Florida State University Libraries
Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations
The Graduate School
2012
From Cutting Cane to Planting Seeds: Race,
Gender, and Identity in Caribbean Women's
Fiction
Jaclyn N. Salkauski
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THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY
COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
FROM CUTTING CANE TO PLANTING SEEDS:
RACE, GENDER, AND IDENTITY IN CARIBBEAN WOMEN'S FICTION
By
JACLYN N. SALKAUSKI
A Dissertation submitted to the
Department of Modern Languages and Linguistics
in partial fulfillment of the
requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
Degree Awarded:
Spring Semester, 2012
Jaclyn N. Salkauski defended this dissertation on March 29, 2012.
The members of the supervisory committee were:
Delia Poey
Professor Directing Dissertation
Jerrilyn McGregory
University Representative
Brenda Cappuccio
Committee Member
Roberto Fernández
Committee Member
The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members, and
certifies that the dissertation has been approved in accordance with university requirements.
ii
DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The process of writing this dissertation has been a very humbling and rewarding
experience that would not have been possible without the help of many along the way.
My thanks and appreciation to my committee, Drs. Delia Poey, Brenda Cappuccio, Roberto
Fernández, and Jerrilyn McGregory for your inspirational thoughts and guidance during the
process of writing this dissertation. Your thoughtful recommendations and commentary have
surely strengthened this project.
I must acknowledge as well the many friends, colleagues, students, professors, and
librarians who have assisted, advised, and aided my research and writing efforts throughout my
education.
Many thanks to the Ada-Belle Winthrop King Foundation for their generous fellowships,
grants, and for their support of my educational pursuits and research.
Above all, I would like to thank my family for their support, and my husband for his
patience, understanding, faith, and unconditional love.
iii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Abstract ............................................................................................................................................v
INTRODUCTION ...........................................................................................................................1
CHAPTER ONE: HISTORY.........................................................................................................16
CHAPTER TWO : CHANGING TIDES: THOUGHTS ON IDENTITY FORMATION IN THE
CARIBBEAN.................................................................................................................................71
CHAPTER THREE: I AM MY MOTHER: MOTHER-DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIPS AND
IDENTITY FORMATION IN THE ANGLOPHONE CARIBBEAN ........................................142
CHAPTER FOUR: ROOTS: LANGUAGE, MEMORY, AND IDENTITY FORMATION IN
THE HISPANOPHONE CARIBBEAN ......................................................................................186
CHAPTER FIVE: NEITHER HERE NOR THERE: EXILE, MIGRATION, AND IDENTITY
FORMATION WITHIN AND WITHOUT THE FRANCOPHONE CARIBBEAN .................228
CONCLUSIONS..........................................................................................................................267
WORKS CITED ..........................................................................................................................274
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .......................................................................................................288
iv
ABSTRACT
This study includes six novels published between 1980 and 2009 that offer exemplary
representations of a racialized, gendered identification process in the Caribbean, and situates
them within a post-colonial Pan-Caribbean literary analysis. The texts included in this study are:
Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home by Erna Brodber (1980), Anna In-Between by Elizabeth
Nunez (2009), Dreaming in Cuban by Christina García (1992), Casi una mujer by Esmeralda
Santiago (1998), L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle Pineau (1996), and Behind the Mountains by
Edwidge Danticat (2002).
By breaking the language barrier and studying representations of racialized, gendered
identity formation throughout the Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone Caribbean, a
post-colonial analysis leads to a discovery of commonalities and differences in identity processes
on varying planes, including personal, national, regional, and global. The historical, social, and
cultural hybridity of the Caribbean is taken into account when discussing levels of identity
consciousness, with an emphasis on representations of racialized, gendered individuals.
Through twentieth and twenty- first century narrative – many considered
autobiographical, semi-autobiographical, or testimonial – the authors offer representations of
individuals taking on the process of identity while inscribing the female into a non-marginalized
space. Through the act of literary production, racialized, gendered individuals of the hybrid
Caribbean region accept and re-write the non-Western historical and social trauma of postcoloniality.
v
INTRODUCTION
This is not remarkab le, for, as we know, reality is not a function of the event as event,
but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.
We seem here to have a paradox: that the reality of an event, wh ich is not real in itself,
arises fro m the other events which, likewise, in themselves are not real.
But this only affirms what we must affirm: that direction is all.
And only as we realize this do we live,
for our own identity is dependent upon this principle.
-Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men.
“If I could wake up in a different place, at a d ifferent time,
could I wake up as a different person?”
-Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club.
Remaining colonial institutions in the Caribbean have played and continue to play a large
part in shaping the kind of literature produced and its intrinsic value in the Antilles as well as
throughout the world. It is important to note that many texts produced in the early 20th century
still represent post-colonial issues and the literary body itself serves as a “shared
territory…where political, linguistic, and socio-historical territories are the objects of perpetual
conflict and negotiation” (Malena 19). Because of this conflicted nature, the “Caribbean
narrative has to situate itself in relation to the islands of the Antilles and the colonial power of
the Western World…and to the history of slavery and the phenomenon of exile and rootlessness”
(Malena 19). A body of Caribbean literature emerged in the world market in the 1930s and, in
subsequent decades, literary production was widely promoted via local radio stations and
newspapers. By the 1950s, most Caribbean literature was not being published locally, but rather
was booming in the United Kingdom, France, the United States, and Canada, where the authors
themselves had relocated. In following years, many islands began developing literatures
representative of their individual nationality. The result of this pursuit proved and continues to
prove to be challenging given that the ethnic diversity in the Caribbean is widespread. In
addition, while a distance is maintained between Caribbean texts due to a language barrier, it is
evident that Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone Caribbean literatures maintain
continuity in postcolonial themes. Consequently, the individual literatures produced by each of
these nations in the Caribbean show similar tendencies in literary representation of gendered,
racialized identity formation and process.
Since the Caribbean today represents a hybrid region formed by diverse historical and
cultural traditions, its people are also as widely varied as the nations themselves. The historical
1
backgrounds of each of the nations within the Caribbean have led to the formation of myriad
hybrid identities, as wide and varied as the number of unique individuals. While each nation has
a unique historical experience, there still remain many similarities within the Caribbean region.
The historical events that have led to cultural plurality in the Caribbean are the same events that
have led to conflicted collective and individual identity formation processes. This conflicted
sense of self is manifested in many different artistic, linguistic and literary representations, to
mention a few mediums.
In the early 1990s, Paul Gilroy’s new theoretical approach to the understanding of W.E.B
Du Bois’ Double Consciousness in The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness
offered a multinational space for cultural identification construction. Gilroy’s theory takes into
account the importance of the physical space of travel through the Black Atlantic and proposes
the importance of this cultural space for the identification process of those involved in the slave
trade and who are torn between European and African factors of identification. Edouard
Glissant’s Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays offers an in-depth study of literary production
and identity in Martinique as an example of Francophone Caribbean experience, but leaves out
other language traditions. The 1989 text, The Empire Writes Back, offers a study of Anglophone
Caribbean literature, but again, does not attempt other language traditions. Benítez- Rojo
specifically discusses Hispanophone Caribbean culture and literature. Although these studies
demonstrate a disconnect between Caribbean islands of differing language traditions, Brent
Edward points out in The Practice of Diaspora: Literature, Translation, and the Rise of Black
Internationalism that there is a need to demonstrate a link between seemingly unrelated texts
separated by language barriers. In this study, Edward solidifies the definition of African
Diaspora via comparisons of Francophone and Anglophone texts. While various critics have
discussed postcolonial Caribbean issues in regards to literary tradition, very few have intended to
compare Caribbean literature across language traditions, thus resulting in a lack of thorough
coverage of truly comparative studies. 1 The current study takes this process one step further to
include Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone Caribbean texts, strengthening the
argument for a shared identity process, in addition to specific representations of gendered
identity in female authored 20th century fiction.
1
For further information, so me theorists who engage in comparative Caribbean literary studies are Lloyd
Braithwaite; Wilson Harris, Derek Walcott, Patrick Chamoiseau, Richard Burton, Kathleen Balutansky, Stuart Hall.
2
The literary representations of the effects of trauma and Diaspora in identity formation
are the topics of this dissertation. While these representation manifest themselves in many
different ways, literary production is especially representative of the ide ntity formation process
in marginalized (gender, race) subjects, since writing itself is a tool used to lessen the effects of
collective and individual trauma. While each author represented in this study represent identity in
the 20th and 21st centuries, the literary representation of hybrid identity formation is not new.
While negrista literature was originally written and published by white authors through the
1920s, poesía negra, written and published by Afro-Caribbean Hispanophone authors, and the
Négritude movement, which produced literature written and published by Afro-Caribbean
Francophone authors, surged in the following years. 2 While these movements occurred in
different languages, 3 they shared many of the same ideals and were both influenced by the
Harlem Renaissance 4 . At the forefront was the desire to share the true Afro-Caribbean
experience and to gain equality with their white counterparts. In the article “The Legacy of
Negrismo/Negritud: Inter-American Dialogues,” Leslie Feracho emphasizes that “each
philosophy, in its way, either looks forward to or derives from the Black Arts Movement in the
United States from 1960 to 1972,” creating a strong link throughout the Americas (2).
This strong connection was, in many ways, guided by the personal and professional
relationship between Nicolás Guillén (Cuba) and Langston Hughes (United States). 5 When
Guillén and Hughes first met, the negrismo and négritude movements were already well
underway, but “the impact of the dialogue that resulted” led to “a friendship and literary
rapprochement that would play an important part in the development of the literature and thought
of the Diaspora” (Feracho 1). Hughes was already an established writer in the United States, and
Guillén had just produced his seminal work, Motivos de son. This literary and personal
relationship developed out of a shared interest in “emphasiz[ing] the symbolic actions of racial
2
Negrista literature came about as a part of the negrista movement in the 1920s and 1930s in which both AfroCaribbean and Non-African Caribbean authors published accounts of the Afro-Caribbean experience. For examp les
of Negrista texts, see Matos, Lu is Palés. Tuntún de pasa y grifería.; Gu illén, Nicolás. Motivos de son.; Gu illén,
Nico lás. Sóngoro Consongo.; Guillén, Nico lás. West Indies, Ltd.
3
To name a few of the Caribbean authors of these pro-Afro-Caribbean movements: Nico lás Guillén, Emilio
Ballagas, Alejo Capentier, Zacarías Tallet, Marcelino Arozamena, Aimé Césaire, Léopold Senghor, Léon Damas,
and Ramón Guiraoto.
4
The Harlem Renaissance was a pro-black cultural movement that began in the Harlem area of New York City in
the 1920s and 1930s.
5
For further reading on this relationship, see: Rodriguez-Mourelo, Belen. “The Search for Identity in the Poetry of
Langston Hughes and Nicolás Gu illén”; Nwankw, Ifeo ma C. K. “ Langston Hughes and the Translation of Nicolás
Gu illén's Afro -Cuban Culture and Language”.
3
affirmation, social criticism, Pan-African/Pan-American vision of cultural and political
interaction” and Hughes had earlier specifically suggested to Guillén that ''he should make the
rhythms of the Afro-Cuban son, the authentic music of the black masses, central to his poetry, as
Hughes himself had done with blues and jazz'' (Jackson 83). This tactic proved bene ficial in the
publication of Motivos de son, enticing its readers with the rhythm of the music they were
already accustomed to, the son.
In addition to representations of equality, nationalism, and cultural mixing, the question
of an African identity that Hughes and Guillén propagated in their literature also plays a
significant part in novels that represent Caribbean women. These literatures represent racialized
images of Caribbean women who not only hold a marginalized place in society as the lesserracial binary but are doubly marginalized by gender 6 and triple marginalized by the patriarchal
language in which they write. 7
The process of identification in Caribbean literature is well documented for males and
mixed-gender groups, yet there is very little critical research regarding the literary representation
of specifically racialized female identity in contemporary Caribbean literature. The identification
process is strongly rooted in perspectives of self and of other females, in addition to various
other components. According to Duany, some examples of identity formation are socioeconomic class, perception of nation, religion and amount and frequency of travel to other nonCaribbean locations. In this work, I will analyze contemporary Caribbean novels exemplary of
this gendered and racialized identity process. The novels will have relation to two islands in each
of the following language traditions: Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone. In analyzing
contemporary Caribbean novels exemplary of a gendered and racialized identity process, I
expect this project to result in a better understanding and explanation of the Caribbean woman’s
individual and collective identification processes.
While it was not initially the main focus for the production of this type of literature, a sort
of Afro-Caribbean identity was being developed through the representations in these
publications. For many Afro-Caribbean individuals, the issue of identity came to the forefront of
the readings of these texts. Many texts were representative of a conflicted identification process
6
Shepherd, Verene, Bridget Brereton, and Barbara Bailey. Engendering History: Caribbean Women in Historical
Perspective.
7
Duany, Jorge. “The Rough Edges of Puerto Rican Identit ies: Race, Gender and Transnationalism”; Hintz, Suzanne
S. Rosario Ferré.
4
and an inability to place themselves either within the collective Caribbean identity or that of their
African heritage. In his seminal work, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness,
Paul Gilroy refers to this conflict as double consciousness, meaning that the Afro-Caribbean
individual is conscious of both her Caribbean and Colonial influences as well as her African
origins and heritage 8 . The condition of double consciousness causes an individual to attempt to
emulate both her personal heritage and that of the dominant culture in which she was relocated.
