G.M. Muktibodh's “The Void” (Translated from Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker) - Essay

 

G.M. Muktibodh's “The Void” (Translated from Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker) is a powerful exploration of inner emptiness and its destructive consequences. The poem metaphorically examines the void within individuals, depicting it as a force that is not only destructive but also self-perpetuating, spreading through society like a contagious disease. Through its intense and vivid imagery, the poem delves into themes of inner darkness, violence, and the cyclical nature of despair and destruction.

 

The poem begins by personifying the void inside us as something with "jaws" and "carnivorous teeth," immediately establishing it as a predatory force. The void is not a passive absence but an active presence with the ability to "chew you up" and consume everything in its path. This depiction suggests that the void within individuals is inherently violent and destructive, a force that devours both the self and others.

 

Muktibodh further intensifies this image by describing the void as being filled with a "pond of blood," adding a visceral and gruesome dimension to the void's destructive power. This image of blood, typically associated with life, is here presented as stagnant and contained within the "dark hollow" of the jaws, symbolizing a perversion of life into something deadly and grotesque. The void, then, is not only empty but also filled with the potential for violence and suffering.

 

The poem also addresses the nature of this void, describing it as "utterly black," "barbaric," "naked," and "self-absorbed." These descriptors paint the void as something primitive and base, a force that is stripped of any redeeming qualities. It is also "disowned" and "debased," suggesting that it is something that society and individuals try to reject or deny but ultimately cannot escape. The void is intrinsic to human nature, "habitually angry," and perpetually hungry.

 

The speaker acknowledges their own role in spreading this void, stating, "I scatter it, / give it away, / with fiery words and deeds." Here, the void is shown to be communicable, passed on through actions and language. The wounds the speaker inflicts on others become conduits for the void, allowing it to grow and spread. This imagery of spreading the void through wounds emphasizes the idea that pain and suffering beget more pain and suffering, creating a cycle of violence and emptiness.

 

The void is described as "very durable" and "fertile," suggesting that it is resilient and capable of producing more of itself. It breeds "saws, daggers, sickles," and "carnivorous teeth," all instruments of violence and destruction. This proliferation of destructive tools underscores the idea that the void is not just a passive absence but an active force that creates and sustains violence. The void, in its fertility, perpetuates a world filled with instruments of harm, leading to a society where "death is now giving birth / to brand new children."

 

The poem concludes with a bleak vision of a world where "oversights with the teeth of saws" and "heavily armed mistakes" dominate. These images suggest that the destructive void has become so pervasive that even errors and oversights are deadly, armed with the tools of violence. The world, "rubbing its hands," continues on, seemingly indifferent to the pervasive presence of the void and its consequences.

 

In “The Void”, Muktibodh paints a grim picture of a world where inner emptiness and despair have externalized into a cycle of violence and destruction. The poem serves as a commentary on the destructive nature of human beings and the way in which inner darkness can manifest in the world, spreading and perpetuating suffering. Through its intense and evocative imagery, the poem highlights the dangers of unchecked inner voids and the devastating impact they can have on both individuals and society at large.

P. Lankesh's “Mother” - Essay

 

P. Lankesh's poem “Mother,” translated from Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan, presents a powerful and unflinching portrayal of the speaker's mother, who embodies the harsh realities of rural life and the immense strength required to navigate it. The poem offers a stark contrast to idealized depictions of women in Indian mythology and culture, presenting instead a raw and realistic image of a mother whose life is defined by toil, resilience, and survival.

 

The poem opens with an earthy metaphor, comparing the mother to "black, prolific earth," emphasizing her connection to the land and her role as a life-giver. The imagery of "a green leaf, a festival of white flowers" suggests that, despite the hardships, she remains a source of growth and beauty. However, this beauty is not without its scars; "with every burn, with every pang," she becomes even more "earthier," indicating how her struggles have deepened her connection to the land and shaped her character.

 

Lankesh portrays the mother's life as one of relentless labor. She works tirelessly in the fields, raising "a hundred measures of millet" to please her husband and earn a bracelet—a symbol of both her efforts and her desire for some recognition or reward in a life otherwise marked by sacrifice. The mother's life is rooted in the practical and the immediate: she "ploughed with her hand," "swilling water for each clod of earth," focused on the daily grind of survival. The poem underscores the physicality of her existence, with her "limbs thrilled to children's kicks," a visceral connection to the life she creates and sustains.

