The People's Cooperative Guerrilla Theater

When I was reading Angry Black White Boy, I had great difficulty in finding a character I could fully support. As we've discussed in class, Macon Detornay is an infuriating, self-contradicting yet self-aware mess, and I could never find it in myself to see him as any sort of hero. I found most of the other characters unlikeable as well, but there was one group that redeemed the entire book for me. The People's Cooperative Guerrilla Theatre, the "aggressive, community-based literacy program...that recruits randomly and [doesn't] take no for an answer" (86), was my favorite part of Angry Black White Boy, and I would like to spend this blog post discussing why I think they are integral to the message of the book.

Angry Black White Boy presents a wide variety of views towards race relations, satirizing almost all of them. Macon is constantly shown as hypocritical in his beliefs, making assumptions about the black people he meets even as he claims to be the "downest whiteboy who ever lived." Professor Alam's reverence of rap as an unassailable art form fares little better, and the run-of-the-mill white liberals are described as stupid, fake, and generally unable to comprehend the lives of those different from them. The People's Cooperative Guerrilla Theatre, however, defy all of these categories. They are a troupe of black thespians who lost the support of their community for their efforts to put on non-African-American plays like The Importance of Being Earnest. The PCGT is all about defying labels and refusing to be boxed into stereotypes like everyone else. Every other character in Angry Black White Boy is obsessed with the idea of a fundamental divide between black and white people. Macon feels that he needs to "be black" in order to fight against racism, but the PCGT understands that different races don't have to be diametrically opposed. They don't have to be white to put on A Midsummer Night's Dream. As one actor says, "Black man got a right to wear pink when he damn well pleases...I ain't just a raisin in the sun. I'm a tomato in the rain forest." (86)

Although the People's Cooperative Guerrilla Theatre is seen as a sort of joke by the Race Traitor Project, I believe that their actions have much more of an impact on race relations than anything like the Day of Apology does. Throughout the book, we see Macon attempting to do something revolutionary but ultimately reinforcing the same old stereotypes of black people and just making everything worse. When he starts robbing white people, his victims assume that he is black, and black taxi drivers suffer as a result. The Day of Apology turns into "just another race riot," and Macon's interviews alienate audiences as often as not. The PCGT, however, smashes these same stereotypes into smithereens. They confront strangers in shady parks at night, but only to perform a piece of classic drama with them. They don't reject their own heritage or try to "be white" as Macon tries to "be black," but still appreciate the value of other cultures. Even during the riot, when an abusive police officer is about to be torn apart by the angry crowd, the actors merely force him to play a humiliating role in their play. In every instance, the PCGT rejects simple classification in interesting and publicly visible ways, which does more to change an average person's mind about racism than any violence could. If you were stopped by a black man in a stocking cap one night, what would you assume? If he then asked you to play Oberon in their group's production of A Midsummer Nigh's Dream, how would your assumptions change? Afterwards, such an experience could permanently change your expectations walking through that park. The PCGT changes hearts in a way that Macon never can, and that is why they are my favorite aspect of the entire novel.

P.S. I did a little research, and guerrilla theatre is actually a real thing. It originated in the 1960s and usually involves flashmob-like performances with a social justice theme. For example, a group of actors might reenact atrocities of a war in order to protest it. This is pretty much what the PCGT is doing: protesting racist assumptions by rejecting them in the most flagrant way they can.

A Child's Voice

I know that a lot of blog posts have already been written about Jack and his narrative style, but I thought that I'd join the throng with a slightly different focus. Child narrators have become increasingly popular in the 21st century, both in "young adult" fiction featuring teen protagonists and more mature works like Room. In my opinion, most of these novels completely fail to depict a child's mind with any accuracy. The child narrators are either turned into annoyingly precocious "small adults" with limited vocabularies or imbeciles that have to be told not to eat their pets. It's easy to see why this sort of thing occurs. Most authors are adults, and as such they have forgotten how to think and act like a child. However, the dearth of good child narrators is often frustrating for me as a reader, and so it's especially satisfying to see a novel like Room execute the idea properly.

