Reading the Diasporic San Dominick in "Benito Cereno"

When reading “Benito Cereno” I encountered competing dichotomies (or trichotomies? paradigms?) between intelligence and strength, strength and physical weakness, power and trust, trust and deceit. The defining lines and expectations were blurred, mirrored, switched in the text. All of this happens through the narration of Captain Delano, who “reads” the San Dominick. I think all of this––the fluidity of meaning, the code-switching, the doubling––is made possible by the transatlantic location of the narrative. Many times in our course we’ve mentioned the transnational significance of oceanic texts. It seems to me that “Benito Cereno” is a prime example of this function.

The ship itself, the San Dominick, is a perfect diasporic “gathering space.” Homi Bhabha describes the nature of “gatherings” in “DissemiNation”:

“that moment of the scattering of the people that in other times and other places, in the nations of others, becomes a time of gathering. Gatherings of exiles and emigrés and refugees, gathering on the edge of ‘foreign’ cultures [. . .] fathering in the half-life, half-light of foreign tongues, or in the uncanny fluency of another’s language [. . .] Also gathering of the people in the diaspora; indentured, migrant, interned; the gathering of incriminatory statistics, educational performance, legal statues, immigration status” (291)

On the San Dominick we have the clash of cultures between the displaced slaves and the Spanish seamen. However, the fact that the narrative takes place on a ship places it at the “edge of ‘foreign cultures;” not in Africa or Spain or the US, but encountering all three. Language and fluency is another baffling element of the narrative. When Delano arrives the people aboard (black and white) begin bombarding him “with one voice” with their woes; Delano can speak to them in Spanish because of his experience abroad. The use of Spanish by all on board definitely speaks to “the uncanny fluency of another’s language,” that seems so out of place. This time and space of gathering upon the San Dominick is the perfect atmosphere to explore the boundaries between power, intelligence, strength, trust, and deceit.

Delano reads Benito Cereno as a bad leader and a weak man because of the way he interacts with his crew and the slaves on board. However, he is very impressed with Babo. Early on in the narrative, when Delano is trying to understand what had happened on the ship, Babo takes control of the narrative:

“‘Oh, my God! rather than pass through what I have, with joy I would have hailed the most terribly gales; but––’

His cough returned and with increased violence; this subsiding, with reddened lips and closed eyes he fell heavily against his supporter.

‘His mind wanders. He was thinking of the plague that followed the gales,’ plaintively sighed the servant; ‘my poor, poor master!’” (55-56).

Cereno’s physical weakness enables Babo to speak for him, causing Delano to admire and trust Babo more than Cereno. Just a few paragraphs later, Delano exclaims, “Don Benito, I envy you such a friend; slave I cannot call him” (57). Delano actually unnames Babo a slave, which is appropriate because in this case, it is actually Cereno who is the enslaved and subjugated one. In this way, as Bhabha would say, the margins displace the centre (6). The reversals in “Benito Cereno” serve to upset the expectations of readers (including the “reading” narrator, Delano).

Transforming Knowledge through Language in Blake

This week I want to discuss how Delany uses language, specifically writing, in Blake to shift paradigms, in light of Dr. Doolen’s piece on transnational history.

In Blake, Henry and a few of his fellow revolutionaries are eloquent speakers––it becomes clear that literacy is important for breaking out of slavery on an individual and a institutional level. Henry is described as “the intelligent slave” throughout the text, designating him as being exceptional and qualified to lead the movement. He takes ownership of his use of the English language, even though it is the language of his enslavers and has been greatly used to justify his subjection. This appropriation (and also reconstruction) of white tools occurs not only with language but with religion and with money as well. Henry rejects the religion of the whites, but then he reconstructs it for his own use and it becomes another fuel for his revolution; he is also able to use this new religious rhetoric when encouraging fellow slaves to rise up. Similarly, Henry emphasizes the importance of having money––the same money that was used to “purchase” them––for breaking away from slavery. Though the whites would call it theft, Henry takes what is owed to him, again reversing the rhetoric to serve his purpose, so that he may begin sowing seeds of revolution.