 

The poem also acknowledges the mother's mortality and the inevitability of death. The line "She died, she did" is blunt, reflecting the matter-of-fact acceptance of death in a life where suffering is commonplace. The rhetorical questions that follow—"What's the age of a hag bent double? / How many New Year moons, how many festivals of sugar bread over the live coals?"—suggest that her life, though full of toil and hardship, was cyclical and repetitive, marked by the same struggles year after year.

 

Lankesh's mother is contrasted with the traditional, idealized images of women in Indian culture. She is "no Savitri, / no Sita or Urmila," rejecting the notions of passive, idealized femininity. Unlike the wives of Gandhi and Ramakrishna, who are remembered for their devotion and tranquility, this mother is depicted as fiercely independent and pragmatic. She does not engage in religious rituals or wear the symbols of a dutiful wife, such as vermilion on her brow. Instead, she is likened to a "wild bear" or a "hurt bitch," symbols of raw, untamed strength and fierce protectiveness.

 

The mother's "rule" is simple and primal: "whatever raises a family." This line captures her single-minded dedication to her family's survival, even if it means resorting to aggression or "mean, crooked" behavior. Her love is fierce and unyielding, evident in the way she would "burn and flare" if her son went astray or her husband was unfaithful.

 

The poem ends with a recognition of the mother's sacrifices and an acknowledgment of her quiet departure from life. The speaker offers "admiration, tears, thanks" for the life she led, "for living in mud and soil" and for leaving the world "cool as usual, / in the middle of small talk." This ending suggests that her death, like her life, was unceremonious and pragmatic—she simply moved on as if leaving for the fields.

 

In conclusion, Lankesh's “Mother” is a tribute to the unsung, unglorified women whose lives are marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unbreakable connection to the earth. The poem challenges traditional notions of femininity and heroism, offering instead a portrait of a woman whose strength lies in her ability to endure and provide, even in the face of relentless hardship. It is a powerful acknowledgment of the realities of rural life and the often-overlooked heroism of ordinary women.

Essay - Virginia Woolf's A Room of One’s Own

 In  "A Room of One’s Own", Virginia Woolf, when asked to share her thoughts on women and fiction, makes a bold assertion: for women to write, they need five hundred pounds a year and a room of their own. Rather than directly explaining her reasoning, Woolf suggests that gendered topics are so contentious that it is nearly impossible to address them plainly without the speaker becoming the target of scrutiny instead of the argument. To navigate this, Woolf adopts a fictional persona who arrives at the same conclusion she has, imagining the steps that might lead to that realization. This narrative approach encourages the audience to draw their own conclusions from the events depicted, hoping to shed light on the realities faced by women writers. Throughout the story, the narrator illustrates how comfort and privacy are essential for creating the material and emotional security necessary for writing well, and how the historical lack of such security has disadvantaged women.

In Woolf’s imagined scenario, the narrator begins by describing two dinners at two very different universities. The first, Oxbridge—a blend of Oxford and Cambridge—is an old and prestigious institution for men. The narrator notes that centuries of donations have cultivated an ideal environment for young scholars, as seen in the fine food, beautiful grounds, and extensive library. Moreover, these grounds are carefully guarded, ensuring that the scholars’ work is uninterrupted. At Fernham, a fictional women’s college, the food is sparse and unsatisfying, and the environment is bleak. Unlike Oxbridge, Fernham has very little funding, largely because women were not historically in control of finances. The lack of resources and material comfort at Fernham creates a starkly unequal environment. These two dinners serve as a metaphor throughout the essay, illustrating how genius is nurtured in environments of comfort and protection.

The narrator extends this metaphor during a visit to the British Library, where she observes the insecurity in the work of male scholars who write about the supposed inferiority of women. It is only when she considers what she’s read over a meal she buys for herself that she can analyze this anger with a clear mind. From a position of security, she recognizes that these male scholars feel threatened by the idea that their gender may not be inherently privileged. This experience highlights the importance of emotional security in writing and scholarship, which is closely tied to material security.