So, how does Room succeed where so many other novels fail? According to Emma Donoghue, she learned partially by watching her own five-year-old son Finn and thinking about how different Jack would be from him. However, we can also examine a firm psychological grounding for Jack's worldview in Piaget's theory of cognitive development. (Psychology disclaimer: as with the ideas of Freud I used a few posts ago, Piaget's theory is overly simplistic and frequently criticized or modified. However, I think it's good enough for this sort of superficial analysis. Feel free to comment with suggestions on how to make the model more accurate if you feel I'm missing something important.)

According to Piaget, five-year-olds are in the "preoperational" stage of cognitive development. This means that they are able to mentally represent the world around them through images and words, but unable to think in a precise and concrete manner. Properties such as the conservation of substances are not yet clear to preoperational children, and egocentricism is common. A preoperational child often becomes intensely curious about the world, and builds up a massive store of knowledge as a result, but is still uncertain about how to organize and use the knowledge. In short, the thought processes of a child Jack's age are intermediate between the barrage of emotion experienced by a baby and the logical reasoning characteristic of adults or teenagers.

Does Jack's narration reflect these sorts of thought processes? I think so. Jack has absorbed much information about Outside from TV and Ma's answers to his incessant questions. However, he has difficulty piecing everything together into a coherent worldview, and particularly struggles to understand other people's viewpoints. These difficulties are entirely reasonable, given that Jack has no interaction with humans other than Ma, which makes it hard to empathize with the people he doesn't even see as real at first, but it also reflects the stage of his cognitive development. He also has a tendancy to focus on one aspect of an object to the exclusion of all else, which is a hallmark of the preoperational stage. For example, he has a powerful association between vomit, a bad smell, and death due to his experiences in the Great Escape. When he sees vomit a couple of times later in the book, he only associates it with death and the smell, rather than noticing the color or anything else about it. The mental connections he forms are strong, so strong that he sees a few traits of most objects to the exclusion of all else. This is a big part of what makes his narration so realistically child-like: he constantly references his earlier thoughts, linking things together very differently from any adult, and I think that's key to what makes this novel so compelling.

A Comparison of Heroes

At this point in the semester, I feel that we have read enough novels following the hero's journey described by Joseph Campbell that we may begin to divide them into sub-categories. Two such categories present themselves to me, with two of the books we've covered thus far in each. One, the "epic" hero's journey, describes The Odyssey and A Lesson Before Dying, and the other, the "personal" hero's journey, can be seen in the plots of As I Lay Dying and Room. Comparing and contrasting these two sub-categories, I believe, will help us better understand both genres as they relate to the overarching paradigm described by The Hero with a Thousand Faces.

Let's start with the epic hero's journey. These stories are told from an outsider's perspective, and as a result individual introspection is downplayed in favor of public actions and deeds. The outcome is known from the start, as an epic hero's journey is meant to be told and retold through generations. This narrative arc is most obvious in The Odyssey: the epic was literally sung by bards for hundreds of years, and the first two or three stanzas explain the majority of the plot, taking away all suspense for the audience. Although A Lesson Before Dying doesn't fit this mold quite so cleanly, the hero (Jefferson in my opinion, although some may disagree) only narrates one chapter of the novel, and his execution is set from the very first chapter. Jefferson denies his humanity until the end of the book, and the focus is more on his external reactions to Grant's lessons than his private internal monologue.

The personal hero's journey is very different, In these stories, the hero is also the narrator, and the journey is more about their thoughts than their actions. The outcome is less well known, as most if not all heroism takes place in the hero's mind without leaving any sort of legacy behind. As I Lay Dying is a perfect example of this, as the Bundrens are only remembered as "queer" or worse by the various townsfolk they encounter, and as a result developments such as Darl's burning of the barn are not broadcasted to the audience at the beginning (there's no framework of other people retelling the story). As I Lay Dying also focuses on how each member of the family copes with their grief over Addie's death rather than the details of her burial, emphasizing the internal aspects of their journey. Room, like A Lesson Before Dying, is less clear-cut, but the most important parts of Jack's journey are more mental than physical. Although he appears to exhibit some classic heroism in his execution of Plan B, he has far more difficulty communicating with Officer Oh than getting out of Rug. Furthermore, his physical heroism occurs less than halfway through Room, and the emerging struggle in the chapter "After" is a purely mental one. Jack has never been outside Room before, and learning to cope with the fastness of the world is a huge obstacle to his personal growth. I expect that his Supreme Ordeal has yet to come, and when it finally arrives it will revolve around his psychological development rather than anything more external.

