‘Atlanta’ & Absurdism

Who loves the show ‘Atlanta’?

Who’s sad that the first season finale is tonight?

Who picked up on the show’s absurdism?

If you’re any of the above, check out my latest analysis of the show and the characters’ relation to Sisyphus. Go head and click: HERE

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Whatever Happened to Interracial Love? Book Review

In the introduction to her 1983 collection of interviews with black women writers, Claudia Tate explained the difference between the black hero’s and the black heroine’s quest for self-affirmation and identity. While both the black hero and the black heroine are in search of “increasingly higher levels of emotional and intellectual awareness of the self and the outside world,” the process by which they journey to such a destination differs. The black hero’s journey is often an external exploration requiring his physical departure from his home/community of origin. The black heroine’s journey is internal requiring physical isolation or restriction. She is not detached from responsibilities as often times these heroines are mothers, wives, etc. Therefore the black heroine’s destination is not a place, but rather, a state of mind. Writer and Filmmaker Kathleen Collins employs this dynamic exploration of the internal journey throughout her posthumous collection of short stories,  Whatever Happened to Interracial Love? But Collins’ doesn’t make that internal journey exclusive to her black heroines; she extends it to her black hero’s as she delves into the murky mist of self-reckoning. But by expanding Tate’s theory of isolation to her black hero’s, Collins, inadvertently, examines the ways in which such physical isolation affect both her male and female characters. Where the isolation is a therapeutic experience for her heroines it is a crushing life-threatening experience for her heroes.  This curious examination reveals Collins deep interest not with the physical outcome of her characters, but rather, their interior resolution of their lives and place in the world. Whatever results from such resolution is purely circumstantial.

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The first couplet of stories appropriately titled “Exteriors” and “Interiors” set the tone for which the following fourteen stories will take. We begin with the external voyeuristic view of a couple whose marriage is unhinging in “Exteriors”. The husband goes off on a whimsical excursion while the wife is left in isolation. Or rather, the wife chooses isolation. In “Interiors” the wife is not lamenting the reasons why her husband left, instead she voluntarily enters a “benevolent solitude” where she steps into herself and explores her horizon. She plays the violin, she starts a home garden, she takes on lovers–however inept–she creates art. All of these are attempts to understand herself while also resolving an independent identity in the face of her broken marriage.

Collins presents isolation as a choice, a reprieve from the external world, an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole falling experience where one discovers the depths of one’s own soul, when it comes to her female characters. But a reprieve it is not for her male characters. Where the wife in “Interiors” emerges with her life and some sort of hope for the future, the Uncle in “The Uncle” isn’t as fortunate. His external circumstances have forced him no other option but isolation and in those confines he is never able to emerge with his life or any such hope for his future. Such is the same for the young man in “Only Once.” Isolation, for these men, is instead a cocoon, a Plato’s cave of manipulated images from their external reality are reflected in their internal resolutions preventing them from ever rising to the light. This dichotomy continues to play throughout Collins’ stories and characters: a disenchanted young woman who finds solace in a dark closet, an ill-fated lover and his gun, a playwright in suburbia, another abandoned wife who retreats into a new home. Many of these characters are faced with the external challenges of race, gender, class, and unfulfilled relationships, but Collin does not focus on the external. Instead she takes us into each character’s interior challenge of reconciling a self-image despite, or perhaps in spite of their outside circumstances.

There is a rebellious undertone in Collins’ work threading itself through each story. From the daughter who commits the “unforgivable sin of (“Negro”) girlhood” by cutting her hair and therefore turning herself into “any other Negro,” to the man who takes his own life, to the black middle-class girl from New Jersey agrees to marry her white lover in 1963 as they both naively confront the south and racial segregation, Collins presents unconventional resolutions that are not tidy, but instead a form of rebellion from what each of these characters are expected to be from the outside looking in. Each character is trying to find themselves and it’s a journey that requires the painful task of rejecting the external labels which have been arbitrarily placed on them from white-supremacy ideas of blackness to their own black bourgeois community’s.  In these rebellious internal resolutions Collins is  calling for a deep introspection of us all. Her work reminds us that we are humans first and our journeys toward seeking higher levels of emotional and intellectual awareness begin with our individual selves first.

