Identity

Cara DeCoste

Robert Arnold

Dark Child microtheme

1/26/12

One of the main themes of the Dark Child is identity, and in many ways, identity is a community matter. ‘We are the Malinke.’ That means something special. All of their rites and ceremonies are in groups. Their mysteries, legends, religion, beliefs, all nurture this community mentality, community identity, as do the simple facts of life – they live in the same place, and do not move; they do the same things (mostly) and follow in their fathers’ footsteps (generally). At the center of this is the family. The family identity is even stronger than the community identity. And then there is Camara – and he is different. The struggle between communal, particularly family, identity and the choice of an individual path is a central theme in Dark Child, and is resolved most particularly by the educated, successful uncle’s entrance into Camara’s life.

Camara’s family identity is built on two things: faith and labor – skilled labor, but labor all the same. The faith aspect is clear in the guiding spirit and ceremonial purity of his father and the totem of his mother – both of which seem to be particularly powerful. The labor of his mother was typical; of course his father’s labor was unusually skilled and therefore unusually praised. However, both succeeded within the ‘bounds,’ if you will, of their traditional society. That was not Camara’s bent. But because the notion of family and community identity was so firmly implanted in him, he could not simply forge his own path. He needed vision and permission, yes, but most of all he needed someone to follow.

Most importantly, he needed a father figure, but also a whole new ‘family,’ to create a new community identity for him. We see hintings of this important relationship early in the book, hearing about his father’s brothers who live in the cities, had an education, and are important people. Thrust into unfamiliar city life, he finds comfort in the feeling of family he has from living with these men and their wives (who, it is particularly noted, remind him of his mother – indicating an identification and perhaps replacement there). His ‘rituals’ - informal repetitions he indicates throughout the book – are new, yet give him a feeling of place. Yet however similar the ideas and values behind this new community, though, Camara’s uncles are used in his life to redefine religiosity and success. They replace animism with Islam, and skilled craftsmanship and community commendation with knowledge and prominence (and community commendation, of a different type), respectively. In giving him these new community rituals, values expressions, and identity as a whole, Camara’s uncles help him transition to the new, cultured world where he finds he belongs.

Knowledge

Cara DeCoste
Robert Arnold
LBST 2102 - Keita
2/1/12

The competing cultures are very clear in Keita, as are the competing identities of Mabo. But, more subtly, so are competing views of what makes one knowledgeable and successful. This is, of course, strongly tied with both of the previously mentioned themes, but bears distinction. One educational system values strict factual knowledge evidenced in exams, the other, family history evidenced in life.

The Western education system, as expressed in Keita, values factual, rote knowledge. These facts do not seem to be connected with their own life at all. Even the teacher does not necessarily believe all of it, evidenced by his protest when challenged on evolution – he does not say it is true, he says it is the right answer for the test. The exam is all that gives significance to these pieces of information – in fact, whenever we see the school, they are learning about other countries, not their own history or anything that has significance for the ones who learn it. But the exam is worth it, for with it comes advancement in the westernized colonial society. It is not personal development, except in perseverance and dedication, it is solely a means to an end.

In contrast, the traditional education system is not about knowledge so much as understanding. They believe strongly that your past, even distant past, is who you become (if you were an ape, you still are – do not teach evolution!). Therefore, it is essential to know your past. This is an understanding of your basic nature which shapes your life. There is no exam, there is only understanding and change – and in stark contrast to the Western educational system, this is based on stories, not on facts. Note the power of this sort of teaching to draw in Mabo and the other children, even potentially ‘against their will’ or better judgment.

This contrast in education – stories vs facts, personal growth vs passing the test, is emblematic of difference in values. Where traditional culture values history, character, and oneness with ancestors, modern culture values ‘getting ahead,’ reaching beyond, getting something new, by whatever means necessary. In the end of the movie, a resolution to this dichotomy is hinted at, for although school will end (note the repetition of ‘summer’ and the fact that school will be out, and of exams and other endings), griots will appear throughout Mabo’s life to help him become himself.