I'm curious to hear what all of you think about this hypothesis. Should A Lesson Before Dying be considered an epic hero's journey, or a personal one? How about Room? Do the sub-categories need to reworked, or should they be considered as a spectrum instead? Where do the other hero's journeys you enjoy fit in to this model?

Jefferson's Philosophical Progression

In A Lesson Before Dying, we've talked a lot about what it even means for Jefferson to become a man. Some of the characters are taking bets on whether or not Grant will succeed in his teaching, but his goal is a very abstract and subtle one to grasp. As I read, it seems like Jefferson is slowly progressing through various philosophical systems until he finally approaches one in which his actions can have the wide-ranging effects that Grant, Tante Lou, and Miss Emma hope for from him.

During Grant's first few visits to the cell, Jefferson is practically in a state of shock. He barely speaks, and when he does talk it's only to say that "it don't matter" and that he's "nothing but an old hog." He is described several times as displaying a wide, painful grin in order to hide his feelings from any and all visitors. In short, he appears to be existing in anomie, a state where an individual is not provided with moral guidance from society due to a lack of connections with their community. Jefferson is cut off from the rest of the world as he attempts to come to terms with his own impending death, and in response he simply shuts down and rebels against anything and everything he can. He tries to hurt his visitors with his cynicism and recalcitrance, and frequently refuses to eat or speak because he sees everything as meaningless.

Once his execution date is actually set, Jefferson's attitude changes. He is still unready to grapple with what it means to die, so he begins to seek distractions by indulging in hedonism (or what passes for hedonism in a jail cell). Jefferson asks for his last meal to be an entire gallon of ice cream and spends entire days listening to the radio Grant gets for him, ignoring Miss Emma when she tries to talk to him. At this point, he's still attempting to deny his inevitable death, but his awareness of the outside world is beginning to grow.

A couple of weeks later, Jefferson is able to really listen to and comprehend Grant's speeches about heroism and the broader impact of his own actions. He understands that his actions will have no impact on his own fate, but realizes that he can still "break the cycle" and become a hero in his community. Although he still acts in some slightly un-heroic ways (asking what anybody has ever done for him, for example), Jefferson seems to be actively grappling with his own death and potential legacy, searching for the strength to confront his execution with the dignity that everyone is requesting from him. However, he still doesn't seem to have the answers he's looking for, and I expect that this final stage of development will be the subject of the last three chapters of the novel.

The Trio As Hero

During our class discussion of As I Lay Dying, we frequently wondered whether any of the characters could be considered the hero of the story. As I recall, there was no real consensus. Anse is portrayed as weak, stupid, and emotionally manipulative, which makes me hesitant to deem him a hero even though he "wins" in the end. Darl is the primary narrator for most of the book, but his own opinions are almost never displayed, which makes him a rather empty hero. Cash and Jewel act in a very heroic manner during the river-crossing and barn-burning scenes, but they function more as scenery than fleshed-out characters for the rest of the story. Addie is dead, and Dewey Dell and Vardaman (the last members of the Bundren clan) seem too confused and childlike to be proper heroes. However, the Bundren journey does appear to follow the heroic arc described by Joseph Campbell (well, after a fashion...), from the refusal of the call to adventure to the supreme ordeal and final resolution. What hero, then, is completing the hero's journey?