The narrator tests her ideas by examining the historical canon of literature. She imagines the life of a hypothetical sister of William Shakespeare and concludes that, because independence from men was unattainable, she would have no space to develop her talents, ultimately leading to depression and suicide. The narrator then looks at women writers throughout history, noting that even when money was not a concern, women often lacked uninterrupted space to write. The intense scrutiny faced by women writers such as Aphra Behn and Margaret Cavendish adds a defensive tone to their work, which the narrator feels detracts from their art.

Turning her attention to contemporary literature, the narrator invents an “everywoman” author named Mary Carmichael. Reading one of Carmichael’s novels, the narrator observes that she breaks new ground by focusing on women in relation to each other, rather than solely in relation to men. While acknowledging the novel’s flaws, the narrator recognizes that given how little precedent Carmichael has to draw from, the work is commendable. The narrator believes that all art builds upon what came before it, just as the current state of Oxbridge and Fernham reflects the financial support and space historically available to them. With this in mind, she suggests that if women writers are given money and space, the Mary Carmichaels of the literary world could, given a hundred years, achieve genius.

Finally, the narrator considers the role of gender in the genius of writing. She argues that because men and women lead different lives, their writing will naturally differ. However, she asserts that self-consciousness about gender hinders the quality of writing. This self-consciousness, she believes, arises from discomfort, which manifests as anger. For women, this discomfort stems from a lack of space and financial support. For men, it comes from the need to guard the resources and comfort they have been afforded. The narrator concludes that for women to develop a literary canon of their own, they need the means to live comfortably and the space to focus on their writing, allowing them to create without bitterness, fear, or anger.

Short Essay

In *A Room of One's Own*, Virginia Woolf presents a dramatic setting in which she has been invited to speak on the topic of Women and Fiction. She puts forth the thesis that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Her essay unfolds as a semi-fictional narrative, illustrating the thought process that led her to this conclusion. To dramatize this intellectual journey, she introduces an imaginary narrator who, like herself, grapples with the same subject. This narrator, who could be called "Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael, or any name you please—it is not a matter of any importance," mirrors Woolf's position and struggles with the same issues.

The narrator's exploration begins at Oxbridge College, where she reflects on the stark differences in the educational experiences and material conditions available to men and women. She then spends a day in the British Library, examining scholarship on women—all of which is authored by men and filled with anger. Finding little historical information on the daily lives of women, she turns to imaginative reconstruction, creating the figure of Judith Shakespeare to illustrate the tragic fate that might have befallen a highly intelligent woman in that era. With this context in mind, the narrator examines the accomplishments of major nineteenth-century women novelists and contemplates the significance of literary tradition for aspiring writers. She then surveys the contemporary literary landscape by analyzing the debut novel of one of her peers. Woolf concludes the essay with a powerful call to action, urging her audience of women to embrace and expand upon the literary tradition that has been painstakingly passed down to them, and to ensure a better legacy for future generations of women writers.

Essay - Daya Pawar's "The Buddha"

 

Daya Pawar's "The Buddha" offers a poignant and critical reflection on the image and role of the Buddha, contrasting traditional depictions with a more grounded and empathetic vision. The poem subverts conventional representations of the Buddha as a serene, distant figure, removed from the struggles of ordinary life.

 

In the poem, the Buddha is not found in the idyllic settings of Jeta's garden or the austere Ajanta and Ellora caves, where he is typically envisioned in meditative repose. Instead, Pawar presents a dynamic, engaged Buddha who walks among the suffering poor, embodying compassion and active intervention. This portrayal challenges the often static and removed image of spiritual enlightenment, emphasizing a more involved and practical form of compassion.

 

Pawar’s language is both vivid and critical. The imagery of "a torch in your hand" illuminates the Buddha's role in bringing light and meaning to the suffering of the marginalized, transforming their despair into something profound and significant. This is contrasted with the conventional depiction of the Buddha’s "stone lips / sewn shut," suggesting a critique of the detachment often associated with spiritual figures. The poem's tone conveys both admiration and critique, acknowledging the traditional reverence for the Buddha while advocating for a more actionable, empathetic presence.