I think all of these things are examples of what Doolen said concerning Delany: “Delany and his antebellum black contemporaries believed that by transforming the production of knowledge, they could help topple the slavery regime” (154). Delany’s characters are doing just that––they are changing the way language is used, resulting in a new rhetoric that fuels revolution instead of pacifying or simply erasing black existence. Discussing the novel, Doolen notes that “while whites tell stories that rationalize their power and justify the institutions of slavery, slaves repeatedly infiltrate the production of knowledge and exert control over narration” (156). I want to discuss the following passage from Blake (a conversation between Henry and Placido) in light of these thoughts. Henry begins:

“But I read across the water, in a Cuba journal at New Orleans, a lyric from your pen, in which the fire of liberty blazed as from the altar of a freeman’s heart. I therefore make no hazard when I this to you impart: I have come to Cuba to help to free my race; and that which I desire here to do, I’ve done in another place.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Placido. “Heaven certainly designed it, and directed you here at this most auspicious moment, that the oppressed of Cuba also may ‘declare the glory of God!’”

“Have you thought much in that direction, Placido?”

“I have, though I’ve done but little, and had just finished the last word of the last stanza of a short poem intended to be read at a social gathering to be held at the house of a friend one evening this week, which meets for the express purpose of maturing some plan of action” (195).

I think this passage is fascinating because it is an example of language (through writing) as a tool for revolution, but it highlights the transnational capabilities of writing. Protest writing, of which we might consider this novel an example, is a powerful tool for changing the production of knowledge, reconstructing the borders and limits of institutions and individuals. I think it’s significant that Henry specifies that he read Placido’s work in a “Cuba journal at New Orleans,” because that city is already constructed as a hybrid space, and the transnational nature of the journal helps to constitute Cuba as the fertile land for revolution. This is an example of how language can spark action, both in Henry’s movement to Cuba and in Placido’s “gathering” where his poem will function as a fire iron to stir up the flames. The use of writing in this passage is an example of what the novel accomplishes as a whole––a reconstruction of boundaries and limits of nations, identity, and rhetoric so that revolution becomes possible, where it was “unthinkable” before.

Magdalena, Streeby, and International Race Romance

I’ve chosen to revisit Shelley Streeby’s thoughts on international race romance (in the context of war literature) in light of Ned Buntline’s Magdalena, The Beautiful Mexican Maid. A Story of Buena Vista.

In American Sensations, Streeby notes that “International romances between U.S. soldiers and elite Mexican women” (like between Brackett and Magdalena) “were often represented in the popular literature as a benign form of imperial conquest or as an alternative to it: the romance plots of a good deal of cheap war fiction were echoed by contemporary calls to conquer Mexico by ‘whitening’ it through transnational heterosexual unions” (64). In the case of Magdalena, I think that their relationship serves more as an alternative to imperial conquest, though it most certainly works to “whiten” both Magdalena and her family.

We can see the “whitening” power of Brackett and Magdalena’s union in the passage I selected. Toward the end of the novel, as Magdalena is watching the battle from afar and rooting for her husband, she and her father have the following conversation:

“A strange transformation has love worked in your heart, my daughter!” said Don Ignatio. “A few days since and on bended knees you would have prayed for the success of the Mexican arms, now you seem only to fear for the defeat of the Americans!”