I argue that As I Lay Dying does in fact contain a more satisfying hero, if we're willing to consider the three eldest Bundren siblings together. This isn't quite as strange as it may seem. According to Sigmund Freud, all psyches are comprised of three elements: the Id, Ego, and Superego. (Yes, I know that many of Freud's ideas were crazy and have been discredited, but this stuff is everywhere in popular culture and so I believe that the analysis is still valid. Just bear with me.) The Id represents one's basic instincts and raw emotions: the unconscious and disorganized drives for life and death. The Superego represents one's conscience and desire to conform to society's ideas of morality, and the Ego is a sort of middleman that comprimises between the contradictory demands of the Id and Superego. Although these elements are supposed to be pieces of an individual mind, they are often used to create characters in books and television shows. For example, in Star Trek, Doctor McCoy represents the Id with his angry outbursts, Spock represents the Superego with his emotionless logic, and Kirk mediates between them as the Ego. In the Harry Potter books, Ron, Hermione, and Harry fill the same roles respectively.

In As I Lay Dying, I think that the eldest Bundrens are also a Freudian trio. Cash is incredibly stoic and focused on doing things the "right" way regardless of the cost. After his leg is set with cement, he soundlessly faints from the pain after repeatedly saying "it don't bother none." This sort of emotionless calmness is characteristic of the Superego. Jewel is almost the exact opposite of this. His catchphrase is "Goddamnit" and he spends most of his time yelling angrily about either Addie or his horse. This wild, unconstrained emotion is very akin to that displayed by the Id. Although we never get much of a sense of personality from Darl, we do see that he is able to relate to both Jewel and Cash. He's almost like the ultimate Ego: he can see into everyone's heads and mediates between them with his clairvoyant narration. If we look at them as three parts of a whole, perhaps they could be the hero of the narrative. Jewel and Cash's heroic acts complement each other, and Darl provides them with a significant narrative voice. Notably, Cash becomes significantly more talkative after Darl breaks down at the end of the book, almost as if there were some sort of connection between their abilities to narrate the chapters. Although the Freudian trio is broken up with Darl's arrest, the conclusion could still seem heroic in the sense of an epic tragedy. Cash/Darl/Jewel was progressing along a heroic path, until all three aspects of them were damaged by Anse's selfish desire to operate without any sort of assistance. This is not unlike, say, Othello, who was heroic until Iago's evil tricked him into killing his own wife. What do all of you think about this? Is any individual character a hero in this story, do we need to look at some combination of them, or is there no hero at all?

Musical Parallels Between The Odyssey and OBWAT

            When we watched O Brother, Where Art Thou? in class, I was struck by the music present throughout the movie. Everyone seems to sing constantly, whether it's the rhythmic chant used by the KKK or the Soggy Bottom Boys' hit single "Man of Constant Sorrow." It's almost like watching a Broadway musical, but with authentic music. In O Brother, Where Art Thou?, folk music fills the role that epic storytelling does in The Odyssey; namely, a fundamental cultural meme that simultaneously drives the plot forward and grounds the story in a unique historical context.

            The Odyssey was originally written and performed by Greek bards, and the tradition of oral storytelling was firmly ingrained in their culture. The phrase "tell me the truth" is uttered by almost every character in the book and is the response is always a lengthy story. These stories are sometimes long enough to include nested sub-stories, which at one point are three levels deep. One of Odysseus' greatest assets is his fantastic storytelling ability, and bards themselves appear frequently to deliver epic poetry. All of this evidence points to the fact that storytelling was a fundamental component of Greek culture, as well as a plot device that supplied Telemachus and Odysseus with the information they needed to succeed in their quest.