There are many scholars who discuss Caribbean identity and its components. Stuart
Hall’s belief that identity is a process that takes place over time and is dependent upon
circumstances (e.g. identity can and will change throughout life) is assumed to be true in this
dissertation. Specifically in this dissertation, the following components of identity will be
discussed in relation to their literary representations: trauma, race and ethnicity, language and
nationalism, gender and performance, and migration.
The forerunners of postcolonial trauma theory and their applications in literature whose
theories will be discussed in depth are Dominick LaCapra and Cathy Caruth, amongst other
theorists who discuss the implications of trauma victims in areas such as testimony, history, and
recuperation. Cathy Caruth discusses the importance of memory and understanding of trauma
over time. 9 She also indicates that trauma experiences do not discriminate based on cultural
background, indicating that trauma is one element of similarity amongst cultures and can aid in
culture studies. Dominick LaCapra discusses the importance of individual accounts of trauma in
an inclusive historical representation. 10
In regards to representations of race and ethnicity, the literary analyses in this dissertation
will follow the frameworks of Antonio Benítez-Rojo, 11 Frantz Fanon, 12 and Paul Gilroy. 13
8
Gilroy’s understanding of double consciousness is an adaptation fro m W.E.B. Dubois’ explanations regarding
double consciousness. He believed that: “after the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Ro man, the Teuton and
Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second -sight in this American
world,--a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of
the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self
through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
One ever feels his twoness,--an American, a Negro; two warring souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings;
two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it fro m being torn asunder.
The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife, --this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to
merge his double self into a better and truer self” (Dubois, Souls 3).
9
Caruth, Cathy. Trauma : Explorations in Memory.
10
LaCapra, Do min ick. "Trau ma, Absence, Loss”; LaCapra, Do min ick. Writing History, Writing Trauma.
11
Ben itez-Ro jo, Antonio. The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective.
12
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks.
13
Gilroy, Pau l. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness.
5
Benítez-Rojo discusses the effects of slavery and the remaining traces of the plantation system,
dictating inferiority based on phenotype. Fanon takes a more profound look at the traces of
historical trauma, indicating that the black-white dichotomy is not as simple as a phenotype
distinction, but rather is a deep-seeded psychological pattern reminiscent of the master-slave
relationship of slavery times. Gilroy’s theory of double consciousness will aid in a more
profound analysis of the conflicted ethnic and racial implications of ide ntity formation.
Homi Bhabha believes that language is a crucial factor in cultural formation. Thus, by the
corollary that language is important to cultural formation and cultural formation is important to
identity formation, then language is crucial when processing identity. While Bhabha discusses
the importance of language as an entity in and of itself, Edouard Glissant further involves
language in not only collective identity, but also in the individual identities that can be formed
only as a sub- identity of the greater whole. For these reasons, the literary analyses in this
dissertation are necessarily situated in historical, cultural, racial, gender-oriented, and theoretical
frameworks.
While the aforementioned theories discussed have been applied to a large canonical
corpus of literature, this corpus is made up of male-dominated literature. For this reason, this
dissertation will only look at female-authored texts in order to draw comparisons and note
similarities between the male and female authored literary representations of identity formation.
As triple marginalized subjects - marginalized for race, gender, and language – the AfroCaribbean female’s identity process is both different from and similar to the Afro-Caribbean
male’s experience with identity formation.
In addition to biological factors, such as sex, and learned factors, such as language and
gender, another factor that greatly influences identity formation in the Caribbean is migration.
While previously and currently debated, this dissertation defines Caribbean authors as those who
are of Caribbean heritage, whether or not they were born in the Caribbean and whether or not
they currently reside in the Caribbean. Juan Flores and Jorge Duany both discuss their findings
on the influence of migration on identity formation. Juan Flores indicates that when an individual
leaves her homeland – by choice or by exile – she clings to certain elements of her heritage in
order to maintain certain elements of her identity while surrounded by her new culture. Jorge
Duany further explains this phenomenon by breaking down the elements of one’s identity that
are more and less likely to become a cornerstone of a changed identity. The understanding of the
6
effects of removal from one’s homeland is especially important with Caribbean nations that have
had outside influence from other nations and with Caribbean nations that have a history of
citizens seeking exile to a foreign land because of the circumstances in their homeland.
The combined traumas inflicted on the Caribbean have resulted in a silencing of subaltern
groups, specifically women of Afro-Caribbean heritage who represent the racialized, gendered
process of identity. While texts written by males have experienced some silencing, the
sexualized metaphor of Caribbean conquest as female conquest referred to in Benítez-Rojo’s La
isla que se repite refers to “the copulation of Europe…with the Caribbean archipelago” (4-5).
According to Sylvia Wynter, this metaphor of “Caribbean-as-woman” has led to “the silenced
ground of women,” where the experienced trauma has prevented the truth from being told, just as
is common with many rape victims (363). The production, publication, and study of female
authored texts regarding the Caribbean, gendered, racialized, conflicted identity process gives
voice to this corpus of texts that have gained popularity in the worldwide market in the past 100
years. According to trauma theory, allowing a victim to tell her story allows the individual to
heal. This study is one small step in lessening the traumas experienced in the Caribbean,
allowing for a pan-Caribbean collective identity, national identity, and individual identity that
takes into account, but does not situate itself, in traumas past.
While the actual events and circumstances surrounding identity formation cannot fully be
experienced by anyone other than the individual who experiences identity in a given time and
place, the literature produced serves as a representation of a collective or individual experience.
While Western style historical accounts of history generally focus on names, dates, and
locations, literary representations take a different approach to historical accuracy; the texts take
the human element into account. Many of the novels that appear in the ana lyses of this
dissertation are autobiographical accounts of the author’s personal life experiences, semiautobiographical accounts of the author’s personal life experiences, or fictional narratives that
allow the female protagonist the space for testimonial accounts within the text.
For the purpose of this dissertation, “Caribbean” will be defined to include the Greater
and Lesser Antilles in regards to a geographical region. When describing individuals,
“Caribbean” will extend to any individual who is of Lesser Antillean or Greater Antillean
heritage, whether or not she currently lives - or has ever lived - in the geographical Caribbean
7
itself. This definition is based on Benedict Anderson’s imagined community in which nations are
socially constructed, rather than based on geographical locations. 14
This study is important to the greater understanding of the Caribbean as similar and
different. The pan-Caribbean approach allows for a Caribbean-wide cultural reading that is
oftentimes lost due to the language barrier. While this dissertation does include examples from
Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone language traditions, it does not include other
language traditions present in the Caribbean such as Dutch and the many Creole variations.
While it is important to study the Caribbean region as a whole entity due to similar historical
paths, it is also necessary to study each nation as a separate and unique identity, as well. The six
nations that are represented in the novels chosen for this dissertation are: Jamaica, Trinidad,
Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guadeloupe, and Haiti. Each of these nations has a similar Caribbean history,
as well as many varied and significant differences. 15 Some of these differences span throughout
the language tradition of the island, and others do not. For organizational purposes, the analyses
in this dissertation are broken down by language tradition, beginning with Anglophone,
continuing with Hispanophone and finishing with Francophone.
Beginning with a historical background of the two Anglophone nations, the island of
Jamaica was originally inhabited by the Arawak and Taíno peoples. 16 Upon the arrival of
Spanish conquistadors in 1494, Spain declared ownership of the island. In 1655, Britain seized
the island. Upon declaration of British rule, many slaves saw this change as an opportunity to
choose to maroon themselves in the mountains instead of remaining slaves. The abolition of
slavery took place in 1807; however, many Chinese and Indian workers were brought to the
island to work as indentured servants. Throughout nineteenth-century Jamaica, blacks
outnumbered whites due to great economic need for slaves. Jamaica gained independence from
the United Kingdom in 1958 and declared independence from the Federation of the West Indies
in 1962. The Jamaican government is a parliamentary democracy and a constitutional monarchy.
English is the official language of the island, although Jamaican-Patois (a combination of
English and African languages) is spoken among the citizens. The majority of Jama icans identify
with Christianity.
14
Anderson, Benedict R. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism.
For further reading, see: Moya Pons, Frank. History of the Caribbean; Hig man, B.W. A Concise History of the
Caribbean; Rogonzinski, Jan. A Brief History of the Caribbean: From the Arawak and Carib to the Present
16
For further reading, see: Monteith, Kathleen and Glen Richards, eds. Jamaica in Slavery and Freedom: History,
Heritage and Culture; Gardner, W.J. A History of Jamaica
15
8
The indigenous inhabitants of Trinidad are the Carab and Arawak peoples. 17 In 1498,
Christopher Columbus and his crew arrived on the island, claiming it for Spanish rule. In 1793,
the Proclamation of Cédula enticed Roman Catholics to bring slaves and settle the island as long
as they were willing to declare allegiance to the Spanish king. Slaves in Trinidad were
emancipated in 1838. Trinidad declared independence from Britain in 1962, the same year that
Jamaica declared independence from the Federation of the West Indies. Trinidad boasts lucrative
industries in oil and natural gas. The island is known for having the first free colored slaveowning class. While English is the official language spoken in Trinidad, two commonly spoken
languages among Trinidadians are Trinidadian Creole English and Tobagonian Creole English,
representing the diverse ethnicity of the island. Not only ethnically diverse, the island’s
inhabitants are also religiously diverse, with about half of the population equally divided among
the two most popular religions, Roman Catholicism and Hinduism.
The island of Cuba was originally inhabited by the Arawak (Taíno) and Ciboney
peoples. 18 With the arrival of Spanish conquistadors in 1492, many natives were taken into
slavery if they failed to convert to Christianity. Cuba remained a possession of Spain for about
four hundred years despite various uprisings and battles for liberation. In 1762, Britain gained
control of Cuba for a short time in which many slaves were transported to the island from Africa.
Slavery was abolished in 1886. In the War of 1895, Cuban rebels rose up against the Spanish
army in a fight for freedom. In 1898, amidst the War of 1895, the United States sent a military
ship to offer protection to the United States citizens in Cuba, but the Spanish army attacked the
United States ship, sparking the Spanish-American War. Spain ceded Cuba and other territories
to the United States in the Treaty of Paris in 1898 as a result of this war. The island gained
independence from the United States in 1902.
The island of Puerto Rico was originally inhabited by the Arawak Indians (Taíno). 19
Similar to Cuba, when Spanish conquistadors re-discovered the island in 1493, many of the
Arawaks were taken into slavery, especially those who chose not to convert to Catholicism.
When the Arawak Indians were legally emancipated in 1520, most had already died due to
17
For further reading, see: Williams, Eric E. History of the People of Trinidad & Tobago; Naipaul, V.S. The Loss of
El Dorado: A Colonial History
18
For further reading, see: Cho msky, Aviva, Barry Carr, and Pamela Maria Smorkaloff, eds. The Cuban Reader:
History, Culture, Politics; Johnson, Willis Fletcher. The History of Cuba
19
For further reading, see: Morales Carrión, Arturo. Puerto Rico: A Political and Cultural History; Ayala, Cesar J.
and Rafael Bernabe. Puerto Rico in the American Century: A History Since 1898
9
illness and the harsh conditions under which they lived. Without Arawak slaves, the economy
would suffer, so large amounts of African slaves were brought to the island to take over the
workload that remained. The official emancipation of all slaves took place in 1873. In 1898,
according to the Treaty of Paris, Spain ceded Puerto Rico to the United States, along with Guam,
Cuba, and the Philippines. Puerto Rico has remained a commonwealth of the United States,
choosing neither to fight for statehood nor independence. Due to the efforts of Spanish
conquistadors to spread Catholicism in the New World, Roman Catholicism remains the
prominent religion in Puerto Rico, while there remain syncratic and pagan religions such as
Voodoo and Santería still in practice. The island maintains two official languages: Spanish and
English.
The island of Guadelupe was originally inhabited by the Carib Amerindians and later
discovered under the direction of Christopher Columbus in 1493. 20 In 1635, the French Company
of the American Islands took possession of the island, simultaneously settling and killing many
of the indigenous inhabitants. In 1674, the island was annexed to France, but the lucrative sugar
industry remained a large cause for the continued fight between France and Britain for
ownership. Slaves in this region were freed in 1794 as a side-effect of revolutionary efforts. The
island was under British Rule from 1810-1816 and sustained a short-term Swedish rule in 1813.
Despite granting independence to slaves in 1794, slavery was not abolished until 1848.
Guadeloupe was previously an overseas department of France (Département d'Outre-Mer, DOM)
and later became an administrative center in 1974. Currently, Guadeloupian officials take part in
the French National Assembly located in Paris. The majority of citizens claim Roman
Catholicism as their religion. Both French and Patois are spoken on the island. The diverse
population of Guadeloupe is made up of European, African, Lebanese, Syrian, Chinese, and
Carib Amerindian descents.