“It is true my father, but when I wedded him, I became an American. We are not Mexicans. Spain alone has a right to our allegiance. Why should we hope for the Mexicans to conquer in this battle? That this now quiet city should be filled with troops of rude and licentious men, who respect no law and are governed by no principles?” (Buntline 96-7)

The heterosexual US/Mexico union in this text works as an alternative to imperial conquest because it erases the “Mexican maid” Magdalena of her Mexican identity altogether. The most interesting part of that transformation is that not only she, but her father and sister are included in this whitening. And despite the fact that until recently the Valdezes were Mexican, and the fact that we have seen honorable behavior from Mexicans like General Vazquez, here the Mexican is painted as only a copy of Alfrede. And though earlier in the text she was identifying with the Mexican nation (calling Brackett her “foe”), the union with an American erases this national allegiance and will only admit allegiance to America and Spain. This remembrance of Spain is odd, but I think it does two things. First, it reminds us of both Magdalena’s and Brackett’s “high birth” because Valdez was “one of the proudest names in Spain” (67). This validates their union socially and racially, and is another reason why Magdalena might find it so easy to shrug off her Mexican identity. Second, aligning the US with Spain validates the conquest of Mexico––equating the US with knights, power, and high culture and Mexico with a “mongrel race” (Streeby quoting Lippard 55).

Streeby notes that “efforts to forget or redescribe the project of empire-building are often attempts to ward off evidence showing that U.S. expansion is not peaceful, non-aggressive, benignly republican, or directed toward an inexhaustible wilderness” (58). Though there are definitely battles detailed in Buntline’s text, the most interesting battle is the one between Brackett and Alfrede. The US soldier gallantly saves the high-born Spanish lady from a Mexican rogue (and rapist/murderer), and this union erases her Mexican identity. But I don’t think Buntline is optimistic about this type of union working. In the end, it doesn’t matter that the US and Mexico are united in a marriage that erases the unwanted Mexican identity because the physical and practical reality of war overpowers that union. In the end, the Mexican cannot simply be married away––it must be destroyed.

'Bel of Prairie Eden: A Ghost Story

In Jesse Alemán’s article that we re-read this week, “The Other Country: Mexico, The United States, and the Gothic History of Conquest,” he uses the Freudian concept of unheimlich or “uncanniness” to discuss Gothic frontier literature and what he terms “inter-American studies.” I want to discuss these concepts in the context of the ways George Lippard’s ‘Bel of Prairie Eden “unearths” the uncanny relationship between the US and Mexico and the way he uses terror and literal haunting to reveal the “haunting history that must be excavated” (Alemán 409).

We’ve discussed many different possible delineations for how to talk about American literature, but Alemán’s “inter-American” concept works especially well for ‘Bel of Prairie Eden. Alemán frames his idea by clarifying that he is using the prefix “inter” to signify “‘burial’ to emphasize the idea that the presence of the other in the nation is ‘that which is concealed and kept out of sight’” but must also be uncovered through the literature, invoking Freud’s “uncanny” (409).

Mexican history of conquest is interestingly interred in ‘Bel of Prairie Eden. On the surface, it is a story of personal revenge. But folded inside the frame of the main narrative of the Grywins and Don Antonio Marin is the “Three Hundred Years Ago” passage, transporting us to the conflict between Montezuma and Cortes. This hidden history is unearthed and exposed. The history of Spanish conquest of Mexico haunts the narrative of personal revenge and vendetta, which is set in the context of the US/Mexico war. The narratives of imperial power are recycled, just as the violence is recycled between John Grywin, Don Antonio Marin and Ewen McGregor.

The connections between the layers of the narrative are tenuous, but the most interesting way I saw history haunting the “present” of Grywin and Don Antonio is in the Isle of Sacrificio. In a passage describing the earlier historical period, Lippard offers a grisly description of human sacrifice––a man’s heart being torn from his living chest––to the Aztec gods (147). This process is repeated by John, through Red Ewen, upon Don Antonio Marin, this time to appease John’s own sense of retribution. The physical space of the Isle of Sacrificio is haunted by its bloody history, collapsing time and space. Similarly, the individuals in the story have interred national narratives of conquest, imperialism, and violence––they are haunted by these ghosts. Don Antonio becomes literally haunted by Isabel who returns as “but a ghostly image from the regions of the dead, sent to haunt his perjured soul” (Lippard 162). John Grywin is haunted by the memory of his brother, Harry, killed by Don Antonio’s orders after being defeated at Rancho Salado; John repeatedly unearths the narrative, losing his composure at the remembrance of Harry’s death.