            Modern America doesn't have this sort of oral tradition. People still tell stories to each other, of course, but the sweeping, poetic epics of Homeric Greece are no longer commonplace. However, folk music can be considered to take its place. America is a nation of immigrants, and the influx of styles from around the world has given our country an unusually rich tradition of folk music. O Brother, Where Art Thou? draws on this to great effect, firmly rooting the setting in early 20^th century America with the opening song, “Big Rock Candy Mountain.” This song, popularized in the 1930s, references the hobos in the first scene as well as the idealistic dreams of “the treasure” sought by Ulysses’ companions. As the plot moves forward, different songs evoke different moods within the same setting. The equivalents of the Sirens and Lotus-Eaters sing tempting folk songs like “Down to the River to Pray,” and the gravediggers at the end sing “Lonesome Valley” to provide an eerily inevitable quality to the climax of the movie. Most notably, Ulysses sings “Man of Constant Sorrow,” which becomes a hit and eventually redeems him and his company. In addition to playing a pivotal role in the plot, “Man of Constant Sorrow” appears to directly reference the plot of The Odyssey. It tells of a man forced to wander away from his home, and the name even means something similar to Odysseus, the “Man of Pain.” By taking authentic folk music that closely mirrors and reinforces the plot of the movie, I think that the Coen brothers manage to insert elements of American culture as comfortable and familiar to us as the epic storytelling of The Odyssey was to the Greeks of Homer’s time into O Brother, Where Art Thou?.

On Epithets and Kennings

Homer's Odyssey is a remarkably complex narrative. The story has remained popular for so long largely because of this: the myriad interweaving storylines and curious tensions between fate and free will give readers much material with which to speculate. We've spent a lot of time in class debating the morality of the mortals and gods, and wondered whether or not the suitors deserve the impressively brutal slaughter they receive in the climax. However, I don't want to focus on any of this in my blog post tonight. I'd rather talk about the poem's usage of language.

Since The Odyssey was originally performed orally, it has a very distinct structure and sound to it. Certain passages are repeated to place emphasis on similar events as well as to aid memory. For example, when Telemachus sends Penelope to her room in Book 21, he uses almost the exact same words as he does in Book 1.

"So, mother, go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, the distaff and the loom, and keep the women working hard as well. As for giving orders, men will see to that, but I most of all: I hold the reins of power in this house. (Fagles 1.409-414, emphasis added)"

"So, mother, go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, the distaff and the loom, and keep the women working hard as well. As for the bow now, men will see to that, but I most of all: I hold the reins of power in this house. (Fagles 21.389-394, emphasis added)"

Penelope's reaction is identical in both situations. By having the little episode from the start of the book recur at the end, Homer demonstrates how far Telemachus has come. In Book 1, his directive was almost comical and we took it as evidence that he hadn't quite learned how to act yet. In Book 21, the same statement is backed up by his growth as a character and is thus taken far more seriously. This sort of repetition is recurrent in The Odyssey, and it creates an relaxing rhythm that lulls the listeners (or readers, recently) to sweet somnolence.

For me at least, the most curious aspect of The Odyssey's repetition was the extensive usage of epithets for the characters. Odysseus alone is referred to as "man of twists and turns," "master mariner," "godlike," "crafty," "embattled," "wise," and "storm-tossed." Athena always has flashing eyes, Ino has exceptionally beautiful ankles, Telemachus is calm and cool-headed, and Eumaeus is the loyal swineherd. When characters have numerous epithets, they still revolve around a couple of central themes. For example, Odysseus' epithets pretty much all refer to his guile, war-crafting abilities, or suffering. In a work with such a huge number of characters, major and minor, epithets make it easier for both the bard and audience to keep everything straight. In addition, they allow Homer to fit his poetic meter (dactylic hexameter, if you were wondering) more easily by essentially adding syllables to the character's names. Even though our translation is not metered, the epithets add a sense of rhythm that drives the poem forward ceaselessly.

Interestingly enough, these quirks of Greek oral tradition are not unique to their culture. Old Norse oral poetry follows many of the same conventions, albeit in a slightly different fashion. Rather than ubiquitous epithets, many words have kennings, circumlocutious and idiomatic phrases whose meanings are well understood by the audience. For example, fire could be called "bane of wood," and a sword might be referenced with the phrases "icicle of blood," "wound-hoe," or "leek of battle." These kennings are used frequently in Skaldic poetry (Skalds were the Viking equivalents of bards, reciting poetry in the courts of various kings) to fit the alliterative verse of their works. As time went on, kennings were also used to avoid saying the true names of certain evil things, as in The Lord of the Rings when the Balrog is repeatedly called "Durin's bane." Kennings were often repeated between poems, simplifying memorization for the performing skald much as epithets simplified memorization for Greek bards. Although our records of the Greek traditions are over a thousand years older than our records of the Norse, it's interesting to see how similar their methods of storytelling were despite the lack of communication between the two cultures.

