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Kadeshia L. Matthews
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Kadeshia L. Matthews
Richard Wright, Arnold Rampersad tells us, was "perhaps the
most significant and influential" African American author of the
twentieth century (11). The "perhaps" with which Rampersad qualifies his claim is probably unnecessary, as even critics who doubt the
artistry or literary merit of Wright's work do not deny that as the first
African American novelist of international stature he opened doors
previously closed to black writers. James Baldwin, Wright's most
insistent contemporary critic, admits that he viewed Wright as his
"spiritual father" and Wright's work as "a road-block in my road, the
sphinx, really, whose riddles I had to answer before I could become
myself" ("Alas" 259, 256). To the extent that this latter requirement
was true, in varying degrees, for a number of later twentieth-century
black writers, Wright's status as preeminent black novelist is secure.
Nonetheless, I want to question the "blackness" of Wright's
most famous novel, Native Son. Immediately, I should clarify that
I am not questioning Wright's blackness or his commitment to the
antiracist and anticolonial struggles of blacks and other peoples of
color worldwide. My concern here is with Wright's fiction, which we
read and teach in African American literature courses, presumably
because Wright himself was black, as are most of his protagonists.
MFS Modern Fiction Studies,Volume 60, number 2, Summer 2014. Copyright for the Purdue Research
Foundation by the Johns Hopkins University Press. All rights to reproduction in any form reserved.
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larly in the case of the black hero who commits violence. First, black
writers and their protagonists recognize the likelihood that retaliation
will provoke reprisals and further oppression from whites. Second,
the violent hero, insofar as his violence can be turned inward against
his own group, also engenders suspicion, even fear, within the black
community he is ostensibly defending (Bryant 3).
In those cases where the protagonist does retaliate violently, we
are made to understand both that the original offense is too flagrant
to be overlooked and that he is merely acting in accord with the ideals
of the white world. He may die as a result, but he would not be a man
if he were to let the violation of his home and family go unpunished.
In such cases, the major concern is not simply the manhood of the
hero (though this obviously is a concern), but also that the integrity
of the black family and the black home be maintained. Indeed, the
two are interconnected. In Wright's "Long Black Song," for example,
Silas describes his efforts to secure his home and thereby his manhood. He has "slave[d] lika dog t get [his] farm free" and to keep his
wife Sarah out of the fields (Uncle Tom's Children 143), and has done
well enough that he is considering buying more land (on credit) and
hiring an employee. His aspirations to bourgeois manhood cannot
be realized, however, if white men can come into his home and have
sex with his wife at will. Thus his violence is intended to "keep them
white trash bastards [and his assumed-to-be-unfaithful wife] out"
(143). Silas dies in this attempt, but neither his body nor his home
is further defiled by white men's abuse or intrusion. In fact, the two
cease to exist at the same moment; Silas chooses to die silently in
his burning home rather than let white men drag him out to be turned
into a spectaclethe mutilated and burned object of the lynching that
marks the refusal of manhood to black males in the Jim Crow South.
It is tempting to read this stance in line with Jerry Bryant's
analysis; Silas's "counter-violence" is heroic because he chooses the
terms of his death and takes some white men with him. He makes,
in Abdul JanMohamed's words, "an entirely negative assertion of his
humanity" (263).2 We must also consider, however, that Silas does not
want to die, and his statements suggest the ultimate meaninglessness of his actions: "Ef Ah run erway, Ah ain got nothin. Ef Ah stay
n fight, Ah ain got nothin. It don make no difference which way Ah
go. . . . But, Lawd, Ah don wanna be this way! It don mean nothin!
Yuh die ef yuh fight! Yuh die ef yuh don fight! Either way yuh die n
it don mean nothin . . . " (15253). Nothing. Lack. Negation. These
words seem most accurately to reflect Wright's view of black life in
the South. In Black Boy, Richard famously ponders "the essential
bleakness . . . the cultural barrenness of black life": "I used to mull
over the strange absence of real kindness in Negroes, how unstable
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done, Max claims, is "an act of creation" (400): his violence creates
him as an American man just as revolution created the Founding
Fathers. That is, at the moment they create themselves through
violence, as men, Wright's heroes simultaneously reject blackness,
as represented by the black family/community and black cultural
practices, in favor of a presumably more encompassing identity: first,
American and, ultimately, man.