The history interred in ‘Bel of Prairie Eden is repeatedly dug up. The characters are haunted by the cycles of violence and retribution they act on one another, and the spaces they occupy are haunted by the imperial violence of the Spanish, being re-enacted by the US. ‘Bel is a ghost story, and when read through Alemán’s notion of “inter-American” studies, we see how the uncanny presence of the “buried” past serves to collapse the borders between space, nation, history, and time. Instead of a South-Westward expansion and a progressive movement of time, we have cycles of violence that refuse to stay in the past––a ghostly hand creeping up from the grave.

The Problem of Representation in Black Hawk

The problem of reading Life of Black Hawk is in the interpretation and translation of the original text (meaning Black Hawk’s oratory in his own language). These layers of control and editing problematize what ended up in print. That said, in the context of this filtered process, I want to consider how Black Hawk is represented in the text as an image of difference that confirms the audience’s expectations and inevitably hampers what voice he might have in the narrative.

For the most part, Black Hawk’s story is told in eloquent prose. With the exception of names, his speech in his native tongue is translated into relatively flawless English. But there are a few cases where instead of choosing the English equivalent for a word, the writer instead chooses an English interpretation of a word or phrase that is particularly “Indian” sounding. For example, instead of using the English word “soldier,” the writer says “brave;” instead of general, he says “chief;” instead of leader, he says “father” (ie: American father, British father, Great father). “Black Hawk” even refers to the White House as the Great father’s “wigwam,” even though he often used the word “lodge” to describe his own house.

All of these choices serve to reify ideas about how Indians speak and think. Maureen Konkle says, “Native writers in English are thus most successful in expressing their Indian identity when they provide evidence of what is understood as their culture through themes, forms, narratives, and figures correlated with the oral tradition written down by scholars” (458). Though Black Hawk did not write this narrative, I think the result is the same because he is represented in a way that the audience would expect. The effect of this choice is that the Indians’ difference is established – they do not think or behave in the same ways as white people, even when they are writing and speaking in English. Konkle confirms that “the positing of inherent difference between Indians and Europeans is a crucial step in denying Indians’ political status” (458).

I think this is generally true about how Black Hawk is represented in the text, but the consistent use of “father” when speaking about white leaders who offered guidance, trade, political help, military assistance, or who simply occupied a place of power, particularly functions to destabilize the Indians’ autonomy. Instead of establishing the leaders of the white people and the leaders of the Indians on equal footing, the rhetoric of father/children positions the Sauks as inferior and dependent. Konkle points out the conflict, noting that “Native tribes are simultaneously politically autonomous with respect to internal government and in the familiar colonial position of inferiority and permanent ‘pupilage’” (463).

So though I really enjoyed Life of Black Hawk, and it was not nearly as patronizing or white-washed as I expected, the layers of control and translation serve to impose the readers’ culture onto the text, altering the meaning and softening its blow against the injustices of the whites.

An Incomplete Portrait: Catlin and Huey

I want briefly to preface my blog by saying that this material was incredibly emotionally taxing and so difficult to process and write about (I’m sure you all felt the same way). My initial reactions were much too disjointed and emotional, so this blog is an attempt to process those feelings through the readings.

Initially, I was unsure about how to read Catlin’s paintings and Huey’s photographs beside each other because of the historical distance. However, I think Huey’s TED talk was a perfect example of how to present thematically related material, even if you’re trying to bridge over a hundred years of history. I was struck by the way he presented the historical injustice against Native Americans while displaying his pictures of modern day Pine Ridge. The poverty, injustice, gang violence, lack of education, and loss of property that the Lakota suffer today is a result of the broken treaties and genocide that the US government inflicted on them. By juxtaposing history with his photos, he makes the invisible visible––disallowing his audience to make the excuse that the Native Americans have done these things to themselves. So, with that in mind, I’ll compare a couple of Catlin’s paintings with Huey’s photos.