Stone of stumbling

     A literary touchstone is something – a person, a place, an event – in a story which displays characters’ true opinions or characters. Luc is definitely a literary touchstone, as displayed in Aimee’s, Marc’s and Protée’s  lives.
     Luc’s function as a literary touchstone is clearest in Aimee’s life. Aimee is comfortable in her life. She loves her husband, rejecting the advances of the Englishman. She invites Protee into her private space, her bedroom and her shower, but only for specific, serving functions: protection, providing water, helping her with her dress. Each time she asks for help in those personal ways, though, she draws closer – but it is Luc that exposes her true feelings. He says “you would like to be here, brushing up against Protee, wouldn’t you?” In response, Protee asks, reestablishing the boundaries, if there is anything he can do for Aimee. But that question obviously haunts her, because she – very deliberately – “brushes up against” Protee in (I believe) the next scene. Luc’s question gave a name to what she wanted, and she revealed the correctness of his guess.
     In Marc’s and Protee’s lives, Luc’s function is harder to see, because it reveals something less dramatic – a simple ‘fitting’ into the world-as-it-is. Protee has learned how to, if not thrive, at least survive well, in his world. Yes, he is sometimes disgusted or pained by the system he is part of (as when he is in the shower), but Luc reveals how little it truly bothers him. What truly bothers Protee is disorder and change. He is willing to serve if service brings peace. Marc is the same way. He is a bit of an idealist, enjoys ‘fraternizing with the natives’, if you will, learning about their culture, taking them seriously, but he does not believe they are the same. Even when he values their service – as with Protee or the doctor – he feels quite free to interrupt them, and they must come at a moment’s notice. His kindness to the natives is not the kindness of a friend or an equal, but of a better condescending to appreciate a lower. Again, Luc reveals this – primarily by “being African,” eliciting Marc’s repeated comments that he does not belong there.
     However, the most interesting part of these themes is the movie’s overall message about them. Startlingly, it does not seem to denigrate the boundaries – in fact, seems to support the status quo. France goes back home with her white people. The man who drives her accepts the fact that he is more American than African. The ‘truly black’ still serve (though now at the airport). But truly, what Luc shows is that nothing is that easy. There is, as Marc says, no lines, really – Aimee goes home, bringing the organ. The driver is still in Africa, after all. Even the airport workers wear raincoats in the rain. The movie’s message through the literary touchstone of Luc’s character is that ‘normal’ exists without boundaries.

A Different Kind of Courage

Cara DeCoste
Robert Arnold
3/26/12
So Long a Letter Microtheme

A Different Kind of Courage

Mawdo and Mawbo both married new young wives – for completely different reasons. Mawdo married out of duty, Mawbo out of love. Ramatoulaye and Aissatou are both pressured by custom to stay in their marriages. Aissatou leaves. Ramatoulaye stays. Although Ramatoulaye is technically conforming to the cultural norm, it takes a special kind of courage – and a nose for revenge – to actually stay.

            Rama displays great courage in staying in her marriage. Although she obviously respects Aissatou’s strength, which causes her to leave and live alone, and knew that in her newly ‘liberated’ society, she would be welcome and even encouraged to follow that path, she chose to stay. And so she faces the stares in the movie theatre, the other men in line to pay utilities, all of the little humiliations, not with her head high because she is a startling example of the ‘new woman,’ but because she is who she is. She loves her husband. She cares for her kids. She champions an ideal of marriage. But mostly, she will not be who she is not, although she is certainly very contradictory!

            She dreams of a traditional marriage, yet rejects a traditional suitor. She refuses to marry without love (a Western ideal of love, mind you), yet remains in a loveless marriage. She celebrates the ‘new African woman’ yet reacts in horror to cigarettes. This is natural to anyone living in ‘betweentimes’, when the world (or at least our individual world) is undergoing massive changes, and culture is still not sure what it values. It takes strong character and not a little courage to not only work through those contradictions but learn to value them as expressions of who we are – and therefore to live by them. Ramatoulaye has that kind of courage.

Mob psychology

Cara DeCoste

Robert Arnold

Hotel Rwanda Microtheme

4/16/12

          “They are disguised because no one wants to carry the individual responsibility for murder. The instant of murder requires collective responsibility, and this requires a mask. The mask is what makes it impossible for them to recognize good and bad. For each individual to have clean hands, everybody has to be dirty, to share in the same communal guilt” (Interview with Djibril Diop Mambety) As this quote illumines, there are remarkable similarities between the themes of Hyenas and Hotel Rwanda in their portrayals of mass violence and collective responsibility.