 

The use of language such as "life-destroying darkness" and "a contagious disease" vividly captures the depth of suffering experienced by the poor, reinforcing the Buddha's role in actively addressing and alleviating this suffering. Pawar’s choice to depict the Buddha as a figure who actively engages with the afflicted highlights a more immediate and impactful form of spiritual leadership.

 

Overall, "The Buddha" challenges readers to reconsider the nature of spiritual compassion, suggesting that true enlightenment involves direct, compassionate engagement with the world's suffering rather than a passive, detached existence. The poem’s strength lies in its ability to provoke thought and inspire a reimagining of spiritual figures as agents of real-world change.

Daya Pawar's "The Buddha" is a powerful piece that critiques the conventional understanding of spirituality and reimagines the Buddha as an active force in the world, particularly among the oppressed and marginalized. The poem contrasts the traditional, static depictions of the Buddha with a more dynamic, engaged figure, offering a fresh perspective on what it means to be enlightened.

 

 Deconstruction of Conventional Imagery

 

The poem begins by rejecting the familiar images of the Buddha in "Jeta's garden" and the "Ajanta and Ellora caves," where he is typically seen meditating in peace and isolation. These images represent a more traditional view of spirituality—one that is detached from the world and its sufferings. The Buddha is often seen as a symbol of calm, otherworldly wisdom, removed from the struggles of ordinary people. However, Pawar subverts this image by refusing to see the Buddha in these contexts, suggesting that such depictions are insufficient or incomplete.

 

 Reimagining the Buddha as an Active Presence

 

Pawar instead presents a Buddha who is "walking, talking, / breathing gently, healingly," bringing solace directly to the "poor and the weak." This version of the Buddha is not a passive figure of meditation but an active participant in the lives of those who suffer. The use of verbs like "walking" and "talking" emphasizes the Buddha's dynamic presence, contrasting sharply with the earlier images of meditation and sleep. This active Buddha is a healer, someone who engages with the world and its pain rather than retreating from it.

 

 The Symbolism of Light and Darkness

 

The poem's most striking image is that of the Buddha "going from hut to hut / in the life-destroying darkness / with a torch in your hand." Here, the Buddha is portrayed as a beacon of hope in a world filled with suffering. The "life-destroying darkness" symbolizes the pervasive despair and hopelessness experienced by the marginalized, and the torch represents the Buddha's compassion and wisdom, which bring light and meaning to these dark places. This imagery suggests that true enlightenment is not about escaping the world but about engaging with it, bringing light to those who need it most.

 

 Critique of Detachment in Spirituality

 

Pawar also critiques the notion of spiritual detachment, as seen in the lines describing the Buddha's "stone lips / sewn shut," which alludes to the idea of the Buddha as a silent, unresponsive figure. This image of the Buddha contrasts with the active, compassionate figure presented later in the poem. By depicting the Buddha in this way, Pawar criticizes a form of spirituality that is detached and indifferent to human suffering. The poem advocates for a more engaged spirituality, one that is responsive and compassionate.

 

 Social and Political Implications

 

Pawar's poem can also be read as a commentary on the socio-political realities of his time. As a prominent Dalit writer, Pawar was deeply concerned with the plight of the oppressed in Indian society. The poem's emphasis on the Buddha's engagement with the "poor and the weak" reflects Pawar's own commitment to social justice. The Buddha's role as a healer and bringer of light can be seen as a metaphor for the kind of social activism that Pawar himself championed.

 

 Conclusion

 

In "The Buddha," Daya Pawar offers a profound critique of traditional spirituality while reimagining the Buddha as a figure of active compassion and engagement. Through vivid imagery and deliberate contrasts, Pawar challenges the reader to reconsider what it means to be enlightened and to recognize the importance of addressing the suffering of the marginalized. The poem is a call to action, urging a form of spirituality that is not just contemplative but also transformative, bringing light to the darkest corners of the world.

T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi" - Essay

 T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi" is a profound and complex poem that reimagines the biblical account of the Magi’s journey to visit the newborn Jesus Christ. Written in 1927, the poem reflects Eliot's own spiritual journey and conversion to Christianity, and it explores themes of disillusionment, transformation, and the ambiguous nature of spiritual revelation.