Haiti lies on the western half of the island of Hispaniola, sharing its eastern border with
the Dominican Republic. Hispaniola was originally inhabited by the Taíno Indians, as were
many present-day Caribbean nations. 21 In 1492, conquistadors led by Christopher Columbus
20
For further reading, see: Bu rton, Richard D.E. and Fred Reno, eds. French and West Indian: Martinique,
Guadeloupe, and French Guinea Today; Icon Group International. Guadeloupe: Webster’s Ti meline History,15032007
21
For further reading, see: Munro, Martin. Haiti Rising: Haitian History, Culture and the Earthquake of 2010 ;
Munro, Martin, and Elizabeth Walcott-Hackshaw. Reinterpreting the Haitian Revolution and Its Cultural
Aftershocks
10
under Spanish jurisdiction claimed the island for Spain. The indigenous peoples and their land
were exploited in the search for gold. While Spain declared itself the owner of this territory, the
western coast was greatly inhabited by French pirates. The population of this community
continued to grow. In 1801, a guerrilla leader, Toussaint Louverture, directed an uprising that
lead to the abolition of slavery and Louverture declared himself leader of the entire island of
Hispaniola. The following year, the French forces failed to conquer the Haitian interiors, forcing
them to retreat back to the western coast of the island. Inspired by the French Revolution, France
and Britain went to war over the territory and France was victorious. Slavery continued on the
island until 1804 when emancipation and independence was granted as a result of a successful
slave revolt. While slavery existed on the island, the economy experienced great wealth in the
sugar, coffee, and indigo industries. It is important to note that the Haitian Revolution is unique
in that it “was both a political and social revolution,” which has been a key factor in the nation’s
social stratification (Dubois 28). Haiti has also suffered under the reparations owed to France,
and later to the United States. According to Dubois, “the ‘indemnity’ levied in 1825 was literally
a fine for revolution, to be collected from the descendants of those men and women who had
gained their freedom through rebellion a few decades before” (Dubois 32). The newly
independent nation struggled to pay the indemnity in order to open trade with France. However,
Haiti was unable to pay the fees and depended on loans from French banks, requiring a large
portion of the nation’s revenue to be applied to the loan debt. These loans were eventually taken
over by the United States who wished to promote foreign investment in Haiti.
In accordance with the Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine, the United States
Marines occupied Haiti from 1915-1934. During this time period, the United States aided in the
rehabilitation of government re-structuring as well as contributed to the re-organization and
bettering of various social organizations, but many Haitians were upset with the U.S. occupation
and organized a revolt. This rebellion “was later officially called the ‘Second War of
Independence’” despite being “crushed by US troops” and enforcing the role of the United States
in Haiti. Dubois indicates that “the twenty-year occupation left many legacies, including the
formation of an internal security force that became the foundation for the Duvalier regime, and a
vexed relationship with the United States that continues to this day” (Dubois 32). The U.S.
occupation is just one of many influences that have prevented the Haitian people from gaining
economic, social, and political stability.
11
Then, in 1937, Haiti faced another obstacle. In an incident known as the Parsley
Massacre, the Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo went on a three-day racially discriminating
genocidal tirade in which approximately 20,000 Haitians were targeted and massacred. The
Haitian government (still somewhat unstable) continues attempts to squelch violent acts from
outside as well as from within its own borders. In 2004, Haitian president Jean-Bertrand Aristide
was forced to flee the country in 2004 due to a politically driven Haitian rebellion. At this time,
the United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH) took up residence in the country
to aid in efforts. The current President René Préval was elected in 2006. Haiti is known for being
the first black- led republic. French and Haitian Creole are the official languages of this nation,
and an 80% majority claims Roman Catholicism as their religion.
Jamaica Kincaid, born in Antigua in 1949, has remarked: “I never wanted to be a writer
because I didn’t know that any such thing existed,” meaning she was not aware that a woman of
her circumstances could author texts, as she had only been exposed to canonical texts from other
nations (Cudjoe 397). Caribbean women’s literature began to receive worldwide interest in the
1980s. The following authors (amongst others), and Kincaid herself, have been an integral role in
changing the types and quantity of literature produced by and for Caribbean women: Erna
Brodber, Elizabeth Nunez, Christina García, Esmeralda Santiago, Gisèle Pineau, and Edwidge
Danticat.
The aforementioned authors were chosen for this study because their works are
representative of narratives that offer an image of a racialized, gendered representation of
identity formation. Erna Brodber was born in 1940 in Jamaica. Elizabeth Nunez was born in
1944 in Trinidad. Christina García was born in 1958 in Cuba. Esmeralda Santiago was born in
1948 in Puerto Rico. Gisèle Pineau was born in 1956 in Paris, of Guadeloupean heritage.
Edwidge Danticat was born in 1969 in Haiti.
The analysis of narrative representations of female identity formation in the Caribbean
will be studied through the following texts: Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home by Erna
Brodber, Anna In-Between by Elizabeth Nunez, Dreaming in Cuban by Christina García, Casi
una mujer by Esmeralda Santiago, L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle Pineau, and Behind the
Mountains by Edwidge Danticat. Each of these women has garnered worldwide interest in their
publications and many of these texts have been translated to other languages in order to make
12
them more accessible to the masses. Previously, these texts were inaccessible due to a language
barrier both within the Caribbean and on the worldwide market.
This literature serves not only as a way to overcome trauma – in all its manifestations –
but it also offers an image of an individual’s identity process that can later be applied to a
collective identity. For the female Caribbean individual, it also offers a voice to literature that
was previously reserved for the male voice.
This body of literature has sparked a worldwide interest in identity issues, as many of the
same experiences that female Caribbean authors portray in their works. My interest in this study
is that although slavery ended in the Caribbean over one hundred years ago, the effects of its
psychological, social, and economic influences still shape daily life and interaction in the
contemporary Caribbean. While many analyses have been made on literary representations of the
effects of slavery, there are very few that have attempted to take a pan-Caribbean approach to
understanding the Caribbean reality. In addition, trauma theory that is based in psychological
studies has not yet been applied to the ongoing aftereffects of slavery or its literary
representations. By taking a pan-Caribbean approach combined with trauma theory, I believe my
analyses of literary representations of postcolonial issues, specifically identity, will lead to a
greater understanding of Caribbean postcolonial issues. As mentioned earlier, this dissertation
breaks the Caribbean into language tradition for a comparative analysis based on previous
colonial possession that has resulted in a conflicted identity formation process in the postcolonial
Caribbean context.
The Anglophone chapter will deal with themes such as race, ethnicity, gender,
mother/daughter relationships, religion, and the limited access to publishing houses in the
Caribbean as well as abroad. Jane and Luisa Will Soon Come Home (1980) is a novel broken
into four main parts, each correlating to a line from the refrain in the popular Jamaican children’s
song “Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home,” one of the many intertextual references used to
give the reader a textured and profound understanding of the identity issues that the protagonist,
Nellie, faces. Nellie explains how her family lineage and their past decisions have brought her to
a place of question regarding her true identity and the value of its elements. In Anna In-Between
(2009), the protagonist, Anna, is a big-time New York City editor. However, upon a return to her
unnamed Caribbean island, Anna realizes that she may have repressed certain elements of her
past to assimilate to her life in the States. Unable to fully relate to her parents and friends from
13
the past, as well as her new friends in the States, Anna finally begins to forge a new relationship
with someone who understands her – a man who has left the island for a career in the States.
Together these two realize the importance of their past and hint at resolving an overwhelming
inability to fit in completely with either culture.
The Hispanophone chapter will deal with themes such as the importance of language,
location, and memory in gendered identity when removed from one’s place of Caribbean origin.
In Casi una mujer (1954), a young Puerto Rican woman narrates her coming of age experience
as she grows up and undergoes the process of identity. The novel represents a character caught
between childhood and womanhood as well as between Puerto Rico and her new home in New
York City. The main character, Negi, is consistently plagued with choices about language,
tradition, and adulthood. In Dreaming in Cuban (1993), the main character, Pilar, is plagued with
a strong nostalgia for her homeland, Cuba. It seems that Pilar is always caught somewhere in the
middle of her past and her present, her mother and her grandmother, Cuba and New York City.
Ironically, after spending much of her life believing that she belonged in Cuba, while visiting the
island, Pilar realizes that despite feeling a part of both places, she belongs more in New York
City than in Cuba.
The Francophone chapter will deal with themes such as social organization, assimilation,
hybridity, and transnationalism. L’ Exil Selon Julia (1996), is an autobiographical novel about a
young woman who moves from Guadeloupe to Paris and, despite the strict assimilation practices
of her parents, she is trapped in the middle of an identity crisis until her grandmother moves in
and brings the family’s Guadeloupian cultural roots back to life. In Behind the Mountains (2002),
the protagonist, Celiane, is a young girl whose father has left Haiti to start a new life for his
family in New York City. This is a story of varying stages of exile and the effects it has on
Celiane’s identity formation process. Although the family chose to leave Haiti for a more stable
economic and political situation, the connections that Celiane and the Espérance family have
with their native Haiti makee it difficult to assimilate to their new culture.
The conclusion of this pan-Caribbean literary analysis is that women are active agents in
the recording and telling of Caribbean history and, in turn, active agents in individual and
collective identity formation processes. Women as storytellers have become an important link to
the traditions and practices of their ancestral past, as well as the link to maintaining the presence
of their traditions in present and future processes of identity formation. In additio n, Caribbean
14
women as authors have been the loudest voice in the retelling of historical and personal trauma,
leading to personal and collective recovery over time.
15
CHAP TER ONE
HISTORY
Historical Background
With the Renaissance came a renewed interest in geographical topics and a desire to see
them firsthand. In addition to technological advances such as the printing press and gunpowder,
the political climate promoted discovery and expansion into new terrain. With new gains in la nd
came a desire for self- government. Due to the development of sovereign nation states, the feudal
system in operation at the time decreased in power, while simultaneously the nation state gained
power due to support from the Church. Economic changes mirrored support for the nation state
in regards to new industry and slave labor (Williams 17). Explorers of the New World took with
them the knowledge and fervor of these changes, as well as the knowledge of the untapped
resource of African slave labor, on their voyage and implemented it in the new colonies.
The colonization of Hispaniola took about fifteen years to complete, during which time
many Indians died due to the harsh labor and disease imposed upon them. When the first census
report was made in 1508, the Spaniards were made well aware of the need to maintain the labor
force and to replenish their losses. The plan was to seek out more Indian laborers on other
islands, which lead to the Bahamas and finally Cuba and Jamaica. Despite efforts to replenish
lost slaves, the population continued to decline. The Spaniards continued to hunt down and
capture Indian slaves, citing the Carib cannibalism as justification for their actions.
The conquest of Cuba was similar to that of Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, but gold was not
discovered until significantly later. When the first Spanish conquistadors arrived in Cuba for the
purpose of colonization, the Indian population had already been greatly depleted due to slave
hunting, so the slave hunt continued in the Yucatán. The colonization of Jamaica began in 1509,
but the island was of little interest due to a lack of gold and a depleted Indian population.
Jamaica was eventually inhabited by Spanish colonizers in 1515 with the purpose of raising
cattle.
While the trade route of the Spanish originally used the Caribbean islands as nothing
more than ports of call for preparing the provisions necessary for the next leg of the trip, the
fortune to be had was found in precious metals from mines in Mexico and Peru, which were
16
easily serviced when using the Caribbean islands as stopping points when traveling to and from
these countries. Spain and Portugal were the greater settlements at this time in the New World,
but that did not last for long, as the Dutch, French and English had a different approach to
settlement and began inhabiting the eastern Caribbean islands that Spain and Portugal had no
interest in, significantly decreasing the need to fight for land. By the early 1600s, areas such as
Guiana, Barbados, St. Kitts, Antigua and Martinique were colonized by the Dutch, Frenc h and
English settlers.
The Hispanophone Caribbean: Sugar and Slaves
Due to the increasing prices of sugar in Europe since 1510, the colonists believed it in
their best interest to plant sugarcane and construct sugar mills in order to produce sugar for
Spain. The first reports of sugar mills in Hispaniola in 1520 note the construction of six mills and
by 1527 there were twenty-five mills in full operation. Sugarcane cultivation continued to
become very popular in the Caribbean and the population was booming, as immigrants from the
Canary Islands, Portugal, and Italy came to work on the sugar plantations as masters. While the
economy was booming, the plantation owners were gaining more power in the political arena
and began to control many governmental decisions. These laws not only made it more
manageable for plantation owners to maintain operation, but also put them in a privileged social
and economic class.
Spanish sugar plantations of this time were all copied from the Sicilian model,
with the only difference being that the Spanish Caribbean plantations used primarily slave labor,
paying wages to very few Europeans in control, while the Atlantic system employed primarily
wage-earning laborers. However, all the Caribbean mills did implement the same technology and
cane varieties at this time. While much effort was being put into cultivating sugarcane, the
plantations still were just not producing enough for the growing demands of consumption at the
time, but this was about to change, as mass use of slave labor was on its way.
By 1548, Hispaniola had thirty- five plantations. The black population already
outnumbered the whites by 1530 when African slaves were being used for gold mining, and then
eventually on the eleven plantations that Puerto Rico had in operation by 1568. The slave
population boomed in the mid 1500s, as they were easily purchased on credit from Portuguese,
German, or Genoese merchants looking to capitalize on the sugarcane plantation success. In
17
addition, it was clear that the mortality rate of Africans relocated to the Caribbean was
significantly lower than the Indians used for slave labor in previous years.
Very few checks and balances were put in place by the Spanish government to enforce
the importation of the specific number of slaves permitted by royal license, and Hispaniola took
advantage of this gap in enforcement by importing as many African slaves as possible in order to
resell them for to other parts of Spanish America. However, this rapid influx of slaves backfired
for the colonists mid-century when they were faced with numerous slave rebellions and the
formation of maroon communities. The slave owners began to fear the worst and became very
paranoid that the slaves would take over.