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Steal away to Jesus . . . " (253). The next line is "I ain't got long to
stay here," and of course, this spiritual is one slaves used not only to
voice their hopes for freedom in the afterlife, but also to signal their
plans to seize freedom in the here and now. The song points, therefore, to a tradition of defiance, resistance, and cooperation (intra- and
interracial). Bigger is apparently unaware of this tradition, and so
he hears only a call to "[lay] his head upon a pillow of humility and
g[ive] up his hope of living in the world" (254). Bigger desires happiness and his fair chance "in this world, not out of it"; he therefore
rejects going to church and being religious as poor consolations suitable only "for whipped folks" (356). Bigger's description of religious
folks as "whipped" evokes the shadow of slavery and the refusal of
personhood, at least in theory, that characterized chattel slavery in
the US. But the slavery Bigger imagines is not one in which blacks,
"whipped" in a variety of ways, resisted attempts to dehumanize them
when and however they could. As Bigger uses the term, "whipped"
signals passivity, total defeat, and acceptance of one's loss. Thus he
reads turning to religion not as fighting for one's manhood in another
arena, but as ceding it altogether.
Finally, it is important to note that Bigger rejects not just
black religious or spiritual practices, but in the person of Reverend
Hammond, the South as well. During their halting conversation in
Ernie's Chicken Shack, Bigger tells Jan and Mary that he grew up in
the South and has only been in Chicago about five years (74). Yet
only the Reverend's speech is rendered in the kind of broad dialect
that clearly marks him as Southern: "Lawd Jesus, . . . Yuh said
mercy wuz awways Yo's 'n' ef we ast fer it on bended knee Yuh'd
po' it out inter our hearts 'n' make our cups run over!" (28283).
Reverend Hammond's words momentarily awaken a sense of hope
and wonder within Bigger, and he wordlessly accepts the cross the
Reverend fastens around his neck. But Bigger later feels "trapped"
and "betrayed" (338) and comes to associate the Reverend's gift with
white hatred when he sees a burning cross near the Dalton home.
Back in his cell, Bigger tears the cross from his neck and violently
rejects further counseling from the Reverend: "'I told you I don't want
you! If you come in here, I'll kill you! Leave me alone!' . . . Bigger
. . . caught the steel bars in his hands and swept the door forward,
slamming it shut. It smashed the old black preacher squarely in the
face, sending him reeling backwards upon the concrete" (339).4 This
action is yet another manifestation of Bigger's desire to "wave his
hand and blot out" those who, in his view, reflect the powerlessness,
the nothingness of blackness. Stirring as the Reverend's words are,
the Reverend himself cannot do anything to protect Bigger from the
mob's hatred. Indeed, he advises Bigger to reject the Communists'
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open revolt unless the conditions which produce Bigger Thomases are
changed" (444). Such revolt began in earnest with the boycotts and
sit-ins that launched the civil rights movement in the South in the
1950s. It took, however, the emergence of more radical analyses of
America's political, economic, and social structures and more militant
calls to overturn these structurescalls emerging, not coincidentally,
primarily in response to conditions in the urban Northbefore some
scholars and activists began reading Bigger (or the novel itself) as
model rather than harbinger.
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occur only "after a murderous and decisive struggle between the two
protagonists" (37). Fanon's analysis, translated into English in 1963,
was a crucial text for American intellectuals and activists seeking new
ways to interpret racism in the US. Fanon apparently viewed the US
as a colonizing force, particularly in the Western hemisphere; in a
footnote he remarks on "Yankee" efforts "to strangle the Cuban people
mercilessly" following the Cuban Revolution (97). Yet Fanon does not
regard blacks in the US as a colonized group. To be sure, American
blacks were victims of white supremacy, but that blacks across the
globe "were all defined in relation to the whites" did not mean that
all blacks had been subjected to the specific forms of political and
economic control that colonialism entails (216). Cruse, Carmichael,
Hamilton, and others who employed the colonial analogy generally
did concede this pointblack Americans were not "pure" colonials.
Still, Fanon's description of the Manichean, compartmentalized world
of the colony so closely mirrored the American racial situation that
it could not be disregarded. Moreover, Fanon was an enthusiastic
reader of Wright, whose hero Bigger Thomas some of these same
activists celebrated as "a prototype of the revolutionary black hero"
(Butler, Native Son 16).