Imagery and Symbolism

The poem opens with a bleak description of the journey: "A cold coming we had of it, / Just the worst time of the year." The harsh winter setting symbolizes not just the physical hardship of the journey but also the spiritual barrenness and desolation experienced by the Magi. The repeated emphasis on the cold, the deep ways, and the sharp weather serves to underscore the difficulty and discomfort of the quest. This imagery contrasts sharply with the "summer palaces on slopes" and "silken girls bringing sherbet," symbols of the comfortable, hedonistic life left behind.

The camels, "galled, sore-footed, refractory," symbolize the weariness and resistance to change, while the melting snow could be interpreted as a metaphor for the slow thawing of old beliefs and certainties. The discontent of the camel men, who are more concerned with "liquor and women," reflects the worldly desires that distract from the spiritual quest.

Disillusionment and Doubt

The journey is marked by doubt and disillusionment. The Magi hear voices telling them that "this was all folly," highlighting the existential uncertainty that accompanies their pilgrimage. This sense of futility is compounded by the hostile cities, unfriendly towns, and dirty villages that they encounter, emphasizing the alienation and estrangement they feel in a world that seems indifferent to their quest.

When they finally arrive at their destination, the description is understated: "It was (you may say) satisfactory." This anticlimactic statement suggests that the fulfillment they sought is ambiguous and elusive. The imagery of the "three trees on the low sky," reminiscent of the crucifixion, and the "six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver," alluding to Judas's betrayal, foreshadow the suffering and betrayal that will be central to the Christian narrative. The old white horse galloping away could symbolize the fading of old beliefs or the fleeting nature of revelation.

Birth and Death

The climax of the poem comes with the Magi's reflection on the meaning of their journey: "were we led all that way for / Birth or Death?" This question encapsulates the central paradox of the poem. The Birth they witness is both a beginning and an end—a birth that brings death to their old way of life and beliefs. The Magi’s encounter with the Christ child is transformative, but it is also painful: "this Birth was / Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death."

This realization leads to the final paradox of the poem: the Magi return to their kingdoms but are "no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, / With an alien people clutching their gods." Their spiritual journey has alienated them from their past, and they now live in a world that feels foreign and inhospitable. The poem ends on a note of longing for "another death," which can be interpreted as a desire for a final release from the world, a longing for spiritual fulfillment, or a wish for another transformation.

Conclusion

"Journey of the Magi" is a rich and layered poem that explores the complexities of spiritual transformation. Through its use of vivid imagery, symbolism, and paradox, Eliot captures the pain and ambiguity of religious conversion. The poem reflects the alienation and dislocation that can accompany profound spiritual change, as well as the paradoxical nature of spiritual revelation, where birth and death, beginning and end, are inextricably linked. Eliot's masterful use of language and his ability to convey deep spiritual truths through the lens of the Magi's journey make this poem a powerful meditation on the nature of faith and the cost of spiritual awakening.

Essay - Zora Neale Hurston's How It Feels To Be Colored Me

 

 

In her essay "How It Feels To Be Colored Me," (1928) African-American writer Zora Neale Hurston explores the idea that race is not an inherent trait but rather a social construct that emerges in specific contexts. Hurston begins by recounting her childhood in Eatonville, Florida, a predominantly black town where she did not yet identify as "colored." It was only after moving to Jacksonville and later to New York City that she became aware of her race. However, she also describes moments when she transcends this awareness, when "the cosmic Zora emerges," and she feels a more universal sense of self. Through her personal journey of coming to terms with and at times moving beyond a racialized identity, Hurston challenges the prevailing notion of her time that race is a fixed characteristic that defines an individual's personality, abilities, and destiny. Over time, she gains the confidence to view her race, often used against African-Americans, as a source of strength.

 

Hurston boldly declares that she is "colored," without apology or explanation. Unlike others who might claim distant Native-American ancestry to complicate their racial identity, Hurston straightforwardly accepts her African-American identity. She recalls the day she "became colored" at the age of thirteen, marking a pivotal moment in her life.

 

During the time Hurston wrote, African-Americans faced widespread racial discrimination, not only from individuals but also from institutions in education, finance, and politics. Hurston notes that many African-Americans sought to downplay or exoticize their racial identity to escape this discrimination or to be treated as individuals. The common practice of claiming different ancestry underscores the fluidity and ambiguity of racial identity. Despite this, Hurston chooses to embrace her African-American identity rather than distance herself from it.