Despite continued uprisings and disgruntled slaves, there was almost no effect on sugar
production in Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. While sugar production was stable from 1550 to1584,
production significantly dropped from 1585 to 1587 and continued a steady decline until 1607
(Moya Pons 21). In the final decade of the sixteenth century, sugar production decreased, leading
to the increased production of ginger. The decline of sugar production in the Caribbean was
greatly influenced by new competitors in the market, such as Brazil, but also by local factors
such as the labor crisis of 1586 when more than half of Hispaniola’s slaves were killed by a
smallpox epidemic. However, the cultivation of ginger is the major factor contributing to the
decline of sugar production at the end of the sixteenth century. The root was used to cure nausea
and stomach ailments, and its popularity in Spain continued to rise throughout the sixteenth
century.
Ginger was first cultivated in Hispaniola in 1565 and appeared in Puerto Rican export
statistics by 1583. However, ginger never became popular in Cuba, as there was a greater interest
in cattle ranching. Many plantation owners were relieved to convert their sugarcane plantations
to ginger plantations, as the cost of ginger production was significantly lower while its sell ing
price was much higher than that of sugar. Another positive to ginger farming was that the
product was not as perishable as sugarcane. Sugarcane had a very short shelf life and needed to
be tended to around the clock while ginger root, on the other hand, had a long shelf life and did
not require much care or special packaging.
While many plantation owners were converting to ginger production, there were still
others who pled with the Spanish government to move on to sugar production. In an effort to
continue sugarcane cultivation, in 1598 the Spanish government threatened to deny plantation
18
owners their privileges should they continue to produce ginger. Unexpectedly, in 1601, Puerto
Rico plantation owners responded that they would prefer to lose privileges rather than give up
ginger production. The 1606 census proves that the majority of plantation owners had converted
to the cultivation of ginger (Moya Pons 23).
Regardless of ownership, all colonies in the New World faced the same problem: they
were spending more on shipping costs than they could afford and therefore needed to find a
solution to increase funds. Attempts at selling products such as tobacco were usually tried before
giving a hand at producing sugar. Despite great effort from the New World, there just was not a
big enough market to support the shipping costs incurred from ordering modern day luxuries
from their homelands. This was a problem; sugar was the solution. Thus, “within two
generations most of these territories were transformed into sugar plantations” (Lowenthal 27).
Sugar proved to be in great demand and easily grew in the Caribbean land and climate, only
propagated by new technology available through visiting merchants.
Illegal Interactions
In the late 1400s, Portugal was concerned that the Atlantic divisions that had been
declared many years before were being infringed upon, and was specifically concerned with
Columbus’s discoveries in the Caribbean region. However, this dispute was officially taken care
of in 1494 with the signing of the Treaty of Tordesillas. This agreement guaranteed both Spain
and Portugal full power over all lands discovered in the predetermined hemispheres of the world.
The colonists quickly learned that what benefitted Spain did not always benefit the colonists. The
monopoly system that Spain organized soon came under attack as privileged merchants set steep
prices that the colonists could not afford. In addition, Spain was unable to meet the demands of
its colonists, leaving them in a constant state of shortage of food and supplies. The colonists’
demand was clear: free trade with other nations. However, Spain refused to oblige, opening the
floodgates for privateering.
France was the first to take advantage of illegal trading with the Spanish colonies and
their practice was in full force one decade later. These privateers were not just interested in
attacking loaded ships, but also began to attack and destroy Caribbean ports. Spain eventually
reacted to these threats in 1540 by building forts at the colony’s most important ports: Havana,
Santo Domingo, San Juan, and San Germán.
19
Not all foreign trade in the New World was hostile, however. Because Spain
could not meet the demands of its colonists, nor would they allow free trade with other nations,
the colonists began to illegally trade with other nations against Spanish law. This illegal trade left
the Spanish colonies open to an attack on Santo Domingo in 1586. The invasion of Santo
Domingo was pivotal in the history of Caribbean trade, because it showed Europe that Spain was
vulnerable and unable to protect or defend their Caribbean possessions. Spain immediately
responded by building protective forts in all major Spanish Caribbean ports. About ten years
later, in 1595, when there was an attempted attack on San Juan, fortifications were already in
place and the attack was kept at bay.
Privateering was becoming so commonplace that, in fact, in the last two decades of the
sixteenth century, it was becoming almost impossible not to participate in illegal trading, as
nations other than Spain paid higher prices for goods purchased in the Caribbean. Other than the
dangerous conditions that illegal traders faced on the seas, Spain and the Spanish colonies were
also in danger. Spain faced financial ruin, as illegal trading meant lower annual revenues paid to
the Spanish government, and the colonists were continually interacting with English and Dutch
Protestants, who posed a great danger for the Catholic religion. Faced with the aforementioned
conditions, the turn of the century came with greater measures to prevent illegal trading.
There were three major propositions in play at the time: permit larger ports to trade
directly with Seville, send an armada to clear Caribbean waters of all illegal ships, or destroy the
coasts of Hispaniola, where smuggling was prevalent, and relocate the colonists to Santo
Domingo. King Philip III chose to destroy ports in Hispaniola and relocate its inhabitants to
Santo Domingo, a plan that was executed between 1605 and 1606. King Philip III’s decision to
vacate large areas of cultivated land would forever change the course of the Spanish colonies, as
French, English, and Dutch explorers would, in the years to come, take possession of land
previously owned by Spain.
Tobacco Cultivation in the Colonies
Tobacco use was gaining more popularity than ever in Europe in the first twenty years of
the seventeenth century, spurring various English expeditions to the New World in search of
ideal growing conditions. Tobacco was widely used for med icinal purposes amongst sailors and
the general public, but Spain prohibited its growth and sale in 1586 in order to prevent illegal
trade. By the early 1600s tobacco was also being used as a form of currency and, for this reason,
20
had become the most sought after product by Dutch pirates. King Phillip III of Spain became so
fed up with the amount of tobacco smuggling in the Caribbean that again in 1606 he prohibited
the cultivation of tobacco for ten years. However, just as before, the colonists continued to
secretly grow tobacco and illegal trade spread despite prohibition.
Many of the first English colonists arriving in the Caribbean between 1605 and 1640
were drawn to the prospect of a better life based in the cultivation of tobacco. Despite failed
attempts at English colonization in the Caribbean due to Carib Indian invasions, the English
finally settled St. Kitts in 1619, taking advantage of its ideal conditions for tobacco production.
Sugar in the Lesser Antilles
While the sugar industry was beginning to boom in the English colonies mid-seventeenth
century, the Spanish colonies had long since abandoned the sugar plantation and moved on to
other crops. When the Portuguese captured the city of Pernambuco in 1654, many Brazilians
migrated to the Lesser Antilles, drawn by the incentives the Dutch colonists were offering. The
Dutch saw this migration as an opportunity to benefit from the profound knowledge of these
migrants in regards to successful sugar plantations. The English did not know much about how to
run a successful plantation, but the expertise gained in the mass migrations from Brazil in the
years of 1647 to 1650 quickly changed their situation.
The French colonies were significantly further behind Barbados and other English
colonies in the production of sugar until the late 1650s when the French colonies began offering
similar incentives to Brazilian immigrants trained in the production of sugar. The Dutch colonists
were much more learned in the practices of sugar production and were significa ntly more
comfortable than the French and English in purchasing large amounts of slaves to cultivate the
land. Despite their importance to the rapid change of the tobacco-based economy to a sugarbased one in the years between 1650 and 1670, the Dutch Jews who had migrated to the Lesser
Antilles did not stay for much longer.
While the tobacco plantations were previously cultivated by white indentured servants,
the Lesser Antilles witnessed a change in labor force when it became a sugar-based economy.
Rather than compensated laborers, the French and English sugar plantations were worked by
African slaves. Despite slavery taking over plantation labor, indentured servitude did not
completely disappear from the Lesser Antilles until the eighteenth century. This rapid
development of the sugar industry led to a rapid increase in the slave population, which some
21
islands, such as Jamaica, attempted to balance with an increase in white indentured laborers. The
French and English islands also continued to face attacks from the Carib Indians who the
colonists originally attempted to convert to slaves, but after repeated attempts it was clear that
they would need to exterminate instead.
By the 1680s, Caribbean planters were convinced that slaves were a better investment
than indentured workers for four major reasons: 1) they adapted better to the Caribbean climate
and suffered less fatal diseases, 2) many slaves were already accustomed to manual agricultural
labor, since it was their lifestyle in Africa, 3) African slaves who were uprooted from their
homeland and transferred to an unknown land were usually much more obedient than indentured
workers who were already accustomed to the society and expected to rise in the social ladder
after a certain amount of work, 4) many plantation owners were hesitant to treat white indentured
workers as harshly as African slaves because they were Christians (Moya Pons 68).
With the increase in slave labor, there were some technological changes that took place
on the plantations. The sugar mills were running almost twenty-four hours a day, as it was
necessary to continuously work with the sugarcane by-products during the production process.
The technology of sugar mills in the Caribbean during the second half of the seventeenth century
was very similar from island to island, as technological changes did not differentiate one
colony’s plantation from another until years later.
One example of mills that were not standard, however, was the mills on Barbados and the
Leeward Islands. The flat landscape and dependable wind patterns of these islands permitted
them to make use of wind power to fuel windmills, taking some of the pressure off animal and
man power. The French colonies’ landscape did not permit the use of wind power, but they did
make use of water and animal power, in addition to man power. The Spanish colonies only made
use of animal and man power to produce sugar. Regardless of additional power resources used,
all colonies made use of slave labor.
Although Cuba had already been producing sugar for a century, it was a secondary factor
in the Caribbean sugar industry. King Phillip III of Spain offered a loan to Cuba in 1600 to better
the current state of their non- modern plantations that utilized very few slaves. When the loan was
offered in 1602, only 16 Cuban plantations qualified because only these 16 plantations were still
actively producing sugar. Cuban colonists invested in the sugar industry because they also had
the backup industry of copper mining that was not available to other Spanish colonies that had
22
become more cautious in their sugar investments by this time. The other Spanish colonies were
also dealing with stiff Brazilian competition in the sugar industry.
Inadvertently, the Cuban cities of Santiago and Bayamo were repeatedly attacked and
destroyed during the Thirty Years War, forcing plantation owners to move closer to Havana for
protection. King Philip IV of Spain did not offer any further incentives for Cuban sugar
plantation growth and the purchase of slaves, preventing the Cuban sugar industry from
developing as quickly or as strongly as the French and English sugar industries. By the 1670s,
the Cuban sugar industry was suffering under the success of the sugar industry in Barbados and
Brazil.
Mass production of sugar caused many social changes throughout the Caribbean because
in the past, anyone could grow tobacco and other products for profit, but it was very labor
intensive for a small amount of product whereas only wealthier families could afford the costs of
a sugarcane farm. Owners of sugarcane farms were necessarily rich or rece ived help from
European bankers and merchants because “a sugar factory required a heavy investment in
buildings, machinery, and labour, and continuous substantial supplies of raw cane; thus sugar
estates were much larger than the earlier farms” (Lowenthal 27). Within a short period of time,
most land was consumed by sugarcane production, desperately attempting to meet the great
demand for refined sugar.
Sugarcane production was significantly different than previous agricultural endeavors
undertaken on the islands. The opportunities to become affluent and climb the social ladder were
difficult to come by because land acquisition was a difficult and expensive process, as was labor.
Due to the high costs of labor, plantation owners turned to Africa for cheap labor rather than
employing those already present on the islands, especially because “slaves were needed in
quantity: a West Indian sugar plantation of 500 to 1,000 acres might require 250 hands in a field
and factory,” rendering it completely impossible to run and grow sugar plantations with only the
resources currently on hand (Lowenthal 28).
While the sugarcane plantation started out as a means to an end, it quickly became a
formulaic representation of wealth and abuse. According to Lowenthal, the
best estate land was devoted to sugar, some of it to freshly planted cane, and the
rest to rations grown from cane stalks cut in previous years. On the remainder
draft animals were pastured, slaves’ provisions grown, and trees cut for building
23
materials and for fuel to run the factory. The cluster of stone factory buildings –
mill, boiling house, curing house, and often a rum distillery, was often substantial.
Their remnants, together with ruins of aqueducts and windmills, still evoke the
characteristic West Indian plantation landscape. Round about were wooden
workshops, storage sheds with cane trash and supplies, slave huts, and, usually at
some distance, the planter’s residence, or ‘Great House’. (Lowenthal 28)
By the end of the eighteenth century, sugar plantations had taken over the outermost
reaches of the Caribbean. Many current day studies of the Caribbean believe that the structure of
the Caribbean “physical landscapes, social structures, and ways of life are in large measure
plantation by-products” (Lowenthal 28). Taking it a step further, Lowenthal states that “sugar not
only caused Caribbean territories to resemble one another, it substantially unified them” and
furthermore, “imperial interchanges actually enhance[d] Caribbean homogeneity,” oftentimes
making it difficult to distinguish one from another, without taking a closer look (Lowenthal 2829). As seen throughout the histories told here, the Caribbean is anything but homogenous.
The rise in sugar plantations in the Caribbean also increased any and all white European
settlement in the Caribbean to insure a sufficient quantity of planters funding the crops. Just the
same, slave unrest caused French planters fleeing the Haitian revolution to relocate in the eastern
Caribbean islands in the late 1700s. Oftentimes, unsuccessful plantation owners would move
from island to island seeking greater success by implementing the same structure and
organization as previously done in their past location. This continual flux between islands as well
as intermarriage within the upper white social class created strong social, political and
commercial ties. When relocating, plantation owners would even implement shared techniques
or depend upon their new wife’s knowledge of plantation structure on her island to then reapply
on their new land.