Catlin and Huey were both white men who professed good intentions about bringing a realistic depiction of Native Americans to light in order to change public opinion. However, both inevitably reify cultural assumptions about Native Americans that were harmful. Gareth John, in his piece about Gatlin says that his paintings “illustrate how in his quest for realism he inadvertently naturalized conventional, romantic, cultural nationalistic ways of seeing the Native American West as rapidly vanishing in the wake of ‘progress’” (186). Similarly, Huey received blowback from Pine Ridge residents after his initial photographs. He admits, “I appeared to many on the rez to be a poverty tourist, making money off the tears of the people, like many journalists before who had come through photographing dirty houses and drunk people [. . .] They were tired of that image” (Estrin). Unlike the people painted by Catlin, we are fortunate enough to be able to hear the voices of Huey’s subjects, and they reject the two-dimensional portrayal of Native Americans as poor and drunk. For this blog, in an effort not to make sweeping judgments about the essential nature of either the art or the people in it, I chose to focus on how Catlin and Huey similarly represent people in their portraits.

The first Catlin painting, “Kee-món-saw, Little Chief, a Chief,” is a portrait of a man from an Eastern tribe whose people had been relocated to the West. The man is in European clothing and is sitting in a traditional “portrait” pose. However, he is holding a flute of some kind (?) that is clearly a tribal item. He is an image of the colonized Indian––his appearance is still clearly Native and he is holding a tribal item, but he is dressed like a white man. He is hybridized, perhaps successfully fitting into white society. In the Huey picture I chose to pair with this painting, the subject is positioned very similarly. However, we are much closer to his face. Like the Catlin painting, this man is looking off into the distance where we cannot see, giving him an introspective kind of look. Also like the Catlin painting, this man is wearing “modern” clothing (like most of the people in Huey’s photos). This portrait allows us a closer look at the man’s face, heavily wrinkled and scarred, belying a life that might have brought him pain and strife. Both of these portraits have elements of the collision of Native culture and Anglo culture, even in the position of the subjects, but Huey’s allows us what we might consider the “next step”––a more personal point of view.

The second pair of pictures that I chose are also composed similarly. In the Catlin painting, “Stu-mick-o-súcks, Buffalo Bull's Back Fat, Head Chief, Blood Tribe,” Catlin was attempting to capture the “vivid realities of life” of the Northern Plain Indians as opposed to the death and depravity inflicted on the tribes who had more contact with whites. I was personally struck by this photo because I felt that it depicted the most emotion of any of the portraits in the collection. The subject’s eyes draw the viewer in immediately. He is completely decked out in traditional tribal garb, including face paint, which would capture an audience fascinated with a foreign culture. But the features of the man are remarkably human and relatable. This is why I also chose the Huey photo. I was struck by the sadness in the man’s eyes. Unlike the majestic Buffalo Bull’s Back Fat, this Lakota man is in ordinary, dingy clothes. But his eyes are also looking directly into the audience. If Catlin was trying to capture the image of an untainted culture in his portrait, in Huey’s photo we might see the residual emotional impact of what happened when people like Buffalo Bull’s Back Fat were subjected to violence and injustice. Both subjects in either piece are making a human connection with the viewer, which I think attests to both the talent and the good intentions of the artists.