 

Hurston challenges the widely held belief that race is a biological or essential trait. By stating that she "became colored," she suggests that race is more a matter of social perception and reinforcement. In other words, she was not "colored" until others made her feel that way.

 

Hurston describes her upbringing in Eatonville, Florida, a thriving all-black community. The only white people she encountered were those passing through on their way to or from Orlando. The townspeople were indifferent to the southern whites on horseback, but northern whites in cars were a spectacle, and many ventured out to the porch to watch them.

 

Hurston's childhood experience highlights how class and geography influence the perception of race. The concept of race is not fixed; it is shaped by other aspects of identity. The distinction between southern whites on horses and northern whites in cars reflects their social class, with the latter seen as more affluent and, therefore, more "foreign." This distinction affected how the black residents of Eatonville perceived and interacted with white visitors.

 

Unlike some who avoided interacting with the white tourists, Hurston enjoyed watching and engaging with them, even walking alongside them as they passed through. She humorously notes that the Chamber of Commerce should have recognized her efforts to welcome the tourists. However, if her family noticed her behavior, she had to stop.

 

Hurston contrasts the confidence of Eatonville residents who observed the white tourists with those who did not. While the white tourists held the power of observation, young Zora reversed this dynamic by treating the tourists as if they were there for her entertainment.

 

As a child, Hurston believed that the only difference between white and black people was that white people were transient, passing through town but never staying. Nevertheless, she would perform for the white tourists, singing and dancing, sometimes receiving a dime in return. This surprised her because performing was something she would do regardless. While the black locals did not pay her for her performances, they still cared for her deeply.

 

Hurston's childhood in an all-black town shielded her from the harsh realities of racism. However, through her performances for the white tourists, she began to recognize a difference: white visitors had money and were willing to pay for art and entertainment. This realization sparked her awareness of the potential financial rewards of artistic expression. In contrast, the black residents of Eatonville did not pay her to sing, but they showed her genuine affection, highlighting the difference between a community and an audience.

 

At thirteen, Hurston's family moved to Jacksonville, Florida, where the community was markedly different. There, she says, she ceased being "Zora" and became a "little colored girl." Along with this new awareness of her race came a heightened sense of scrutiny and control from the community.

 

Hurston's move to Jacksonville marks the beginning of her "colored" life, as this larger, more racially diverse city enforced racial distinctions that Eatonville did not. She feels that she loses her identity as "Zora" and the charmed childhood she had enjoyed, instead being reduced to a representative of a broader racial category. By linking her racial awareness to a change in location at the age of thirteen, Hurston suggests that race is shaped by place and society.

 

Hurston rejects the notion of being "tragically colored," which she defines as cultivating a sense of victimhood over historical injustices. She contrasts herself with other African-Americans who, she claims, feel oppressed by their circumstances. Instead, Hurston asserts that powerful people shape their destinies regardless of race, and she refuses to dwell on past wrongs when she is focused on living life to the fullest.

 

Once again, Hurston distances herself from a prevalent current of African-American thought. Instead of viewing history through the lens of racial oppression, she emphasizes the role of power. While she does not dismiss the horrors of slavery or the reality of racism, she insists that the world is open to her, and that a talented African-American woman can still succeed. Her ambitious outlook contrasts with what she calls the "sobbing school" of African-American thought, leading her to a perspective that downplays the severity of racism and the legacy of slavery.

 

Hurston looks forward, not backward, focusing on the potential for greater freedom and achievement. She criticizes the tendency to overemphasize the legacy of slavery, which she dismisses as "sixty years in the past." She views the centuries of slavery as a necessary sacrifice for African-Americans to gain freedom and opportunity, describing it as "the price paid for civilization."

 

Hurston's view of history is that it is an ongoing journey toward greater black freedom and empowerment, achieved through immense sacrifice. This transactional perspective sharply contrasts with the views of many black thinkers, both then and now, and reflects Hurston's characteristic optimism and self-assurance.

 

Hurston describes her present experience as an adventure and an opportunity for glory. As an African-American, she is viewed by whites as a representative of her race, which raises the stakes for her conduct and achievements. The scrutiny of white America creates a "national" stage on which Hurston can perform.