That confrontation of self is often brutal and not all of her characters make it out alive, but the point is not to make it out alive, the point is to go through the process of delving deep into one’s self. That alone is one of the bravest things any human can do. 

I thoroughly enjoyed Whatever Happened to Interracial Love? Collins’s critical but sympathetic gaze on the black bourgeois is a perspective reminiscent of Nella Larsen, Lorraine Hansberry, and Dorothy West. Her insistence on the human spirit and internal self first allows her voice to be dynamic, idiosyncratic, and refreshing.  I only wish that there was more.

Be sure to pick up Whatever Happened to Interracial Love? when it arrives this December.

The Autobiography of my Mother: A Review

the autobiography of my mother

When Meursault learns of his mother’s death in Albert Camus’ The Stranger, he is apathetic to say the least. It is this strange detachment from emotion Camus explores in his existential search of meaning and existence. Fifty-four years later Jamaica Kincaid’s Xuela is also confronted with the loss of her mother and regards it with Mersault’s similar apathetic detachment as she states:

“My mother died at the moment I was born, and so for my whole life there was nothing standing between myself and eternity; at my back was always a bleak, black wind”

but unlike Meursault, Xuela does not get to attend her mother’s funeral as she is but a newborn when her mother dies. Much like Camus’ interrogation of the existential question of existence, Kincaid explores the affects of a severed bond between mother and child in a theme that stretches far beyond Xuela’s personal story. 

Mother’s are always much more than the women who push us into the world and that is especially so in the works of Jamaica Kincaid. Like many of Kincaid’s female protagonists the quest, the desire, the desperation for self-identification is so intimately and intricately intertwined with their mother that only a violent break from one can grant autonomy to the other. This break is delivered early on for Xuela, the daughter of a half Scot, half African father and a Carib mother, which leaves her stumbling through turbulent relationships with older women who could easily be mistaken as substitute mother figures for the young girl if only they were not beating her, attempting to kill her, or prostituting her to their husbands. And yet, in spite of all of this chaotic mistreatment, Xuela learns how to defend herself with a myriad of weapons, one of them being Kincaid’s most famously given to her female protagonists–self-love.

Whatever about me caused offense, whatever was native to me, whatever I could not help and was not a moral failing–those things about me I loved with the fervor of the devoted.

This self-love is a visceral and intensely sexual awakening; it’s a foraging into a place many women–for reasons complex–cannot go and for that reason again she faces violent confrontations with those of whom look just like her.

that people who looked so very much like each other, who shared a common history of suffering and humiliation and enslavement, should be taught to mistrust each other, even as children, is no longer a mystery to me.

The act of self-love is also an act of defiance and rebellion against a history that teaches her that her skin and lineage makes her of the vanquished, the conquered, the defeated sect of people: African People who “had been defeated but had survived,” and the Carib people who “had been defeated and then exterminated.” Kincaid explores this history through the ways in which it still lived on in the firey red tendrils of her father’s hair and “the color of corruption,” that was his skin, she explores this history’s manifestation on her own body, the faces, the gestures, and the language(s) of all who live on the island in their ascribed roles. This a-chronological tale follows Xuela from her early childhood through her seventies. In these transitions are exertion of certainties that transform into stream of conscience questions about life, about love, about death. What you read is not simply an autobiography about Xuela’s mother, you read an autobiography of Xuela herself

In me is the voice I never heard, the face I never saw, the being I came from

The two women share more than a name, more than blood, but a historical connection as vanquished women, motherless women, forced to traverse the tiny island of Dominica and make sense of a world forced on to them by the victors, the colonizers who violently rewrote the history of the land and its human habitants. Xuela’s mother was a part of the almost extinct evidence of life pre-European-colonial-genocide and when she died she left Xuela half of that blood; her father’s racial and cultural tense mixture of African and Scottish make up her other half and through this creolized woman who refuses to adopt to one specific race or nation gives us the story of how she, and those who made her, came to be.

And so my mother and father then were a mystery to me: one through death, the other through the maze of living; one I had never seen, the other I saw constantly.

Reading Kincaid is imperative, intimate, and intense. She will take your senses, and sensibilities, on a journey through the Caribbean–a place deemed as paradise–and introduce to you the startling dark truth in a way that blends folk with fact, myth with logic. There’s no way you won’t re-read this novel.