, of course, the “real” millennial marker was Dec 31, 2000, which I think was part of the joke in Smith’s novel (a book all of you should read when you get a chance, especially if you enjoyed “The Waiter’s Wife,” an early version of a chapter that was later revised for the novel). In any case, the apocalyptic imagination is closely tied to trends in religious fanaticism, and in the stories by Rushdie, Kureishi, Desai, and Smith, we seem to come across a sense of religious “fraud”—or, a sense that fundamentalism leads to “fraudulent” rather than hybrid identities. Also, we can’t ignore how each of these stories is concerned on some level with Muslim roots and religion, both in its “native” soil and transplanted to the west, or British soil.
 
Ironically, on the surface at least, it would seem the texts indicate that western secularism offers an antidote to the rise of religious fanaticism within Islam; yet, as Kureishi clearly indicates through the character of Ali, because the west and western culture can often be quite bigoted, unwelcoming, and failing to offer a place or sense of belonging for those who immigrate, this has also in part led to the rise of disaffected Muslim youths in Britain who have turned to religious “fanaticism” as a way of reclaiming their roots and identity, and more importantly, a sense of self-worth in the face of ongoing racism and discrimination. Also see White Teeth for a wonderfully rich and comedic/horrific treatment of this in the characters of Magid and Millat, the twin sons of Alsana and Samad, who do end up fulfilling Alsana’s fears of her children being lost in a confusing world where it is impossible to know who/where one is. Clara and Archie’s daughter, Irie, also ends up having to deal with this issue and at one point, attempts to live with her fundamentalist evangelical grandmother as she explores her biracial identity. Of course, Alsana herself is forced to revise her “racist” prejudices and stereotypes, something that must inevitably occur when a country experiences mass immigration of “others” who in turn, which we often forget, see the “natives” as “others” as well. All four stories conclude that as long as we view immigration and diaspora through the lens of prejudice and fear, then we will not end up surviving, and we will only continue the violent cycle of history that the myth of apocalypse so vividly imagines.
 
I would also like to add here that in each of the stories’ often satirical representations of Muslim practitioners and communities, none of the authors are implying that there is something inherently “wrong” with Islam, or, that it is the “fault” of their religion for why the characters have such a difficult time assimilating to the western, modern world. Rather, it is not so much a failure of the religion itself but the ways in which culture can distort and corrupt the original precepts and beliefs of any religion; also, an implicit message in these texts is their suggestion that when examining postcolonial identities and issues of assimilation, the west is equally beholden to examine and understand the “other’s” perspectives and experiences. For example, there is an increasing urgency in our post-9/11 era for non-Muslims, or “westerners,” to learn about Islam and Islamic culture in order to avoid stereotyping, reject fear and racial conflict, and resist the continuation of imperialist politics. 

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For example, to cite a salient point made by Professor Asma Barlas, a prominent scholar of Islam who offers anti-patriarchal readings of the Qu’ran, and whose lecture I attended when she visited Wright State in 2013. Dr. Barlas noted how in America and Britain, Muslims are granted, like all U.S./U.K. citizens, freedom of religion due to separation of church and state; yet, when America and Britain (as the primary coalition members/allies) go into countries like Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, etc., the policy is to demand that Muslims give up their religion, or secularize their religious practices because there is the broadly false assumption that Islam inevitably leads to religious fanaticism and jihad. In other words, as long as Muslims are on American or British soil, they are granted the right to practice their faith, but on their own soil Islam is viewed as dangerous and unstable. This also seems to ignore the long history of western religious fanaticism and fundamentalism within Christianity, and is thus yet another form of cultural/religious hypocrisy. The irony in Kureishi’s story, and as explored more fully in Smith’s novel, is that Islamic extremist groups are often “home-grown” on British soil and its participants are second- and third-generation Muslims who have felt rejected and discriminated against by their country of birth, which never claims them as one of their own. Thus, they are indeed caught between two worlds: the “homeland” of their parents and grandparents, which they have never seen or visited, and the “homeland” of their birth—this lack of belonging or sense of place can lead to reactionary social and cultural separatism. (Kamila Shamsie’s recent novel, Home Fire, explores many of these themes  and issues, and I also teach this text in classes on contemporary women’s writing.)
 
