I will use the “n-word” without censoring it. Just a note.
I love Zora Neale Hurston. She wrote Their Eyes Were Watching God, which is one of my favorite books of all time. It’s about a mixed-race Black-identifying woman named Janie living in the South during the early 20th century, and how she discovers love and what it means to be a Black woman in this world. I held on to that book so fiercely; her journey of self-discovery and finding love in herself gave me hope for my future when I didn’t have any.
When the book came out, many of Hurston’s peers hated it. These critics were mostly Black men, like Richard Wright (known for his book, Native Son) and Ralph Ellison (known for his book, Invisible Man). Essentially, the critique went like this: yeah, Hurston can write, but what the fuck was she thinking when she wrote this? She should be writing “serious” work, stuff with real gravity and drama, not caricatures of Black people for the “white gaze.”
That damn “white gaze.” That concept always confuses me, and I think I understand it on a scholarly level, but I never understand what that is supposed to mean for Black work. Like, OK, so Zora Neale Hurston is an anthropologist by training. Now, Wikipedia defines anthropology as being the “study of various aspects of humans within societies of the past and present.” OK Wikipedia, let’s roll with that. So then, Hurston was making this book (and many of her other books, I might add) by studying various aspects of humans. The Black people in her books are based off of the people she researched and worked with in her all-Black town of Eatonville, Florida. Her Black male peers were upset that in her book, she was writing in “Black dialect,” but she was simply recording how the people in her life spoke to each other. So then, her Black male peers were upset that Hurston was recording and exposing a segment of the Black population to the rest of white America. And white critics loved that book.
None of the ground I’m treading in this is new. People around me love to talk about “respectability politics” this and “pound cake speech from Bill Cosby” that and Zora Neale Hurston is part of the legacy of those conversations. But when activists speak about a “white gaze” or any sort of “oppressor” being the true audience for works like Their Eyes Were Watching God, it makes me wonder who exactly is the judge of how people are supposed to behave and act in this world. It can very well be argued that Hurston “sold out” her people by writing in this way. But there were people in real life who acted in the ways that the characters in the book acted. Should that be denied for the purposes of creating social change? Is there room for all types of people of all different shapes and sizes and behaviors in a revolutionized world? Or do we all have to act one way?
I went to a badly-attended talk at Oberlin by Kai Green, a visiting assistant professor of Gender, Sexuality and African-American Studies at Northwestern University, as part of our Black History Month lecture series (which Oberlin renamed Africana Unity and Celebration Month). It was about “the politics of name changing” and how people might find power in renaming themselves and claiming specific labels, but sometimes those names and labels are the same ones used by oppressors to denigrate them (things like nigger or queer/fag). And basically, for the purposes of creating a more just and equitable world, we as scholars and activists or whatever need to think about how we use these names and labels, and how they can allow us to create community and do collective work, things like that.
I’ve said it before, I don’t like “community.” One day I’ll do a whole post about it, but in any case, I was skeptical about labels and community work and I had some questions. I really wanted to push further about what types of people are allowed in certain communities. Because Mr. Green started talking about people needing to do self-care, and learning how to cook and how to care for others in their community or whatever, and I was like “Well, my grandma does that. She takes in people. She’s a Sunday School teacher. She does shit. But, she at one point claimed to have a “righteous hatred” for gay people. Like, she’s “conservative” if you put a label on it. Is there room for her in the community? In this new world of people getting along and communities and revolution, would my grandma exist?” And at first he threw the question back at me, which annoyed me, but I played along and said “I don’t think she would be allowed to exist as she is in this world because she wouldn’t fit in.” And Mr. Green asked me if I was thinking that this “revolution” or whatever would lead to a utopia. And after all these years at Oberlin, I couldn’t help but say yes. People around me use phrases like “end discrimination, end white supremacy, deconstruct the social constructs that bind us,” and am I not supposed to think utopia, or heaven on earth? I remember feeling slightly dissatisfied with the conversation, but grateful that I could at least have it, because it made me think about ideas of respectability and even my own identity in another way.
See, I’m in such an elite and privileged position. I have access to all of this education and training and resources. I will more likely than not be a part of the upper middle class in the next couple of decades, if not sooner. I will probably gain some type of influence because I’ll “know the right people.” And because I know all of these leftist social activists, I will probably be a part of their attempts to “make the world less shitty.” But sometimes I get a funny feeling when I listen to my peers talk about making radical change. When they talk about how ignorant people can be, and how everyone needs to “wake up,” and how they hate all of these social injustices. And I don’t think I get that funny feeling because I disagree, I definitely agree with them. But I realize that I am the product of all of that shit. And a world in which none of these “social evils” exist is a world in which I wouldn’t exist. So I’m basically working to make sure that someone like me never comes along again.
That’s trippy to me. To this day, I always say that my goal is to make sure that Black gay/queer men like me don’t go through the same shit I went through. I want to make their lives “easier.” But I guess I never thought about what that truly means. It reminds me of Hurston. Her Black male peers resented the fact that she tried to record and keep these legacies of tragedy-struck Black people. Her peers wanted to highlight all of the injustices in this world, and create some type of change, whether it meant Black separatism, or a fully realized integrated world, or even the end of the world. And she had her own ideas about that as well, but she focused on preservation of identities that were real and a product of the way social and institutional systems affected people, her people. In the world her peers wanted, I don’t think her people would exist. Why would they exist in a world without poverty and racism?
The cynic in me feels like activism is about working to become a perfect being. Because even if you don’t think that human beings are inherently fucked up and they just make mistakes, you still think you could live in a world where the people around you will make less mistakes than they do now. And I think that if I lived in that world, I wouldn’t be me. And I guess for some people, that’s fine. They don’t want to be themselves anyway, and they certainly don’t want anyone else to be their old, flawed self.
In the faith I was raised in, I was supposed to believe that if I was “saved,” and accepted Christ into my life, I would eventually receive a new, perfect body in heaven and live with God in paradise. I would live in inexplicable happiness, and I would sing and dance for God for all eternity.
I try explaining that to people, and they start going into the philosophical debates about “what it means to be happy all the time,” and I can’t get through to them that even the word “happiness” can’t even express the sheer unbridled joy that someone would feel once they leave this world of pain. No words could explain it, they just feel it. It’s not something our current bodies can process.
That’s all to say that even in that Christian Right world, which I usually position as the opposite of my Radical Activist Left world, there is a future where perfection is real, and I wouldn’t exist as myself. I couldn’t, I’m too flawed and fucked up because I exist in this flawed and fucked up world. So either way, Left or Right, there’s no room for me. So maybe the hope in my future I got from Hurston was really a hope in being preserved when this world, no matter which way it goes, leaves me behind.