Hobomok Vanishing

I began this week’s reading with the introduction to Hobomok. I was excited to read the text and I found the description of Lydia Marie Child to be pretty inspirational. When I read the text, my expectations of the relationship between Mary Conant and Hobomok were not met. I was underwhelmed by their marriage and what it seemed to be saying about the relationship between the Indians and the Puritans. So when I read Tawil’s “Domestic Frontier Romance, or, How the Sentimental Heroine Become White,” my unmet expectations and confusion/ambivalence to the text was clarified. Tawil notes, “By construing the relationship between ‘racism’ and ‘sentimentality’ as the relationship between a dominant ideology and an ‘alternative’ countertradition, the body of criticism that has risen up around Sedgwick and Child has in effect set their frontier fiction out of the reach of ideology critique” (100). I identified with this idea so clearly; I seek out intersectionality between feminism and anti-racism when I read texts that I perceive to be feminist. I think we can obviously make a case for Hobomok’s feminist qualities, but I there was a disconnect for me when I tried to see a connection between Mary’s oppression by her father and her community and the treatment of the Indians in the text.

The actual relationship between Mary and Hobomok, while it was different than what I expected, did serve a pretty clear purpose. First, Mr. Conant’s staunch Puritanism was a useful antagonist. By rejecting Charles Brown for a son-in-law, he forces Mary into Hobomok’s arms, “though there is a perfectly suitable mate for Mary in Charles Brown” (Tawil 110). In an effort to construct himself and his family as radically anti-English (and thereby Episcopalian), Mr. Conant’s behavior leads to Mary’s “mad” choice to marry Hobomok. Mary doesn’t express this exact idea in the text, but it’s almost like her actions are saying, “That’ll teach him!” The union serves to point out how much more appropriate Brown is for Mary, and when she returns with Brown, free from her legal obligation to Hobomok, Mr. Conant accepts both his Episcopalian son-in-law and his half-Indian grandson. This is a different kind of American identity that doesn’t define itself against England and the Indians, but hybridizes and absorbs them, thereby erasing them at the same time. 

Tawil says, “By marrying out and then returning to her birth community, Mary Conant in fact changed what it meant to belong to that group in the first place. She left a community in which the difference between Christian sects was paramount. But the community to which she returned was one in which Episcopalians and Puritans shared the more fundamental property of race” (112). The unity of the white community is solidified once the Indian is simultaneously absorbed and erased, through Hobomok and his offspring. Hobomok has to disappear to the West and die so that his son can become part of the new community. But, Mary mentions that she can’t go back to England because she has an indian son, so this identity is specifically American, not just white. So this relationship is definitely not the abolitionist/feminist/anti-racist one I was hoping for, but I’m interested to hear what my colleagues thought.

Humanity in Algiers

Last week we discussed how we can read domestic violence and the economic exchange of women’s bodies in Sansay’s Secret History as an allegory for racial violence and slavery. I think the preface of Humanity in Algiers is so blunt about reading slavery in Algiers against slavery in the US that it can hardly even be called allegory.

“With the same impropriety on our part do we reprobate the Algerines. ‘A vile, piratical set of unprincipled robbers,’ is the softest name we can give them; forgetful of our former depredations on the coasts of Africa, and the cruel manner in which we at present treat the offspring of those whom we brought from thence.” (4)

This preface sets the text up not only as a mirror to illuminate the injustice of American slavery, but suggests that any violence Americans suffer at the hands of North Africans is predictable retribution for previous American violence against them––chickens coming home to roost. This is a strong position from which to begin the narrative. So as I read the story, when I came across passages that made it seem like the author was taking a moderate stance or arguing for gradualism, I took it with a grain of salt. Suggesting that African Muslims are just as human as white, Christian Americans would be a hard pill to swallow for a pro-slavery audience. I read some of these “reasonable” moments as actually particularly radical.

For example, Omri, whom I understand to be kind of like the moral compass of the narrative, is troubled when he is unable to persuade Azem’s new master to allow him to return to his previous family. He prays, “O God! what has this thy creature done, that thou hast ordained for him eternal chains? Surely thy goodness will not punish without a cause, nor thy mercy inflict without a reason. But thy ways are mysterious, thy wisdom unsearchable, and the secrets of thy providence past finding out. I submit” (9). Initially, this sounded like an argument for gradualism by just “leaving it in God’s hands,” so to speak. But I think that coming from Omri, who helps lead Sequida to the more righteous path, this prayer is not washing his own hands of Azem’s fate, but aligning his purpose with God’s.