Eldridge Cleaver praises Bigger as "the black rebel of the ghetto
and a man" (106). Cleaver does concede that Bigger's rebellion is
"inept" (106), but apparently his ineptitude is less important than
the fact of having acted violently and of being heterosexual. Houston
Baker, surprisingly even more enthusiastic than Cleaver, claims that
Bigger "repudiates white American culture, affirms the black survival
values of timely trickery and militant resistance, and serves as a
model hero" (Long Black Song 127). Neither Cleaver nor Baker has
much to say about Bessie's rape and murder.5 Addison Gayle states
unequivocally that "Bigger fails as both rebel and revolutionary"
(171) but still posits Native Son as "the model for the novelist of the
nineteen seventies" (173) and attempts to recuperate Bigger as a
sort of proto-revolutionary. To get to the "real," revolutionary Bigger, readers should, Gayle tells us, "Strip the nihilism and self-hate
from his personality makeup" (179) and ignore the Bigger after the
murder of Bessie as the perverted "brainchild of Communists and
liberals" (171). We can, however, make a plausible case for Bigger as
a proto-revolutionary without bowdlerizing the novel as Gayle suggests. Bigger experiences many of the same material conditions as
Fanon's native and, as a result, at times he gives voice, twenty years
before Fanon, to the consciousness that, according to Fanon, leads
to revolution. Yet Bigger's statements ultimately lead only back to
himself, to his own alienation and rage. He seems unable, until it is
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too late, to reach out to others in a way that could lead to collective,
revolutionary action.
To return for a moment to the household, we find in the tiny
one-room apartment Bigger shares with his mother, brother, and
sister the "world without spaciousness" in which, according to Fanon,
colonized people are compartmentalized (39). Even when he moves
outside his family's tenement apartment, Bigger's world is severely
circumscribed because, like the native restricted to the medina, he is
generally confined to Chicago's Black Belt. As a result of this cramping, claims Fanon, "the dreams of the native are always of muscular
prowess; his dreams are of action and aggression. . . . The native
is an oppressed person whose permanent dream is to become the
persecutor" (5253). Fittingly, Bigger, watching a pigeon fly away,
sighs, "Now, if I could only do that" (21), and he and Gus "play
'white'" (17) moments after commenting on the "funny" (17) way
whites treat them.
When he explains to a horrified Boris Max, "I hurt folks 'cause I
felt I had to; that's all. They was crowding me too close; they wouldn't
give me no room" (355), Bigger anticipates Fanon's native, who knows
"from birth . . . that this narrow world, strewn with prohibitions, can
only be called in question by absolute violence" (Fanon 37). Bigger
experiences a similar sense of clairvoyance; he confesses to Gus that
when he thinks of white people and the limitations of his life, he feels
"like something awful's going to happen to me . . . Naw; it ain't like
something going to happen to me. It's . . . It's like I was going to
do something I can't help . . . " (22). Undoubtedly, Bigger is a "child
of violence"; his father was killed in a riot before the family moved
to Chicago, and the novel's opening scene, in which he crushes to
death a rat very obviously meant to symbolize himself, reinforces the
fact that the violence in Bigger is a product of the violence around
him. Bigger "first manifest[s] this aggressiveness which has been
deposited in his bones against his own people" (Fanon 52). Indeed,
Bigger is much more willing to victimize his own peopleVera, Gus,
the neighbors from whom he and his friends stealthan to rob the
white storekeeper Mr. Blum and thereby "trespass into territory where
the full wrath of an alien white world would be turned loose upon
[him]" (Native Son 14). Whites, Bigger knows, are less concerned (if
they are concerned at all) about crimes in which the victim is black,
and so he recognizes the safety of staying "in his place."
The psychology that Fanon describes is not a simple matter of
self-hatred, however. Bigger does not want to be white so much as
he envies the power and privileges that come with whiteness and
wants to escape "the badge of shame which he knew was attached
to a black skin" (Native Son 67). In fact, inseparable from his envy
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black mad dog" (409), "this hardened black thing," "this rapacious
beast" (410), "this ghoul," "this worthless ape," "a cunning beast"
(413), "this demented savage" (414). I reproduce many, but not all,
of Buckley's epithets for Bigger in order to illustrate the absolute insistence that Bigger is less than human. That Bigger himself comes
to rely on the newspapers as he is fleeing and when he is jailed suggests the ease with which his own story is displaced by stories that
deny his humanity.