However, movement between islands was not reserved only for the white population, as
many slaves were also reluctantly transferred from one plantation to another or ended up in
another location purely by need of surviving capture as a runaway. These movements, however,
were not in vain, because, as Lowenthal notes, the “communication among various local folk
languages gave rise to a Caribbean-wide linguistic community, and some sense of regional
familiarity penetrated the remotest country districts,” creating some level of solidarity both
between the white slave-owning class and the slaves themselves (30). This continual back and
24
forth between this tight cluster of islands, previously limited to outside influence, has created “a
general community of culture, ideas, and institutions” seen throughout the Caribbean for the
remainder of the century and into current day political, social and economic function (Lowenthal
30).
Economic Downswing in the Hispanophone Caribbean
With a significant decline in slave population in the Spanish colonies, the sugar industry
continued suffering and in turn poverty was running rampant while many previous plantation
owners attempted their hand at raising livestock or used their land to grow just enough food to
survive. In addition to many other changes experienced in the Spanish colonies during the Thirty
Years War, the power structure was affected due to the abundant presence of the militia,
especially in areas close to fortifications. The once all powerful plantation owners were now
faced with a powerful armed militia and were afforded no privileges by these men. The dates
when the Spanish colonies became dependent upon Spanish sustenance was when it was clear
that the sugar industry would never return to its glory days. The situado was first sent to Cuba, in
1563, then Puerto Rico, in 1586, and finally to Hispaniola in 1609.
Overall, the Spanish colonies in the seventeenth century were continuously plagued with
poverty, as not only the sugar industry suffered, but also the ginger industry. Many of the
colonists were distraught over the damaging combination of low production, frequent epidemics,
delayed shipments and limited trade with Spain, and the lack of contact with the outside world.
In order to compensate for the continued downfalls of the Spanish colonies, most colonists were
forced to participate in illegal trade to assure their survival.
Saint-Domingue
Surprisingly, after finally fulfilling the desire to find new land, it has been said that many
settlers of the West Indies did not have any strong emotional attachment to the land or the people
they encountered there because, after the harsh circumstances that eradicated the indigenous
population, there were no ties to the past and no genuine care fo r the land. Many of the European
settlers came to the islands to make a profit and considered their life in the West Indies as
temporary and as a means to a monetary end; many others considered the New World their new
home. While it is true that many of the white French and British bourgeois that purchased
plantation property and slaves did not even stay on the island, they instead hired a plantation
manager to take care of business while living abroad in a land and culture that was familiar and
25
comfortable. In the Spanish Antilles, the story was different. Many of the landowners came to
the Caribbean with the intention of settling and making a life for themselves.
Lowenthal points out that even in current times, many “West Indians after three centuries
still identify themselves, if not as strangers, at best as ‘Creoles’ – an expression of condition
rather than nationality” (Lowenthal 32). The use of this term is defined differently throughout the
world, and generally denotes a sentiment of non-white misfit – of non-belonging. 22 For example,
Creole has been used to refer to New World born slaves, marooned slaves, coloreds and in some
cases such as the French Antilles, it refers to whites born in the New World (Lowenthal 32). 23
The diverse historical past of the Caribbean has led to the creation of a diverse presentday history. Historically, the Caribbean has had a profoundly conflicted history and even more
confounding perspectives of historical accounts. According to Leopoldo Zea, what the Caribbean
suffers from is an “unconsciousness of its own history,” rendering it difficult, if not impossible,
to accurately depict the past events that formed the region that exists today (Zea 31). This would
seem to be just another conflicting perspective on the Caribbean, but Jalil Sued-Badillo further
stresses the historical nature of the present day Caribbean, noting that the Caribbean “has also
distinguished itself as having been the last colonial space in America – all of which means that in
much of the Caribbean past still constitutes much of its present, whether there is consciousness
22
The English use of the word “Creo le” has come to define any of the following: language, culture, people, and
cuisine. A Creole language is one that originally was a pidgin, but has been stabilized and naturalized as a region’s
language through the passing on of the pidgin to the next generation, which it is then defined as “Creo le”. It is
important to note that various Caribbean islands in their majority use a “Creo le” language, exp lained via the
constant immigration and emigration of settlers as well as the constant change of ownership up to and including the
nineteenth century.
The term “Creole” can be used to describe culture and generally refers to the syncratic nature of a given
culture, meaning a new culture made out of the mixture of many cultures. In the Caribbean, the presence of many
different settlers, immigrants, and slaves who have myriad places of origin have created a new Caribbean culture
that is a representation of the mixing of all their individual cu ltures.
The world “Creole”, when used to define a person or group of people, seems to have the most precise
definit ion. In addition, a “Creole” person is the varied, as each region seems to have a different defin ition of exactly
what this means. For my purposes, I will only define Caribbean uses of the term. In its most general use, “Creole”
refers to anyone who was born or raised in a reg ion that was not the birthplace of their parents. In Guadeloupe and
Martinique, the term is used to refer to anyone of mixed race. While the term carries a slight defin ition of co lor, it
mostly refers to the person’s mixed ancestry. In Jamaica, Do minica, and Barbados, the term is used to define
persons of mixed African and European descent.
“Creo le” cuisine refers to the Louisiana Creole that developed as a mixture of typical European dishes that
were adapted to implement local foodstuffs in Louisiana. This cuisine was developed due to the heavy trade traffic
between the Caribbean and Louisiana ports. Louisiana “Creole” cuisine was used and perfected within the plantation
homes of the wealthy French settlers.
23
The term colored is used here as an all-encompassing term to refer to mulattoes, creoles, mestizos, or any other
Caribbean inhabitant with mixed European ancestry.
26
of it or not” (599). If it is true that the Caribbean present is similar to the Caribbean past, it has
been said that the targeted cause of this seemingly repetitive history is the lack of historical
knowledge.
Sued-Badillo contributes the lack of prior historical knowledge in the Caribbean to a lack
of reputable sources that have been properly put to use, lamenting that “not only are its primary
sources still kept in distant archives or fragmented and sometimes lost in local circuits, but also,
due to linguistic reasons and difficulties in professional communication the dispersal process is
often exacerbated” (600). Without proper access to these archives and without interest in a
greater understanding of the complexities of Caribbean society, very few have gone out of their
way to access these hard to reach documents and further current understanding of the past.
Previous experience shows that natives have lacked in interest and desire to order historical
documents in a coherent, cohesive manner, while many nonnatives have been disinterested in
investing the time and study necessary to cross linguistic barriers that have shut them out (600).
This same lack of knowledge is apparent in present day “textbooks, irrelevant news
coverage, and official promotion of ideologized historical festivities” that offer a skewed
perception of reality (Sued-Badillo 601). It would seem then, that this cyclical pattern of
historical misunderstandings and misrepresentations means that Caribbeans are destined to repeat
history (whether they know it is repeating or not) and stunt forward progress. This has not been
the case of the Caribbean.
While few have organized profound, accurate and effective studies of the Caribbean
spanning centuries, UNESCO’s History of the Caribbean Project feels strongly that the
Caribbean deserves our utmost attention and respect, as well as further study for the following
reasons:
first, because the region was concerted, since the very first stage of the Conquest
itself, into the first European overseas enclave with dramatic and immediate
consequences for the region and for Europe as well; second, because for 500 years
the Caribbean has been and continues to be one of the most important strategic
regions – economically and otherwise – for the power centers of the world; third,
because this long and multidimensional process is still at the very roots of
contemporary Caribbean reality and impinges on its efforts to define its historical
identity and its national projects; and finally, because the recovery of this lost
27
history is vital to the intellectual decolonization of its peoples and for overcoming
what Eric Wolf has called ‘false models of reality,’ which have hindered the
Caribbean from feeling equal before the rest of the world. (qtd. in
Sued-Badillo 600)
It is clear, as presented here, that further profound study of the region would prove to be
beneficial not only for the Caribbean itself, but also for the global society. The exploited nature
of the Caribbean is reminiscent of colonial times, although still fresh in the Caribbean memory.
In addition to the historical unconsciousness of which Sued-Badillo speaks, it is similarly
important to remember that the Spanish Inquisition took up residence in Puerto Rico about 1519
and stayed until the nineteenth century, giving way only to more repressive militaristic regimes
and new colonial governments.
One of the more common misconceptions about the colo nization of Caribbean land is that
it was by pure chance that Columbus landed at Hispaniola and settled, but Sued-Badillo points
out in “Christopher Columbus and the Enslavement of Amerindians in the Caribbean” that “the
conquest of America did not begin in the Caribbean because its lands were the first to be
encountered” but rather, “it began in the Caribbean because the Spanish found gold in promising
quantities” (qtd. in Sued-Badillo 601). Therefore, from the beginning of its European encounter
in the late fifteenth century, the Caribbean has been used for its resources and beneficial
geographic location. Generally speaking, settlers in the Caribbean began with mining gold for
profit, later moved into the tobacco, hide and silver industries as well as a few other low profit
bearing industries and by the second half of the sixteenth century had taken quite well to the
sugarcane industry, due to the perfect climate and soil for this crop. Production in the Caribbean
was so high that it created a trade system within the colonies, strengthening their relationships
within their circumstance and geographical area, rather than shipping goods back to the
mainland.
There is still much debate on the facts, and because the Caribbean was the last region
under colonial rule in the Americas, these offenses are still rather fresh in the memories of its
inhabitants. Sued-Badillo insists that “archaelogical research in the Caribbean, still dominated by
a North American orientation and North American capital, has simply refused to address the
subject of colonialism and underdevelopment in the region” (Sued-Badillo 603). There is a great
need for the unmarred historical truth of the Caribbean and its peoples.
28
The Caribbean Plantation and Slavery
The plantation system has long been associated with sugarcane production. Walvin states
that “Europeans first encountered sugarcane on plantations in the eastern Mediterranean at the
time of the Crusades” (Walvin 49). The sugar products produced on these plantations were
delivered to Europe, where only the wealthy could afford a sweet tooth. When Columbus first
landed at Hispaniola in 1492, there was already a large market for the sweet product in Europe,
so it was just a matter of time before the colonies would take advantage of the more than
acceptable growing conditions of cane sugar in the West Indies.
Sugarcane production reached into the Atlantic with the colonial settlements of the
Atlantic islands of Madeira and the Canaries, and later São Tomé and Príncipe in the sixteenth
century (Walvin 50). The land was managed by wealthy investors, while the manual labor was
performed by African slaves, which had previously proved successful in the British conquest and
settlement of Ireland (Walvin 50).
While the Spanish settlers were the first to plant sugarcane in Santo Domingo in the early
1500s, “it was, however, the Portuguese who firmly established the importance of sugar
plantations in their Brazilian settlements, exporting their first sugar in the 1520s, and expanding
their plantations (engenhos) using both Indian and African slaves in the 1540s” (Walvin 50). The
British and French, having experienced similar agricultural problems to that of the Spanish, also
realized the possibilities of plantation production in the West Indians and began to set up similar
systems, hoping for successful business ventures.
While the plantation structure was designed to produce mass amounts of sugarcane,
lining the pockets of the already wealthy settlers, Walvin assures that
the plantation was not simply a means of bringing land into fruitful and
profitable cultivation; it became an instrument for transforming the landscape.
The natural habitat was chopped and burned into submission, alien flora and
fauna were introduced (along with alien peoples) and manmade systems of roads,
fields, buildings and walls were in place. Planting food for survival, building
shelter for protection, and then cultivating crops for export, settlers (white, black
and mixtures of both) slowly imposed a manageab le physical shape and an
orderly regime of work and life on what had recently been virgin land. (51)
29
Therefore, it seemed that the benefits naturally produced by this rigid power system were
endless. The power experienced by master plantation owners was celebrated in the community as
well, where rich white men ran social circles, directed the colonies’ economic endeavors and had
the loudest vote in regards to legislation, including implementation and enforcement; these
plantation owners were invincible. The plantation owners and planters often garnered the same
power in their homelands, where many of them chose to reside while paying other settlers to
manage their land so they could live the life of luxury they sowed, while simultaneously lining
their pockets with income from the plantation. The planters also “had come to form a distinctive
socio-economic group: the ‘plantocracy.’ Planters (in league with their commercial and maritime
backers) formed cabals and pressure groups to influence metropolitan opinion and policy
towards their own colony and towards the Atlantic slave system as a whole” (Walvin 52). Those
who were able to afford the life of a planter also enjoyed a seat at the top of the power pyramid
in the colonies and in the mainland.
While the sugar industry thrived under the plantation structure, the West Indies became
increasingly more valuable to its beneficiaries. The largest and most beneficial producers for the
British colonies was Jamaica by the mid 1600s, showing an increase from 146 plantations in
1671 to 690 in 1684, proving its importance (Walvin 54).
A decree of King Louis XIV of France in 1670 declares that “there is nothing which
contributes more to the development of the colonies and the cultivation of their soil than the
laborious toil of the Negroes” (Williams 136). It was commonly believed amongst colonial
settlers and many mainlanders alike that the abolishment of slavery would inevitably lead to the
demise of the colonies and all that had been achieved in the previous centuries.
Despite seemingly unstoppable success, the colonies depended heavily on imports from
the mainland. In addition to such necessities as the metals for making farming tools and
machinery, the colonies were completely dependent upon African slave labor. These colonies
were by no means self sufficient, but they were never expected to be from the start. As Walvin
notes, “the hope that plantations would stimulate British manufacture and employment had been
an important issue from the start,” creating a favorable situation for the mainland as well as for
the colonies (Walvin 57).