This moment is a bit more nuanced, but there are other passages where I think the critique of American slavery is more clear.

For example, at the beginning when the man offers to buy the American’s freedom, the narrator writes, “I replied, that, although I respected my master, I had left a wife and child in America; and that, of all blessings, to me a sight of them would be the greatest” (5). This struck me as absurd––of course the man would want to return home to his family. It seemed odd that he would mention respect for his master at all. I wondered if the audience for this text would have reacted similarly. The absurdity of an enslaved white man expressing respect for his African slaver highlights the injustice of even seemingly “benevolent” American slave masters.

Similarly, Selictor and Sequida are haunted by their decision to sell Azem instead of setting him free, though they had no contractual obligation to do so. They chose economic stability over moral obligation and grew to regret it. This turns on its head the “reasonable” argument that America, particularly the South, was economically dependent on slavery and that it was unjust to put those slave owners in an economically compromised position. 

So, in conclusion, I think the narrative begins with a strong position against slavery and continues to develop that position through the narrative, even in moments when the rhetoric is more measured and nuanced.

Secret History of Violence Against Women

In reading the primary and secondary texts for this week, I noticed a few different examples of Leonora Sansay’s Secret History occupying in-between spaces. Gretchen Woertendyke discusses at length the power of reading the text as a variation on the “secret history” genre as opposed to reading it as a novel. According to Woertendyke, understanding Secret History from this perspective better recognizes the ways that Sansay blurs the line between public and private. As I read the text I was less concerned with thoughts about genre (mostly because I’m not familiar with the secret history genre beyond what I read in Woertendyke), but I noticed connections between the revolutionary violence occurring, which is expected, and the domestic violence, which was unexpected. Sansay often talked about violence against women in the context of the revolutionary violence between the Creoles and the black rebels. The Creoles had brutally enslaved the black people, who responded cruelly in turn, and the only group who remained powerless were the women, both Creole and black. Mary laments “[her] own lack of power” in helping her fellow women who were suffering at the hands of men, in this case an “English privateer” (119). In the text women are not only caught in the middle as constant recipients of violence, but they are also traded economically, much like slaves. So much of Mary’s letters are devoted to Clara’s unjust marriage to St. Louis, to whom she had been traded like a commodity. Clara continues to serve as the object of male desire and force throughout the text. The general pursues her and at one point uses his position of power to halt trade in order to acquire her, which serves as another example of how the treatment of women intersects with power relations and economic exchange (86). Mary uses Clara as a symbol for the pervasive violence against women, saying, “I believe Clara is not the first wife that has been locked up at St. Domingo” (87).

There is one point where I think this reading might be complicated; or, I had a hard time understanding how this passage functioned. After describing several truly grisly scenes of violence inflicted upon settler women by rebels, Mary writes, “Nothing is more common than such events. They excite little attention, and are seldom enquired into. How different is this from the peaceful security of the country in which I first drew breath, and to which I so ardently, but I fear hopelessly, desire to return” (121). Is she saying that this type of violence doesn’t occur in America, only the domestic violence that Clara suffered? Or is this passage a little sarcastic? I still don’t understand how this comment fits into the discourse of violence against women that Sansay devotes so much time to in the text. Maybe my classmates can help me out!

Transnational Turn, Pt. 2

The problem that I feel we began to tackle in class last week was (to generalize)––is the pursuit of including transnational literature into American studies not perpetuating and recycling the same American exceptionalism it claims to combat? I think that this is a good critique. We, mostly meaning white, privileged, Anglo-Americans, have a tendency to appropriate any other culture we come in contact with and call it “appreciation.” In thinking about how to constructively critique the transnationalist movement, I found that Winfried Fluck and Bryce Traister were the most helpful.