PS: The structure of Old Norse poetry particularly fascinates me because it was based around alliteration rather than rhyming. If you'd like to hear an example of this and aren't satisfied by reading my pathetic attempt at alliteration at the end of the third paragraph aloud, the video below contains a modern composition that's pretty good. Enjoy! :)
 
https://youtu.be/zuFsBtQCfPY?t=3m48s

Why Read?

Back in 2012, there was an NPR "All Things Considered" interview with Joe Queenan that I vividly remember. He's an author who purportedly reads 125 books a year, even managing to squeeze in 250 one time before "running out of steam." When asked why he reads so much, he responded as follows: "People who read an enormous number of books are basically dissatisfied with the way things are going on this planet. And I think, in a way, people read for the same reason that kids play video games ... they like that world better. It works better, it's more exciting, and it usually has a more satisfactory ending."

I don't read anything close to 125 books in a year. Counting assignments for English class, I'd be lucky to finish forty. During the school year, I just don't have the time to read anything substantial. I try to make up for these dearths by taking in as much as possible during breaks, but I always wish I could consume more. Despite that, I think that I understand Mr. Queenan. The world is a morally ambiguous and terrifying place. Between climate change, pandemic, nuclear war, and a million other cultural and political threats, it can be difficult to remain optimistic about our future. Books provide a sort of escape for their readers; an opportunity to immerse oneself in another world where the problems of everyday life aren't so overwhelming. Even the most horrifying of novels is easier to contemplate than the quagmire of connections that constitute our modern society. For example, I read David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas over winter break. It [SPOILER] rapidly transitions from pleasant historical fiction to gruesome dystopia to the collapse of civilization and implied extinction of the human race [END SPOILER]. Even so, it manages to end on an optimistic note that gives a purer hope to the reader than any of the real-life heroes constantly being ripped apart by trolls on the Internet can.

This purity is why I like the arc of the hero's journey so much. There's something beautiful in the idealism of an ordinary person going off on wild adventures, overpowering evil, and returning home with the power to solve their own problems. These days, it seems that a lot of people criticize the classic hero for being too one-dimensional or unrealistic. Most of the time I read, I want something unrealistic. I experience real life every day, and books provide an chance for me to get away from that.

In addition, heroes don't have to be cynical or amoral in order to be complex. Take Les Misérables, for example (I refer here to the musical, not the Hugo novel. The book treats some of the characters rather differently, but I haven't read it so I'm not able to speak intelligently on the matter.). Almost every single character can be regarded as a hero, and while only one of them is morally complex, each one has a unique outlook on life. Jean Valjean, the main character, is a reformed conflict who was originally imprisoned for stealing bread to feed his starving family. He spends his entire life running from the law only because he needs to do good in the world. Enjolras is an idealistic student who becomes a revolutionary leader and is tragically killed at the climax of the show. Eponine is the victim of unrequited love, but stays loyal to her beloved until she is killed trying to help him. They never show any immorality whatsoever, but are incredibly interesting and complex in their interactions with each other, giving the show depth without comprimising its archetypically heroic nature.

Some people feel that heroes are a cliché, or that the heroic narrative has been done too many times before to remain engaging to modern audiences. To them, I say that literature is not about the what, it's about the how and the why. In the words of Mr. Queenan, "As long as there are beautiful books waiting for us out there, there is still a chance that we can turn the ship around and find a safe harbor. There is still hope, in the words of Faulkner, that we shall not only survive; we shall prevail. There is still hope that we shall all live happily ever after."

And the hero's journey gives me that hope.

Another New Class

Hello everybody!
This blog is now for Mr. Mitchell's "The Hero's Journey" class. Feel free to read whatever I post whether you are a member of the class or not, but anything added in the next semester will be devoted to analyzing the books we cover.