So, do the stories we’re reading this week offer any kind of antidote or third alternative that leads away from binary thinking and the seemingly eternal clash between East and West? I would argue that each of the stories suggest the need for all of us, “west” and “east,” “white” and “black,” “Christian” and “Muslim,” to embrace cultural hybridity; that this must be a mutual movement and not where only one side of the equation is obligated to “assimilate” to the other—for that is not true hybridity but continuing domination. And this would not be anything necessarily new or radical, since historically speaking many clashing cultures, politics, and religions have found a way to coexist (or else we would have self-destructed as a species a long time ago) through embracing Religious Syncretism — which “tends to facilitate coexistence and unity between otherwise different cultures and worldviews,” and has often developed in religious movements or belief systems. This perhaps could also serve as a model for a sexual politics that moves away from gender oppression (often exacerbated within any religious fundamentalist community), requiring men and women to develop a sense of mutual reciprocity founded on a respect of each other’s differences (rather than the repression of difference, or using difference as a justification for oppression), for only that can lead to true equality.
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Heart of Darkness (and Freud)

5/31/2020

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I understand that Heart of Darkness can be a very difficult text, especially if it is your first encounter with literary modernism (which is often dense, fragmented, heavily symbolic and indeed ambiguous), and also difficult simply due to the nature and representation of its subject matter. One of the most important things to keep in mind when reading Heart of Darkness, is that for Conrad, distinctions between "savage" and "civilized" are not simply a result of judgments made about external appearances. Yes, racism and sexism (and most other -isms that rely on discrimination of others) function in this way; but the root causes and various effects are far more complicated. In order to deconstruct and disrupt such binaries we need to, if you'll forgive the pun, examine the ways in which oppression is not merely "skin deep" but reaches far deeper into the bloody, messy, ugly, violently beating "heart of darkness" that makes possible such systems as imperialism and patriarchy. 

One of the difficulties of Conrad's text is that in spite of its own internalized racism and subsequently problematic endorsement of the very thing it professes to critique, it nevertheless attempts to show us how “civilization” functions as nothing but a facade to protect us from facing ourselves. Although first published in 1902, at the end of the Victorian period, Conrad’s novella can be read as an early modernist text (even though the “start” of modernism is usually dated to 1914 at the start of the first world war).  Similar to Conrad’s stylistic choices, literary modernism often moves beyond the usually straightforward representations of external or social reality as found in Victorian texts and instead often attempted to represent a far more internalized, unstable, fragmented, and fluid perspective or view of the world (as we’ve already examined in last week’s readings). After all, the world itself seemed to be chaotic and disruptive of previous "truths" during the devastating progress and aftermath of the Great War. Many authors at this time were trying to grapple with the way "things fall apart" when the "center does not hold" (as observed by Yeats in "The Second Coming”).
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So, what are some strategies or tactics for getting at the core or heart (or, subtext) of such texts? I suggest, first, understanding how influential Sigmund Freud and psychoanalysis was for society and writers during this time period. Too often we discount the significance of Freud to 20th century literature in general, and modernism in particular, and usually because in our often ironic (and, I might add, feminist) postmodern stance we find Freud to be quite laughable in his theory of the Oedipal complex. However, to dismiss the influence of Freud’ theory of the unconscious might lead us to overlook important details within the contemporaneous literature, especially when we are examining texts under the theme of gender, desire and sexuality; after all, Freud’s theory of the castration complex was quite damaging for women in its reinforcement of masculinity (and men’s spectacular anatomy) as superior to femininity (and women’s deficient anatomy). A lot of people at this time, including many brilliant writers (many of whom we are reading) took Freud on in their work, adapting some of his theories, or, at least, feeling more liberated to explore alternative representations of reality (for instance, Woolf’s and Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness) or to explore more explicitly sexuality and sexual relations between men and women as well as same-sex partners (as seen in those texts that we read by Loy, Eliot, Forster, Woolf, and Joyce).

Understanding not only the basic theories Freud constructed but also the social, cultural, and historical contexts of his influence helps in approaching these texts. Modernist authors, who in many ways were reacting to “repressive” Victorian culture and society, were if anything genuinely inspired by Freud to explore more openly sexuality and desire. Even though today we often laugh at Freud for his seeming obsession with sex, and perhaps because in our current oversexualized culture nothing apparently is too shocking, early twentieth-century British society was in many ways shocked and titillated by Freud’s frank and open discussion of sex and sexuality, and writers felt that they too were being quite daring in talking or writing about sex. So, it’s important to keep that in mind, and also, if we approach these texts with the understanding that many of them function much like the unconscious (as Freud theorized it) then we have a lot of deep excavating to do. Freud thought of his own work as an archaeological dig, uncovering the  multiple layers of the human psyche in order to get at what lay repressed or hidden. If we understand that many modernists constructed their own texts with multiple layers in order to fully explore internal realities, then we as readers are compelled to uncover the unconscious of these texts, which might be found through their densely symbolic and allusive references, as well as their sometimes glaring holes, missing pieces, inconsistencies or gaps in logic. This is similar to how dreams function, which Freud argued was one way of reading the unconscious; by reading our dreams, or nightmares, these are capable of revealing to us the things we cannot or do not want to face.