Fluck helped me to frame how I was thinking of transnationalism as a literary movement. She said, "my question is therefore not whether transnational studies are, in principle, a good thing or not, but what uses are being made of this new perspective in American studies" (366). I had not realized that I was thinking of transnational studies as being moral, but I was. I felt like I was doing a “good work” by agreeing that we should study marginalized literatures from the Americas and broaden our horizons to be more inclusive. But Fluck is right, I think. It’s not about whether or not it is “good,” it is about how useful the hermeneutic is. Breaking away from this idea that wanting to pursue transnational literature is somehow altruistic allows us to make the transition from a vague, existential understanding of transnationalism to a more concrete one. From theories of a more ‘real’ and ‘true’ America to “experiences of solidarity” (Fluck 377).

Traister continues to criticize the uncomplicated, unified vision of a new, more diverse American studies. He suggests that the theoretical turn was only reenacting the familiar myth of "the new nation rising from the ashes of the historical house burned down by the revolutionary arson of the present" (12). I think Traister puts into practice the transnational hermeneutic in a way that really works when he reads the 9/11 Commission Report through Herman Melville’s “Benito Cereno.”

". . . how American jurisprudence manufactures its others (the 'illegal' revolution of slaves becomes the 'illegal' terrorism of the 9/11 assailants); how the American ideology of freedom sustains incarceral practices (Amasa Delano's liberality depends on where it doesn't create the conditions of marginalized resentment); and how the story of one nation under God carries with it the traces (and the desired elimination of those traces) of supernational and intranational practices (the international traffic in slaves becomes the neocolonial imperialism of contemporary global geopolitics)" (22).

This transhistorical approach would not work all the time, and even this example is not air-tight. But it is a functional and eye-opening reading that might open doors for further connection and research. He admits that the process itself employs American exceptionalism, and his admission helps to clarify the example, not confuse it. I think that transnational/transhistorical/etc. literary practices are important for the reasons why Porter and Kolodny did––because they broaden our scope and represent a more accurate America. But I also think these tools are important because they enable us to look critically at our literature and culture.

I am still preoccupied, if not “obsessed,” with thinking about literature in terms of “narrowly geographic or strictly chronological frameworks” (Kolodny 3). If asked what I study, I’d still respond with a time period and geographic location (contemporary American, meaning US, literature). Initially, I had a hard time figuring out what different authors meant by “transnationalism”––the definition was not laid out clearly for me. After reading three or four essays I began to make connections between them and formed a vague idea of what it meant to study American literature transnationally. I immediately believed in the value of reading texts that were marginalized or took place in liminal, borderland spaces, but my initial question was how do we read them? I still wanted coherence––if we aren’t reading texts based on the nation or time period that they have in common, then what brings them together? My question was partially answered by Alemán, who discussed narratives from the Spanish conquest of Mexico in order to highlight how reading these texts “exhumes the legacy of conquest and racial rebellion that haunts the US’s hemispheric presence” (410). Reading conquest narratives not only has a place in American studies because they took place in the Americas, but because they serve as a “psychic projection,” as Fox puts it, for other narratives of conquest and oppression in US history, like “Indian removal, the annexation of Texas, and black slavery” (Alemán 410). So one narrative, located in a particular space and time, can illuminate other previously considered “unrelated” narratives, when they are read in the context of “‘frontier’ as a locus of first cultural contact” (Kolodny 3). Giles helped me understand the idea of this context and locus more clearly when he explained that “transnationalism seeks various points of intersection, whether actual border territories or other kinds of disputed domain, where cultural conflict is lived out experientially” (65). Understanding that transnationalism connects narratives through points of intersection, places where cultures collide and borders are drawn, helped me to take a step back from my geographical/chronological framework. I look forward to applying these concepts in the literature that we’ll read this semester as I continue to reshape the way I think about my discipline.