Ethically speaking, many on both sides of the Atlantic were against the use and
mistreatment of slave labor for monetary benefit. However, the plantation system worked well –
30
maybe too well – because the abolition of slavery was not a willful decision of the plantocracy,
but rather a necessity, as slave revolts were becoming increasingly more common and
threatening. The plantation system was so high functioning that despite emancipation and
abolition, many plantations did not change, slaves were not permitted to leave and those who
were released were still treated as runaways. Plain and simple, the plantation system and slavery
worked hand in hand in creating an economic dream – one that could not be stopped even by the
end of slavery, which lasted in Cuba as late as the 1880s.
While the plantation structure underwent some changes in the colonies, it maintained the
general form and structure as previous versions of the same. Plantations in the colonies were
significantly larger in size and because of this became more complex in function. In addition,
Europe already had experience in dealing with imports from Mediterranean plantations. While
the plantation structure was effective in mass producing sugarcane, it also “had become the
social organization for land settlement and cultivation in a host of other crops and industries”
(Walvin 55). Anyone who disagreed with the plantation structure was subject to prosecution,
most likely socially. Whether or not the plantation structure was well liked, it was well respected
and well supported; it kept the rich powerful whites on top and the black slaves on the bottom,
leaving no room for doubt about where an individual belonged in the social arena.
The structure of a slave-driven plantation strongly depended on the size of the plantation
and the crop being produced. For example, tobacco plantations were usually pretty small while
rice and sugar plantations were larger and slaves endured much more arduous work because of
the harsh conditions in which the crops grew. Walvin takes care in pointing out that “during the
sugar and rice harvests and at planting times, slave life was arduous in the extreme; hours were
long – as long as natural light would allow – and breaks were few. But this was true only for part
of the agricultural year. Elsewhere, slave work was less demanding” (56). Therefore, plantation
life cannot be easily defined as easy or hard, cultivated primarily by slaves or not, nor by any
other clear-cut definition; most often, plantation life could not be defined in black and white
terms.
The wealthy plantation and slave owners led a somewhat dangerous life, always
observing the fine line between plantation function and slave revolt. Despite accounts of poor
treatment on behalf of the slave owners, it was necessary that white settler always remember that
“their friends were distant, military assistance might be days away, and there could be no
31
guarantee that unrest might not rattle their doors witho ut the least warning” (Walvin 57).
Plantation owners and managers must always be ready for a slave uprising. As we have seen, the
colonies were very dependent on the mainland for all their materials as well as support in
addition to depending on their slaves for many other things. For many slave owners or their
masters, the “authority and his circumstances was for him a source of aggravation and shame. He
found himself dependent on his slaves at every point – for livelihood, for safety, for comfort,
even for companionship,” despite his power position over the slaves (Lowenthal 38). This
dependency on the slaves made it difficult to maintain power structures.
However, plantation life existed and continued to exist only as Europe saw fit. As a
matter of fact, Europe controlled so much of what happened in the colonies that many settlers
failed to recognize the colonies as a unique location and did not give it much of a chance as a
home, but rather as a money maker. While this declaration has been highly disputed, it is clear
that British and French endeavors in the colonies were significantly different when compared to
the goals set forth in the Spanish Antilles. While the Spanish intended to settle the land and stay,
British and French interests did not lead to the same desire for its settlers. Even the settlers who
began families in these colonies chose to spend a fortune sending their children to school back
home and the general feeling of those who went to school abroad and returned is that they
regretted going back to the island (Lowenthal 35). However, there was not much choice in the
means of education in these colonies. If a child’s family did not have the means to send him
abroad for schooling, he remained uneducated.
The conditions of the New World were far from the luxuries that European settlers were
accustomed to in their homelands, and, due to this, many French and British landowners saw the
Caribbean as “unfit to live in, the territories failed to acquire a true elite” (Lowenthal 36). The
term “Colonial Elite” was considered contradictory to British and French settlers, because if a
man had the means to be elite, he would not have to stay in the colonies, but could return home
and run his plantation from there (Lowenthal 36). If a man were not wealthy enough to be
considered elite, he was doomed to stay in the region and direct a plantation for a wealthier white
residing in Europe. This “Antillean absenteeism left rural whites little alternative except slave
modes of life. Isolated from other whites, with daily contacts limited to slaves and free colour
servants, the Creole [white] woman in particular took on folk speech, diet and customs” both as a
means of survival and in some cases because of a genuine interest and desire (Lowenthal 38).
32
For the most part though, these same wealthy investors, not surprisingly, saw only slaves
as appropriate for the tough manual labor required for plantation survival. While there were
slaves already in the West Indies of non-African descent, it was the Africans who were believed
to be the most fit for this work since many were accustomed to agricultural labor in Africa.
Because the settlers selected just this one category of slaves as the most fit, Walvin feels that
“plantation slavery was racial and, to justify the peculiar bondage of the Americas, there evolved
a language of race” (61). So, just as the plantation structure in itself affected the structure and
function of society, economics and law, the racialized power structure of the plantation created a
racialized thought process pertaining to the treatment of and interaction with slaves and coloreds.
It is clear that the British did not invent the plantation system, but rather their
involvement in perfecting and making the plantation more complex is undeniable. As Walvin
concludes, “it was the British who perfected the Atlantic system – maritime trade, African
labour, tropical produce, domestic consumption and manufacture – which hinged on the
plantations” (Walvin 63). Previously, these systems would not and could not have worked with
the simple nature of the plantation, but with British involvement, in time, the plantation structure
grew to be able to direct all areas of colonial life.
The Eighteenth Century Caribbean Sugar Economy
The transition from tobacco farming to cane sugar cultivation in the British colonies was
slow, and for many years, the two crops were produced simultaneously. According to Moya
Pons, these years of transition were characterized by three influential events: 1) the depleted
number of tobacco farmers who were forced to sell their land to sugar farmers, 2) Barbados
focused solely on sugar production, and 3) Jamaica abandoned cacao production and also
focused solely on sugar production (95-96). As was experienced in the British colonies as well as
the rest of the Caribbean, the focus on sugar production as the sole crop paralleled a decrease in
white indentured laborers and a significant increase in African slaves.
While Jamaica was the largest British colony, it did not reach similar productions levels
as Barbados until 1720 due to the lack of indentured workers and slave laborers, as well as the
constant presence of pirates in Port Royal. Jamaica also dealt with co nsistent French and Spanish
attacks on English ships in the Caribbean, making it necessary for Jamaica to become a military
zone for protection during the War of the League of Augsburg, which lasted from 1688-1697,
and the War of Spanish Succession, lasting from 1701 to 1715. The history of the British
33
colonies in the seventeenth century is one of success and overcoming the odds, as they were able
to increase sugar production and become the main consumers and exporters of sugar in the
Caribbean.
By the beginning of the eighteenth century, sugar had ceased to be a luxury for the rich,
but it was a staple in the diet of the European middle class and poor, as well. However, as the
economic market predicts, as the demand for sugar rose and it became more abundant, prices
significantly dropped. The price of sugar continued to fluctuate wildly well into the eighteenth
century, seeing only an inkling of stability upon the termination of the War of Spanish
Succession in 1715. While the price of sugar consistently dropped during the first three decades
of the eighteenth century, European consumption and demand greatly increased. The English
colonies responded by producing more and meeting European demands, but when the sugar
prices greatly increased in 1734 and continued to rise, European consumers had already become
accustomed to its presence in their daily diets and preferred to pay whatever price was asked,
rather than cut it from their diet (Moya Pons 98).
The French colonies’ success in the sugar industry at the end of the seventeenth century
and beginning of the eighteenth relied upon many factors, one of which was the selling of sucre
blanc, a better quality sugar than the muscovado that was produced by other Caribbean mills.
Another factor that contributed to French colonial success at this time was a drive to cut British
sugar exports in 1714 when the War of Spanish Succession ended.
As always, increased production creates a great need for an increased labor force.
Necessarily, Europe was closely related to the merchants wealthy enough to fund the first slavetrading companies. At the beginning of the eighteenth century the trading circuit was designed in
a triangular manner. This practice came to be known as “Triangular Trade,” where manufactured
goods were traded for African slaves, who would then be transported to the Caribbean to be
traded to plantation owners for sugar, which would then be delivered back to Europe in exchange
for manufactured goods, where the cycle would start over. This system worked well until about
mid-eighteenth century when shipbuilders made specially designed ships called “West
Indiamen” to travel between Europe and the West Indies.
The British and French colonists settled in the West Indies under the guise of exploiting
the land for gain. Therefore, the abundance of absentee planters wrought havoc on the largely
undeveloped colony culture. For example, very few planters were interested in paying taxes to
34
colonial governments in order to organize public structures such as constructing and maintaining
roads, and building public buildings, schools or hospitals. The main concern of these wealthy
planters, who had the most power in colonial decision- making, was to put all their money and
energy into maintaining and bettering plantations and mills. Since there was little concern other
than effectively and efficiently producing sugar, financing the slave trade became the basis of the
French and British economies.
Due to the harsh conditions and maladjustments of slaves to the colonies, there was a
high turnover rate that slave purchasers needed to take into account when strategizing their
purchases. Early on, many purchasers valued female slaves for their natural ability to reproduce
and contribute to slave populations, but illness, elective abortions and excessive and exhaustive
manual labor prevented slave women from complying with this desire of the plantation owners.
Rather, female slaves became valued for their cane-cutting skills, as many had come from
female-driven agriculture societies, and for their success in domestic chores as house slaves.
Due to the shortages in available investors, it was necessary to look to other means to
grow the sugar industry. The answer lay in technological changes, rather than wealthy investors.
One such island to partake in technological changes during the eighteenth century to increase
efficiency and productivity was Jamaica. Jamaica increased their productivity with a system
called the “Jamaican Train” which implemented a system in which the bo iling system was
regulated more exactly, which in turn helped to extract more sucrose from the cane juice. This
technological advance did not only benefit Jamaica, however, but it became so widespread that
the technological standardization made plantation life in the British and French colonies nearly
homogenous, making it very easy for plantations to continue functioning with little friction when
plantations changed hands due to wars.
Eighteenth Century Trade
In the early 1700s, smuggling was so prominent that the British Parliament was forced to
approve the Molasses Law. Meanwhile, in Hispaniola, the Spanish authorities tried to take
control of the livestock trade by heavily taxing the colonists. When the Real Compañía de
Comercio de la Habana was created in 1740, Cuba’s luck changed because this company
organized and protected the monopoly of sugar sales from Havana to Spain. As the company
began to earn profit, they offered loans to planters to better their mills and to purchase more
35
African slaves. For the next 20 years while it was in control, the Cuban sugar industry made
significant leaps.
During the second half of the eighteenth century, Europe learned that while France,
Spain, and England attempted to control Caribbean trade, fair trade worked much better.
However, this knowledge did not come easily, as there were various wars and natural disasters
that contributed to the final outcome of this gradual acceptance.
Wars Affecting the Caribbean
According to Moya Pons, there were three defining events of the second half of the
eighteenth century that contributed to the changes in economic, political and social structures of
the Caribbean: 1) The Seven Years War from 1756-1763, 2) the American Revolution from
1775-1783, and 3) The Haitian Revolution from 1791-1804 (126). While all of these conflicts
did not have to do with the Caribbean colonies, they served as a battleground for the tug-of-war
fights between the colony owners. As in the past, the colonies bounced back from this obstacle
and returned to growing the sugar industry.
One effect of these events was the rise of sugar production. The rise of sugar production
in these islands came at a time when other sugar industries in the Caribbean were slowing down
or stopping, which would seem to create a greater market for this new sugar industry. However,
just as other British colonies were burdened with high export taxes, so were these new British
territories, making them non-competitive with prices of sugar from the French colonies.
Caribbean Plantations and Mass Production
While sugar remained the most important export from the Caribbean during the period
between the Seven Years War and the American Revolution, this time was marked by a mass
diversification of crops across the Caribbean. The crops that gained popularity were cacao,
cotton, tobacco, ginger, and indigo. But, coffee, first introduced to Martinique in 1723, was the
quickest growing fad and became the runner up for most important export during this time
period.
The initial interest in coffee was based on its low start-up costs and significantly easier
cultivation when compared to sugarcane. The start-up cost for coffee was relatively low because
it required nothing more than land and the price of beans. Coffee cultivation did not interfere
with sugarcane production because, while sugarcane needed wide open land that had been
36
cleared and prepared for cultivation, coffee plants thrived in areas of higher elevation, such as
the mountains, and needed partial shade, so the land did not even need to be fully cleared.
The British economy and sugar production faced significant changes when the United
States declared independence, because the Union chose to cut off almost all trade with England
and preferred to engage in free trade with primarily the French and Dutch Caribbean colonies.
Not only did England’s economy suffer from the outcome of the American Revolution, the
British colonies faced the consequence of broken trade ties with the American colonies. Thus,
the British colonies suffered widespread shortages and poverty.
While the British colonies continued to suffer during this period, the French and Spanish
colonies experienced unprecedented growth and prosperity. The French colonies opened many
new ports that were subsequently used primarily for trade with the United States. While France
intended to maintain monopolistic control of the trade system, free trade was already the widely
accepted and expected norm. However, when France would not easily accept the colonists’ pleas
to engage in fair trade, many white rebellions against France broke out in the French colonies,
and some led to slave revolution, such as in Saint-Domingue.