 

The theme of performance is central to understanding race relations in the 1920s. While white people enjoy the privilege of being treated as individuals, an African-American's actions are often seen as representative of their entire race in the eyes of white America. Although this is generally seen as harmful discrimination, Hurston embraces the attention and views the unpredictable swings of fortune as exciting. Her positive experiences with a white audience in Eatonville have prepared her for the challenges ahead.

 

On the other hand, Hurston notes that her "white neighbor," and white America as a whole, bears the historical guilt of slavery. The "brown specters" and "dark ghosts" of the past haunt the white neighbor, affecting his future. Hurston's task is to claim for herself what her white neighbor strives to keep.

 

Hurston presents a provocative idea: the trajectory of African-American progress is just as important as its current status. She approaches black progress with a gladiator's spirit, eager to win glory and rewards. Her unconventional assessment of the psychological and material conditions of different social groups reveals that while white America may hold most of the wealth and power, its soul is haunted by the legacy of slavery, potentially hindering its future progress.

 

Despite this, Hurston does not always feel "colored." She feels it most acutely in predominantly white spaces like Barnard College in Manhattan, where she studies. There, she feels like a dark rock upon which the white sea crashes, but after the waves recede, the rock remains standing.  

 

Hurston reiterates the idea that "coloredness" is relative, arising in majority-white environments where differences between races are emphasized. She explains why she does not feel "tragically colored." Previously, she felt that being labeled a "little colored girl" erased her identity as Zora. Now, she views her status as a black woman as a source of strength, using the metaphor of a rock to symbolize her resilience and endurance.

 

To illustrate her point, Hurston shares an anecdote about taking a white friend to a black jazz club. As the band plays, she experiences a trance-like state, envisioning herself in a primitive jungle, adorned in tribal paint and wielding a spear. She feels an intense desire to "slaughter" something, to kill and inflict pain. But when the song ends, she returns to "civilization."  In this anecdote, Hurston grapples with the persistent stereotype of African-Americans as primitive and less civilized. She embraces the idea of a tribal, warlike past but does so with poetic and thrilling language, making the less "civilized" life seem more vibrant and alive than modern life. By reclaiming the stereotype, Hurston diminishes its power to harm. This also suggests a deep connection to art, which Hurston views as one of the talents that grants her access and privilege in white environments.

 

While Hurston was in a trance, her friend remained calm, smoking and offering a bland compliment. Hurston perceives him as "across a continent," describing him as "pale with his whiteness," lacking in passion and vitality.  By turning a racist stereotype into an asset, Hurston also challenges the supposed benefits of civilization that white people of her time claimed. She positions herself "across a continent" from her companion.

At times, Hurston feels as though race has no bearing on her identity. She sees herself as a representation of eternal femininity or just a small part of a "Great Soul." When she walks down the street, she feels proud and confident, almost “aristocratic.” While she does encounter racism, she pities those who harbor such views, believing they are missing out on the richness of her company.

Hurston likens herself to a brown bag among bags of different colors—white, yellow, and red. Inside each bag is a mix of extraordinary and ordinary items, like a “first-water diamond” or a “dried flower or two still a little fragrant.” This metaphor illustrates Hurston’s nuanced understanding of race. The bags’ colors represent skin tones and outward appearances, while the diverse contents symbolize the thoughts, memories, emotions, and experiences unique to each person. Although the bags have their own individual collections, the similarities among them highlight that what’s inside is far more significant and intriguing than mere skin color. Hurston suggests that these inner qualities are not dictated by race and that, given the opportunity, non-white people can develop the same experiences and abilities as anyone else.

 

Hurston even imagines that if the bags were emptied and refilled at random, their contents would remain unchanged, emphasizing that race doesn’t determine what’s inside. She speculates that the “Great Stuffer of Bags,” or God, might have distributed these qualities randomly, regardless of race. By proposing that the contents of different-colored bags are alike, Hurston challenges the notion that skin color dictates a person’s abilities or character. Although her idea that God distributed these traits without regard to race might have been seen as controversial in her time, Hurston presents it as a logical and reasonable perspective.

 

Text book EVS 2024 TANSCHE SYLLABUS

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