          The violence begins in both movies, instigated by constant speeches by people in authority, over the radio and in the public square. In Hotel Rwanda, it appears that many are originally against the violence, but that is uncertain – certainly it is true in Hyenas. In both movies, collective opinion begins to turn, but not until they begin to dress alike and chant do they begin the violence. The constant repetition of chanting stirs up the crowd by promoting a mob identity and creating a communal ‘truth,’ convincing each other by their own repetitions of a falsehood which they believe. This sense of community is furthered by dressing alike. Although in Hotel Rwanda they are still recognizable (hardly true in Hyenas), still the mob takes on an “us” identity – ‘are you a good Hutu?’ – that separates them from “the others” not worthy of life. And then, once the instant (or age) of murder is past, they all share the guilt. It is a stain on all hands, and therefore, in the moment, not as much a stain on any one hand.

There is something about a crowd. The unity of purpose, the mindless ‘truths,’ the collective responsibility create a unique environment for all kinds of atrocity. Normal people in aggregate do things normal people singly would never dream of – under the right compulsions of revenge or greed or apathy. Both Hyenas and Hotel Rwanda carry this theme.

Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

            On the front and back and inside in dedication and endnotes, Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight’s location is stressed. It’s a story about Africa; it’s an African childhood; it’s a love story with Africa. All this is true. However, despite its much-vaunted location, Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight would be much of the same story in any place. It would miss some of the details – oddities and excesses – but at its core, it is not a story of Africa, but a story of the human response to loss.

The loss that drives the book, of course, is the loss of the three babies. Although it is only mentioned as directly affecting the mother (and, for a short while in Olivia’s case, the narrator), the knowledge of their loss casts a pall on the family nonetheless. But it is not the only loss. It leads to - or at least leads to the full expression of - the mother’s loss of sanity. And these two combined, but particularly the latter, lead to the narrator’s loss of innocence. She is not youthful in any part of the book, though indeed she is young. She struggles with guilt, with life, with death, disease, suffering, poverty, drunkenness… the list goes on. And like the rest of her family, and the rest of humanity, she flees.

For that is the second part of the book’s universality: flight. Whenever we are faced with guilt and pain, we leave (if we can). And that is central to Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight: flight. They continually move – that is the father’s flight. They continually drink – that is the family’s flight. Vanessa involves herself in social life (and boys’ attentions) – that is her flight. The mother flies into madness. And the narrator, like all good writers, flies into analysis, making sense of it all – as much as it is possible to make sense of it all, that is. Loss, guilt, flight – these are the central themes of Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, and though their expressions might have been slightly different if the setting wasn’t Africa, the story would still be fundamentally the same.

Normal

Cara DeCoste
Robert Arnold
Boyhood microtheme
2/13/12

What does Coetzee believe about society? All along we have assumed that he can see the reality: categories don’t fit; people are individuals and can’t be boxed; all lines fade (or recede) when they are approached, but does he? All I see is a boy haunted by an ideal, societally imposed, called Normal. Normal is Straight – defined, rigid, neat. He is not Straight, he is Crooked. What is Crooked? Crooked is just not-Straight, not-Normal. It is not a box. Society has no category for Crooked. He is, as he says, nothing. But yet, nothing is something. There is no non-existence. Everything is too vibrant, too cacophonous struggle, to be anything but life.

I think Coetzee struggles with his crookedness. He wants to be in a box. He wants to define himself, and be done. But he cannot – and anyway there is an independent streak to him that enjoys the struggle and does not want it to be over. But above all, he does not, I think, feel that society is wrong. Wrong about him, perhaps, but he believes in boxes. Categories. He uses them endlessly. What he wants is a category he fits, preferably one he defines, but he does truly want to belong - see his musings on his relationship with his cousin for evidence on this.

           No, boy-Coetzee does not believe society is wrong. It is he who is Crooked. Society is Straight. He is far too governed by shame for it to be any other way. He feels his crookedness, but cannot find his box, and so he is alone. Eventually, for the book does carry this theme, he must realize that it is society’s error, not his own, that caused his troubles, but as the protagonist of the book, it is simply his own monsters that he is concerned about – he makes no comment on society.