Effects of the French Revolution
While trade had reached unprecedented quantities at the end of the seventeenth century,
the white planters, grands blancs, were still not happy with the French legislation that prevented
colonists from forming colonial assemblies, thus, their political views were not taken into
account. Many were so frustrated that they chose to default on their loans and return to France,
where a club of absentee planters, known as the Club Massiac, was formed in 1789 with the
intention of obtaining political autonomy in Saint-Domingue.
France was not only concerned with the unrest of the grands blancs, but also with the
free mulattoes, gens de couleur, who were even more frustrated than the grands blancs, because
they were treated poorly in a society that had allowed them to achieve freedom against their will.
These gens de couleur felt that they were even more entitled to a vote than the grands blancs
because they were born and raised on the island, making it more theirs than the grands blancs. In
an effort to thwart any power held by the gens de couleur, the grands blancs instituted a
significant amount of discriminatory laws designed to break down the spirit of the gens de
couleur and to make them feel less citizens than the wealthy white class. All of these laws were
37
in direct discordance with the Code Noir, instituted in 1685 to pro tect the freedom and
citizenship of freed slaves.
The free mulattoes realized that their rights were clearly being violated and began to
organize in order to protect their rights. The Société des Colons Americains was started in 1789
in France and quickly joined forces with the Société des Amis des Noirs, an organization of
French abolitionists started the year before. Thus, when the French Revolution finally broke out
in 1789, strong relationships already existed between wealthy mulattoes in the French Ca ribbean
and in France. The problem of accepting the rights of the mulattoes was that the white plantation
owners were concerned that the slaves would also start claiming their human rights. At this time,
the abolition of slavery was not a choice, as many felt that it would most definitely destroy the
economy that they had spent so much time and energy growing to the success that it was at that
point. In turn, they feared widespread bankruptcy.
To pacify the masses, France issued legislation in 1791 that d eclared all land- holding
mulattoes and free blacks born of free parents to be free and to be full citizens. While this law
was accepted by the mulatto and black population, it did not pacify the white population. As a
matter of fact, it angered the white population so much that the French government had to send a
civil commission to Saint-Domingue to prevent civil war.
The desires of each group were clearly defined: the grands blancs desired political
autonomy and eventually independence, the gens de couleur desired equality with the whites and
eventual independence, the petits blancs desired full political rights and equality with the grands
blancs, and finally, the slaves were interested in freedom and equality as well.
While the slave revolt of 1791 came as a surprise to a majority of the island population of
Saint-Domingue, the slaves had been quietly planning for months. The French troops could not
ward off the revolt, as they had been politically divided for some time and were not working well
together. While there was a short period of time when the grands blancs and the mulattoes joined
forces to put an end to the slave rebellion, the two groups eventually began to wage attacks on
each other. The grands blancs received military aid from Jamaica, while the slaves enlisted help
from the French military. The slaves found an ally in Spain less than a year later, since Spain was
interested in regaining the western half of the island that they had lost years earlier. At this point,
Saint-Domingue was the richest colony in the world, and Spain wanted it.
38
In an effort to calm the situation in Saint-Domingue, France sent another civil
commission in 1792. This commission attempted to appease all involved – except the slaves. The
commission appeased the grands blancs by promising the continuance of slavery and appeased
the gens de couleur by guaranteeing that French law would only recognize two categories of
people, despite their color: freemen and slaves. Predictably, the slave trade was abolished slowly
and unwillingly throughout the Caribbean. The British abolition of slavery took place in 1833,
French abolition in 1848 and Spanish in 1820. The last two islands to abolish slavery in the
Caribbean were Puerto Rico and Cuba, abolishing slavery at much later dates: 1873 and 1880
respectively.
Williams cites the following five categories as those most pertinent in consideration of
the abolition of the slave trade system: economic factors, political factors, humanitarian
agitation, international and inter-colonial rivalry as well as social factors (280). In the nineteenth
century, sugar production had begun to decrease steadily and lead to new social and economic
structures.
Despite the definitive abolition of slavery in Saint-Domingue, there was still much
division within racially categorized groups. While many blacks chose not to fight alongside the
grands blancs, one who did choose to fight was François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture, a
leader who had been gradually gaining support and power during this period. His military
strategy helped the grands blancs regain all territory that Spain had captured, forcing them to
pull out of the war.
Spain signed a treaty with France in 1795, indicating the return of Navarre to Spain and
Santo Domingo to France. The British were upset by this ruling, stating that it was a breach of
the Treaty of Utrecht, a series of peace treaties signed in 1713. To display their disagreement
with this ruling, the British troops from Saint-Domingue invaded Santo Domingo, but were
unsuccessful in recapturing the land. In 1796, a third civil co mmission arrived in Santo Domingo
in order to rebuild the areas damaged by the previous series of fights. Two years later, the British
completely deserted the island and many grands blancs who were upset with the outcome left for
Jamaica.
Due to Toussaint Louverture’s success and popularity in the battle against Spain and
England, he was the delegated leader of Santo Domingo. Immediately he began to organize the
reestablishment of the plantation system, return land to its rightful owners and finally, above all,
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maintain accord amongst the whites, mulattoes, and blacks. One large change that Tousaint made
to the plantation system, however, was that blacks no longer were forced to provide free labor,
but were to remain on the plantation as paid sharecroppers.
Despite Toussaint’s success and acceptance in Santo Domingo, much of Europe, its
colonies, the United States, and Brazil were upset with his new way of management. When
Napoleon Bonaparte came to power at the tail-end of the eighteenth century as a result of support
from both the white bourgeoisie and white peasantry, Bonaparte believed that he must not only
create political stability in France, but also in the French Caribbean. Bonaparte’s grand plan was
to remove Toussaint from power, restore slavery on the entire island, and utilize the western half
of the island that had never been cultivated as an area of mass plantation construction that would
eventually lead to greater French colonial expansion (Moya Pons 158).
However, when Bonaparte and the French troops arrived on the island in 1802, they were
met with a bloody battle, headed by Toussaint on behalf of the colonial rebels. When Toussaint
was captured by the French military later that year, Jean Jacques Dessalines and Henri
Christophe took over control and led their troops to victory, aided in part by yellow fever killing
much of the French military, who surrendered in 1803.
Now that Dessalines and Christophe were leading the colony, they came to the
conclusion that they would never come to an agreement with pro-slavery France and declared
Haitian independence in 1804. This declaration of independence was followed by a massacre
targeted at extinguishing the white population, save a few priests. Haitian independence was
further cemented with the draft of a constitution that prohibited whites from ever owning land or
buildings in Haiti.
Haiti was not the only French colony involved in revolution during this time. The
revolution in Martinique and Guadeloupe began for the same reasons as in Haiti: co nflict and
power struggle between the grands blancs and the petits blancs, as well as France’s
unwillingness to ease up on the monopolistic legislation in the colonies. When news of the slave
rebellion in Saint-Domingue reached Martinique and Guadeloupe in 1791, the grands blancs
petitioned help from England, further angering France. The fighting ended in 1794 when France
surrendered to Great Britain.
Despite regaining the land, the French colonies were still plagued with the internal
conflicts between racial and socio-economic groups. The greatest conflict among grands blancs
40
in Guadeloupe was a lack of land and resources, a problem they hoped to resolve with an
increased amount of free trade with foreign nations now that they were not bound to
monopolistic French law.
In Guadeloupe, the grands blancs feared a revolt similar to that of Haiti and decided to
join forces with the grands blancs of Martinique. The timing of this decision was unfortunate,
because that same year Louis XVI of France was overthrown, causing the anticipated revolt of
the gens de couleur and the petits blancs in Guadeloupe. The colonial authorities of Guadeloupe
fled to Trinidad while the grands blancs requested British military help. In 1793, the
revolutionaries declared a new government, led by General Louis Lacrosse, which supported
equality between whites and mulattoes.
Beginning in 1798, the government quickly changed hands from one leader to another,
creating a tumultuous state of being. In addition to governmental issues, the people were
constantly faced with political and racial issues even though some laws had been put in place to
prevent this. The greatest loss that Guadeloupe faced as a consequence was the inability to set
their sugar mills into action to take advantage of the hole in the sugar industry due to the
revolution in Saint-Domingue.
During this time, Guadeloupe began discussions of declaring independence from France.
In response, France sent troops to Guadeloupe in 1802 to reinstitute slavery and monopolistic
control over the island. In less than two months, France had taken over the island and dissolved
the revolutionary government. Later that same year, all plantation owners were reoffered their
rights as slave masters, while the gens de couleur retained their political rights. Although power
was relinquished in Guadeloupe, Saint-Domingue was successful in preventing the overtake of
their revolutionary government.
The Fight for Abolition in the Anglophone Caribbean
The Haitian Revolution did not just affect the political and social outcomes of Caribbean
colonies, but it also affected the ability of the Caribbean to effectively and efficiently produce
exports for sale. Martinique and St. Lucia only saw increases in production after being regained
by France in 1802, Jamaica saw small losses due to a slave revolt in 1795 but overall profited
from the war since they had less competitors in the market. Trinidad also experienced large gains
in profitable export, due to readily available British financing, but only after a snafu with
pressure from the abolitionists preventing immediate distribution and cultivation of land for
41
sugar mills. The Trinidad economy lagged a few years behind the rest of the British colonies, but
made up for it with large increases in profit.
During the Napoleonic Wars in France, beginning in 1803, France and Great Britain both
sent naval operations to the Caribbean. The British finished the battle by gaining many new
territories. These conquests left Great Britain as the owners of all the Caribbean colonies except
for the Spanish Greater Antilles. Great Britain chose not to attack and capture any Spanish
territory, as they were allied against the French. However, the British pro-abolitionists were
fearful that such gains in territory would again lead to an increase in the slave trade. To prevent
this type of pattern from occurring, the House of Commons approved the abolition of slavery in
1804 and the House of Lords prohibited the entrance of new slaves into the new British colonies
in 1805. However, abolitionists continued to fight for the complete abolition of slavery, which
occurred in 1808, prohibiting any new entrance of slaves into the British colonies. Interestingly
enough, the abolition of slavery was announced at a point of high sugar production in the British
colonies, as a consequence of the Haitian Revolution.
Only Trinidad and British Guiana were able to sustain economic growth during the
Napoleonic War (1804-1815), and the sugar exports of Jamaica began declining in 1821 and did
not recover until the end of the nineteenth century. The Leeward Islands and the British Virgin
Islands also saw some fluctuation and then steady decline beginning in 1807. St. Kitts, Nevis and
Montserrat saw decline as well, but recovered mid-century. According to Moya Pons, there are
two major reasons that the British colonies saw declines in their sugar industry between the years
of 1807 and 1838: 1) the abolition of slave trade prevented a stable work force, and 2) Britain’s
reinstatement of their monopolistic trade laws, preventing saleable exports to the United States
and in turn putting many plantation owners into bankruptcy (194). At this point, too much sugar
was being produced and expired while waiting for export. The Americans did not need the
British sugar, they learned, because they could easily trade with the French colonies according to
Napoleon’s earlier trade laws.
While the British colonies attempted to keep America out of the Caribbean trade loop,
they attempted to survive off imports from Canada only, which proved to be unsuccessful as the
supply was just not enough to feed the colonists. In 1808, the consequence of cutting off all trade
with the United States was apparent, as the British colonies suffered food shortage, high import
prices, and poverty. The situation escalated in 1812 due to the onset of the Anglo-American War
42
because what little trade was left between the United States and the British colonies was
interrupted.
To make matters worse, perfectly good saleable products were readily available for
purchase in the British islands, but due to the illegality of trade with the American colonies, they
were forced to trade with Puerto Rico, Cuba and the French colonies. However, the supply
shortage lasted for almost twenty years while England and the United States continued their trade
war. In a strategic move by the United States, the U.S. government instituted a two dollar per ton
tax on all British ships in 1817, making trade very expensive.
Severe frustration plagued plantation owners in the British Caribbean, causing them to
make cuts in the maintenance of their plantations. Since the importation of any new slave was
also prohibited, many plantations came to a halt in production for lack of labor and resources.
Finally, in 1822, the British government heeded the requests of its colonists and reinstated free
trade with the United States. The impact of change was felt immediately. However, the period of
reprieve was short for the colonists, as both sides continued to control the situation by imposing
taxes and customs duties.
The Unites States got fed up with this back-and- forth battle and prohibited trade with the
British Caribbean in 1827. Again, the colonists were the first to directly suffer from the
prohibition and again experienced a shortage in supplies and food. Three years after the
instatement of the prohibition of trade with the British colonies, the two governments came
together to reconcile their differences for the benefit of all concerned. After intense negations,
they were able to come to an agreement that was mutually beneficial.
While the British colonies suffered under the trade war with the United States, the British
abolitionists and planters in the British colonies began to petition the government for legislation
that would prevent the illegal smuggling of slaves into the French and Spanish colonies, which
could potentially create an unfair advantage for them in the sugar market. The British
government recognized this as a plausible threat and immediately took action by creating records
of all slaves currently in the colonies and by running periodic censuses. In addition, the British
government started conversations with France and Spain to convince them that the abolition of
slavery was in their best interest.