This brings us back to Heart of Darkness, which is in many ways is a nightmare that we are compelled to experience along with Marlow (if we agree to take that journey with him), and a nightmare that we struggle to interpret or understand because it presents us with realities we would rather not confront. The unconscious of the text reveals the savagery of imperialism and patriarchy, which is if a form of cannibalism, as these systems are driven by the desire and hunger to “eat the Other” because the “Other” is the very thing that those in power don’t want to see or recognize; thus, the overwhelming systemic dehumanization of “natives” and women. Also, by making connections between patriarchy and imperialism, the text exposes how these systems are founded on a paternalism that silences or suppresses the “Other’s” reality. I think perhaps the text unintentionally exposes this, since even if Marlow/Conrad is aware of the ugly side of colonialism, the unnamed, silent, or silenced women are set up as those “bodily markers” that further expose the underlying “heart of darkness” in the text: a violent repression and/or fear of difference. Just as Africa was referred to as the “dark continent,” so were women’s bodies and desires situated in one of Freud’s lectures on female sexuality and psychological development. Although Conrad indeed redefines savagery to show how the white man or white imperialist is no more civilized than his “dark others,” he, or rather Marlow, nevertheless upholds the paternalism of male privilege in his interactions with and descriptions of the women in the text. Just as he tries to romanticize the “noble savage” at several instances in his recollection (for example, his exoticization of Kurtz’ Mistress, the text itself never considering that she may have been most likely raped or an unwilling “bedmate” for Kurtz), he also insists upon keeping women trapped in their role as “moral gatekeepers.” By insisting on their naiveté and ignorance, men are able to keep them ignorant, powerless, and as “blank slates” of purity that allow men to return to the safety of “home” (or the private sphere) and forget or bury in their unconscious their own savagery (there’s also a relevant connection here to Jekyll and Hyde).

This is not to say that Kurtz’ Intended and Marlow’s Aunt are any less complicit in the imperialist project; they also seem to support the patriarchal, capitalist, imperialist missionary endeavor in Africa, since they too are products and recipients of white privilege. However, for myself at least, I find the female characters to be the “unconscious” of the text, and thus the key or code that makes possible a deeper understanding of its complexities. My own reading is of course also informed by the French philosopher and psychoanalyst, Julia Kristeva, who in much of her work examines the ways in which women function as patriarchy’s unconscious, and so it is upon us as readers to do the difficult excavating work that gives voice to the repressed realities and desires of society’s and history’s “others.” One day, if I don’t get to write it myself, I would like to read a novella that presents Marlow’s story through the perspectives of its female characters; it would be interesting to discover what that narrative might reveal or say.

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Sexuality and Desire: Joyce, Woolf, and Forster

5/26/2020

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     Virginia Woolf, 1927                    
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Similar to the speaker in Mina Loy’s “Songs to Joannes,” Mrs. Dalloway and Molly Bloom both find male dominance and sexual submission to be oppressive. In this sense, they both subvert typical representations of female desire and sexuality. Although both women’s marriages seem to be defined by a lack of sexual intimacy and unfulfilled, repressed desires, they share in common a rich inner life and sensuality. An interesting connection between the two women is their love of flowers, which symbolize for both of them that (lost) connection to their sexuality, or, a kind of sublimated form of their sexual desires which finds expression in a love of nature. For example, although Dalloway is fully immersed in her urban surroundings—the “throb” and “hum” and “teeming, pulsing life” of the city thrills her—yet she repeatedly returns to memories of her childhood country home and her intimate friendships with Sally and Peter. Likewise, Molly keeps returning to memories of her youth in Gibraltar: the sea and meadows and flowers in the final passages of her soliloquy. Both women feel cut off from their maternal sides as they are also cut off from nature, which of course leads some to interpret at least Molly (not so much Clarissa) to be an earth mother figure, though I think this oversimplifies or essentializes the representation of femininity in the text, and undermines the complexity of Joyce’s characterization of Molly Bloom. 