Nor is it only pandering racists like Buckley who misread or
refuse to recognize Bigger. Again, Barbara Johnson points out that
there is something "about Bigger that cannot be re(a)d within the
perspective of [Boris] Ma(r)x" (116). For all of his claims of color
blindness, Bigger's lawyer apparently cannot help but other Bigger
with language that echoes Buckley's. In his summation, Max evokes
the bestial to describe Bigger and his circumstances: "It has made
itself a home in the wild forest of our great cities, amid the rank and
choking vegetation of slums! . . . By night it creeps from its lair and
steals toward the settlements of civilization! And at the sight of a
kind face . . . it leaps to kill" (392). His intention is to provide context, to prod the judge to acknowledge the reasons for Bigger's rage
and violence, but these statements paint Bigger as a savage invader
and reinforce, rather than challenge, the white public's perception of
Bigger's (non) identity. Further, Max's communism leads him to deny
the importance of race. All working men may be oppressed, as he
claims, but it is Bigger's blackness, not his class status, that makes
him panic when he thinks Mary will awaken and give away his presence in her bedroom. His blackness allows Buckley and the press to
paint him as a subhuman rapist, just as it produces the mob howling
for lynch law outside the courthouse. Race is integral to how Bigger
has arrived at his particular position, and if Max "look[s] at the world
in a way that shows no whites and no blacks" (424), he necessarily
cannot fully see Bigger.7
Indeed, looking in this way means that Max cannot see his own
and other whites' racial identity and positioning, though whiteness
plays an even more crucial role in understanding Bigger's circumstances.8 In addressing the court, Max appropriately points to the
way that the violence of the American Revolution created (American)
men; he neglects, however, to acknowledge its role in the simultaneous process of creating (American) whiteness. The practice before,
during, and after the Revolution of subjugating and/or eliminating
nonwhite peoples who perhaps were also attempting "to realize their
personalities" reveals whiteness as integral to the American manhood
the Founding Fathers were imagining and creating. It is whiteness,
not his profits as Max would have it, that Mr. Dalton imagines him-
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Notes
1. My focus on Bigger's violence and his use of violence to reject blackness (at least so far as he understands it) sets my account apart from
more recent readings of Native Son. For example, in Constructing
the Black Masculine, Maurice Wallace uses Native Son (along with
the photographs of Albert Watson) to elaborate on his concept of
"spectragraphia" and the ways in which black men have been framed,
literally and figuratively, by the white gaze. While I find Wallace's
reading quite useful and convincing, I do not think we can or should
overlook Bigger's own gaze, which he turns against black women
especially, and the violence he employs when he sees what he does
not want or expect to see.
2. JanMohamed is actually commenting on Wright's meditation on his
life in the South as he is on the train heading to Chicago in Black
Boy. Nevertheless, what JanMohamed (and Wright) has to say at this
moment is applicable as well to Silas, Mann, and other characters in
Uncle Tom's Children: "the environment had allowed him to manifest
his humanity only in a negative form. . . . It had given him only the
choice of becoming either a slave or a rebel; he had chosen the latter" (263).
3. Butler's account does not explicitly address race; he reads the murders of Mary and Bessie as Bigger murdering his "romantic self" and
his "naturalistic self," respectively (17). See 1718. Griffin's account
is more satisfying because she addresses the significance of Bigger
deliberately murdering a black woman and provides readings of the
two murder scenes that highlight important differences between
them. See 128129.
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Works Cited
Baker, Houston A. Jr. "On Knowing Our Place." Richard Wright: Critical
Perspectives Past and Present. Ed. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and K. A.
Appiah. New York: Amistad, 1993. 20025.
. Long Black Song: Essays in Black American Literature and Culture.
Charlottesville: UP of Virginia, 1990.
Baldwin, James. "Alas, Poor Richard." James Baldwin Collected Essays.
New York: Library of America, 1998. 24768.
. "Everybody's Protest Novel." James Baldwin Collected Essays.
New York: Library of America, 1998. 1118.
. "Many Thousands Gone." James Baldwin Collected Essays. New
York: Library of America, 1998. 1934.
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