       Nora Barnacle, Joyce's muse and inspiration 
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Molly may be “earthy” and “maternal” but she is also “vulgar” and sexually passionate and refreshingly expressive about her desires, far more so than most women of her day, or even our own, are allowed to be. Joyce does a fascinating job of slipping into a “feminine” language, thought-process, and perspective on the nature and expression of female desire (or at least Molly’s desires). She is in many ways more accurately an anti-Penelope (Ulysses’ loyal wife in The Odyssey). Molly’s soliloquy is marked by her sexual explorations rather than rigid virtue—though in some ways she’s very much like the mythical Penelope in her romantic fidelity to Leopold—and perhaps her infidelity is due to the possibility that Molly feels Leopold has in some way failed a “test” in their marriage (thus making him a kind of anti-Ulysses). And though yes, Molly has had sex with Blazes earlier that day, we don’t get the sense that she is going to continue the affair. The lack of affection and intimacy during their sexual encounter has actually left Molly cold and longing to reignite and reaffirm her sexual connection with her husband, who is shown throughout the text, in spite of his own vulgarities and infidelities, to be nurturing, sensitive and still deeply in love with his wife. Significantly, by the end they have both “come home” to each other (a term that also has sexual connotations), and although they don’t have sex, the orgasmic conclusion to Molly’s soliloquy is an orgasmic “Yes” to life, desire, and their marriage. Ironically, then, Joyce stays true to the original narrative of Ulysses while also modernizing it.

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Image Credit: University College Dublin
There’s more I could say here about Ulysses but that would also require getting into the larger scope and action of the novel, which is not entirely necessary to our purposes, since we of course have not read the entire novel but only a very small selection, though one of the most important sections. I’ve said more here about Molly Bloom than Clarissa Dalloway mainly because I think Woolf’s character and writing style is a bit more accessible, at least more so than Joyce’s often challenging stream-of-consciousness. A good approach to reading Molly’s soliloquy is to relax and let our own minds go, or, our desire for immediate sense and logic to the structure of her thoughts; in this way we might gain a greater understanding or “feel” for the rhythms of internal thought and desire as these play out in Molly’s and our own conscious. Like the seemingly disjointed associative patterns in Molly’s soliloquy, we too are not always aware of the leaps and connections we make from one thought to the next.
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On some level, we find a similar exploration of the subconscious in Forster’s short story, "The Other Boat," though it is not at all written in the more experimental stream-of-consciousness used by Woolf and Joyce. Forster allows for us to “read” the inner thoughts, desires, and perspectives of both Lionel and Cocoanut, hence allowing for a more enriched and complex understanding of the interplay between sexuality, race, gender, and class—and how these create connections and tensions between the two characters. This text’s construction of “otherness” demonstrates how men are often more stigmatized for homosexuality, and a primary reason for this, as theorized by various feminist thinkers, is because gay men in their same-sex desires are stepping outside or rejecting a system that relies on dominance over and exchange of female bodies (as I mentioned in my discussion of Swinburne). However, according to my own reading of the text, Forster also disrupts this theory, particularly in Lionel’s violent rage toward Cocoanut, the “feminized” other, and perhaps also because Lionel fears the ways in which he has become feminized. This homophobic fear, or internalized homophobia, is revealed explicitly in Lionel’s reaction to Cocoanut’s joke about “tipping” him as if he were a prostitute, which seems to be the instigating moment that begins the unraveling of their intimacy, leading Lionel to get up from the bed and notice the unbolted door (a wonderful symbol for his fear of exposure and becoming “uncloseted”).  To recover his own sense of control and power, Lionel is then reduced to savagery and destruction of the other, itself shown quite explicitly by Forster to be connected to self-destruction – this also connects to Forster’s critique of imperialism.
 
In closing, a note about some of the outdated and offensive terms that appear in Forster’s story, such as “mulatto,” “half-caste,” “wog,” and “dago." These are all examples of how specific words contain a history of racism and oppression, and I think Forster uses them quite sarcastically and bitterly in his rejection of the “Ruling Race” (the British) and its own sense of racial superiority. Forster’s use of language here highlights the constructed differences between the “West” and its fantasized or projected “others” (see Edward Said's seminal study, Orientalism). Keep some of this in mind for next week’s reading, Heart of Darkness, and think about how Conrad’s text explores the various ways in which language is used as a colonizing force.     
                                                                

                                                                                                                                     E. M. Forster, by Dora Carrington, c. 1924–1925 

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    Hope Jennings

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