France signed a treaty prohibiting slave trade in 1815 and Spain and Portugal followed in
1817. Williams notes that while the humanitarian agitation may not have been the direct cause
43
for abolition in the Caribbean, “it was responsible for two aspects of the abolition struggle – the
view that the slave trade was inhuman and its abolition a triumph of humanitarianism, and the
policy that emancipation of the slaves must be gradual” (Williams 295). Due to the
implementation of this information, the slave emancipations and abolitions throughout the region
were much smoother than had all the changes taken place in a short period of time. In addition,
whites had been hearing for some time before emancipation and abolition that slavery was
inhuman, which may have eased the economic pain they felt upon losing previously unpaid
plantation laborers.
The British Parliament made it very clear, however, that there was a great difference
between abolition and emancipation. Previously, the British abolitionists were at odds with the
acceptance of emancipation and only fully supported abolition. Per their interpretation of the
legislature, “the abolitionists turned their attention to measures calculated to prevent evasion of
the abolition act and secure its enforcement. They introduced a bill for the registration of slaves
and another for making the slave trade a felony,” but they did not support emancipation and
complete liberation of slaves until the 1820s (Williams 296). The policy was slowly being
accepted due to frequent attacks on missionaries, not because the British Parliament had a
change of heart.
Britain begrudgingly followed suit and instituted a program of gradual emancipation in
which slaves were first required to complete an apprenticeship. While the original pla n was to
continue the apprenticeship program until 1840, it too was abolished in 1838. Soon after British
acceptance of abolition, the French Government followed, freeing state-owned slaves between
1846 and 1847 (Williams 300). The French Society for the Abolition of Slavery’s 1848 report is,
according to Williams, one of the Caribbean’s most important documents, emphasizing that
“slavery was no longer tenable, and that immediate emancipation, without any transition period
of apprenticeship, was in accord not only with natural law but also with the best interests of the
colonies” (301). Thus, the ball was rolling for slave freedom. Ten years after Britain first
initiated slave freedom, the situation had still not been resolved and it did not seem to be
something that would be resolved quickly. Of all the factors affecting the abolition of slavery, it
is important to mention that the frustration felt by slaves themselves oftentimes lead to revolts.
Williams states that, “in the British West Indies, it was no longer a question of slave rebellions if,
44
but slave rebellions unless emancipation was decreed,” leaving the plantation owners and
directors with no other choice but to grant freedom (Williams 325).
But, with improper enforcement of prohibition, many slaves were still smuggled into the
Caribbean, Brazil and the southern United States. In order to combat illegal slave trading, the
British formed an organization known as the Society for the Gradual Abolition of Slavery in
1823 in order to gradually improve the living conditions of the slaves and then to gradually
integrate them into society. However, England recognized the danger of dismantling the slave
system at a point of economic crisis that was widespread throughout the Caribbean colonies. The
English Parliament commenced a series of debates designed to reform slavery and came up with
the following laws:
1) Women were not to be punished with a whip, 2) An obligatory waiting period
of 1 or more days before men could be whipped, 3) Plantation owners must record
the instances of punishment with three or more lashes, defending the need for
such harsh treatment; authorities could ask to see the ledger at any time, 4) Slave
families could not be split up, 5) Plantation owners were responsible for religious
instruction of the slaves, 6) Slaves could purchase their freedom at any time, 7)
Slaves could work no more than nine hours per day, 8) Slaves were afforded one
full day of rest each week, 9) Slaves could present evidence in a court when
accompanied by a clergyman. (Moya Pons 202)
Despite good intentions, this process of slavery reform failed due to the inability to
enforce the laws set forth. With the passing of K ing George IV of England and the taking over of
his successor, William IV, in 1830, the reinforcement of abolition policies saw a stronger stance.
In addition, by the 1830s, the English Parliament was being filled with representatives who had
been successful in the Industrial Revolution rather than via the sugar industry, making their
decisions to abolish slavery less passion-driven than in the past. Again in 1833, the British
government declared the prohibition of slavery, a declaration that was followed-up with action
this time.
In the early 1800s, profits from sugarcane were steadily declining. In an 1805 Jamaican
assembly, “there were only three topics of conversation in the island: debt, disease and death,” in
response to the abandoned plantations and the lack of profits wielded by those still in business
(Williams 281). Williams asserts that “the principal explanation [for the demise of the Caribbean
45
economy] is that the Caribbean slave economy still lived in the eighteenth century” (282). While
Europeans and their economy and society were in flux, the colonies and their plantations made
few or no changes. One reason for this might be the absenteeism of European plantation and
slave owners in the colonies; however, this was not the case with the Spanish colonies where
investors and landowners remained on the island. Without being physically present, they would
have been incapable of noticing differing trends in product demand. It is even said that “in the
traditional British West Indian fashion, a considerable proportion of the slaves was nonproductive, hangers-on on the ‘big house’, ministering to the social rather than the economic
aspect of the plantation economy,” so much so that the “number of slaves held on an average by
each one of them [slave owners], made the British West Indian slave system in 1833 more like a
system of household management than a commercial plantation economy.” (Williams 284). If
the owners themselves had been present, the plantation overseers would doubtedly be permitted
to continue supporting unnecessarily abundant slaves; these British plantation owners were
businessmen above all else.
Post-Abolition Slave Production in the Anglophone and Francophone Caribbean
As the cost of sugar production was rising in the Caribbean, the region’s importance in
the market took a dive because the product could be obtained from competitors such as India and
Brazil for a much cheaper price than the Caribbean had to offer. There was also competition
from the beet sugar industry that mostly affected the French Caribbean. With the increased costs
of maintaining the sugarcane industry in the Caribbean, it was decidedly necessary to focus on
the shipping costs if trade were to continue. As less sugar was needed from the Caribbean, less
sugar was produced, but at a much higher cost. As less sugar was produced, fewer shipments
needed to pass through the Caribbean, saving the shippers from the costly stops. Eventually, the
decrease in need lowered production and eventually contributed to the emancipatio n of slavery in
the West Indies.
The Abolition Law went into effect in 1834 and affected slaves in the following manner:
1) children under six years old or that would be born from slave mothers were
immediately declared free, 2) all slaves over six years old would remain with their
owner for an apprenticeship until 1840, 3) slaves in the apprenticeship program
would work 5 days per week (40 ½ hours) and were free to rest or hire themselves
out on the remaining two days, 4) masters were required to feed, clothe and
46
shelter the apprentices and/or provide land for personal cultivation, 5) apprentices
could purchase freedom at any time, 6) masters were required to take care of sick,
disabled and elderly apprentices for 6 years. (Moya Pons 204)
Many plantation owners viewed the apprenticeship program as a loss of capital and to
compensate them for their losses due to emancipation, a special court was developed to hear
disputes and compensate monetarily where it was seen fit. Apprentices for hire were common in
the British and French colonies, and their work became increasingly more important after the
abolition of slavery. Regardless of status (ex-slave, hired laborer, or domestic servant), most
aspired to purchase their freedom and cultivate land of their own. Many slaves were even able to
earn a marginal income from selling surplus crops from their personal land plots, which over
time was enough to purchase freedom.
As the apprentices realized the monetary value of surplus crop production, they
negotiated higher salaries, while the masters lessened their pay to accommodate for the gains
they were making through cultivation. As might be expected, apprentices, masters, and colonial
authorities experienced friction under changes of the new apprenticeship system. Due to
increased resistance on behalf of all parties, the British government amended the Abolition Law
to emancipate the slaves two years ahead of schedule, effectively ending slavery in the British
Caribbean in 1838.
As previously mentioned, the sudden emancipation of slaves created a shortage of
slaves soon after. Some sources of contracted laborers came from Sierra Leone, Ireland,
Germany, and the United States. Trinidad found resources by gathering laborers from other
colonies in the Caribbean, Africa, Europe, China, Sierra Leone, France, Germany, and Portugal.
In Jamaica, laborers were imported from Portugal, China, and East India. The Leeward Islands as
well as Grenada, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent imported from Portugal and East India. Despite the
large numbers of imported laborers, many plantations were still in need of help.
Despite large changes in labor and how the British plantations were previously run, the
abolition of slavery did not halt sugar production as it had done in Haiti, but rather opened
plantations to new technological upgrades to take place of the lost manual labor. This
technological advance was first seen in Trinidad in the British colonies with the implementation
of a steam engine in 1804. When the price of sugar rose again mid-century, the government was
so assured that the plantations would be successful that they were willing to again finance the
47
mechanization and expansion of British plantations. Following Trinidad’s implementation of the
steam engine, Jamaica installed the first two steam sugar mills in 1808 and 1813. The steam
engine and steam mill gradually spread throughout the region and another technological advance
allowed the plantations to leap forward in production with the installation of the vac uum sugar
pan used for boiling the cane juice.
While the technological advances in the French colonies were similar, there were a few
differences. When beet sugar came to the forefront of the French market, Guadeloupe and
Martinique could not compete in quality or price. The French growers of beet sugar had better
refining techniques and lower production costs than sugarcane planters in the Caribbean. In order
for the French colonies to compete in this market, they were forced to make their mills as
technologically advanced, or more, than those of the French beet growers. While experimenting
with the steam engines, they finally found the horizontal iron mill to be their technological
advancement of choice.
In 1841, a French industrialist, Paul Daubrée, suggested that the plantation owners
separate their crop cultivation from the industrial work of juicing the cane and boiling it. While
many were interested in this plan, they were equally fearful of constructing new technology after
a large earthquake struck the region in 1843. In Guadeloupe in 1844, the government authorized
the construction of a large central mill where all the factory work would take place for a group of
planters whose plantations had been destroyed in the earthquake. They would grow the
sugarcane on their land and then bring it to the central factory for processing.
These central factories in French colonies were known as centrales, and many other
planters followed this technological lead rather than face bankruptcy working independent ly.
These central factories were run by a combination of slaves and hired workers when they first
began operation and then just by hired laborers as they became more prominent throughout the
region.
Similar to the mass evacuation of slaves from plantatio ns in the British colonies upon
declaration of emancipation, most freed slaves immediately fled the plantation upon declaration
of freedom. Many ex-slaves cultivated various crops on personal land and refused to work on the
plantations as paid laborers, creating a labor shortage similar to that of the British colonies.
Rather than finding other sources of labor like the British planters, the French planters hounded
the government to create a system of obligatory salaried work for freedmen, but the system wa s
48
abandoned in 1870 to allow for the importation of laborers from India to the French colonies.
Thus, both the British and French sugar plantations were able to successfully survive the
emancipation of slaves, inadvertently creating a free peasant class and many race-related
discussions to come.
Sugar in Cuba and Puerto Rico
When the Haitian Revolution destroyed the plantation system in Saint-Domingue, the
prices of sugar rose significantly in Europe and left a gap in the market, which the remainder of
the Caribbean market was ready to fill. Immediately, the downfall of the plantation system in
Saint-Domingue created movement. In Jamaica, both old and new planters scrambled to cultivate
previously uncultivated land and put it to use as sugar plantations, while many French refugees
from Saint-Domingue fled to Jamaica and aided in coffee production.
In the meantime, Cuba’s sugar production and revenues continued steadily climbing
throughout the second half of the eighteenth century, due to credit from the Spanish government.
Despite tripling their production in the last quarter of the century, their production can be
attributed to technological advances such as the Jamaican steam engine, but rather to the gross
increase of plantations and increased slave labor. The area surrounding Havana was where most
of the larger plantations were located, while many smaller plantations were scattered throughout
the central and eastern portions of the island.
As the sugar industry continued to expand during the last quarter of the century, tobacco
farms and cattle ranches were quickly converted into sugar plantations. In order to assure a
sufficient amount of labor, the plantation owners petitioned the King for the ability to import
more slave labor. In 1789, King Charles III of Spain obliged and declared the free importation of
slaves despite point of origin. While the free importation of slaves was only supposed to last for
two years, it was extended for six more to allow the Cuban sugar industry to benefit from the
decreased sugar production in Saint-Domingue.
During this time, the overall amount of sugar mills increased as well as the overall size of
the plantation. Also, many French planters from Saint-Domingue immigrated to Cuba, bringing
with them their plantation expertise. These immigrants were responsible for using the Eastern
part of the island to cultivate coffee plantations. With the knowledge that the French brought to
the island, there was an increase in production and a need for new technology. Cuba began
producing various types of sugar and implemented the use of the Jamaican train.
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The Industrial Revolution brought many new changes to Cuban plantations in the early
1800s, such as the installation of iron mills, followed by the use of the steam engine. While the
steam engine had already been used for quite some years, it was not able to power the iron mill
until 1817. While it is clear that the Haitian Revolution got the ball rolling for the growth and
development of the sugar industry in Cuba, it did not begin booming until 1820. Despite entering
later than Jamaica into the gap in the market created by the downfall of Saint-Domingue, Cuba
quickly surpassed Jamaican production with the onset of technological advances.
Another advancement created by the Ind ustrial Revolution was the construction of a
railroad station between Havana and Güines in 1837, allowing for the cultivation of lands that
otherwise would have been unreachable. These technological advances allowed the Cuban
industry to grow significantly during the first half of the nineteenth century and by 1860, Cuba
was the world’s largest sugar producer, beating out both Jamaica and Brazil.
Simultaneously, Puerto Rico was also taking advantage of the open sugar market created
by the Haitian Revolution, but at a much slower pace than Cuba since many Puerto Ricans were
still plagued with poverty and could not afford to buy into the sugar industry. While the Puerto
Rican sugar industry was insignificant in the world market in 1812, the following decade saw
great strides in production, due to the following factors: 1) the Napoleonic Wars caused a price
surge in the sugar market between 1810 and 1815, 2) an influx of immigrants who came to the
island during the British occupation of St. Thomas from 1807 to 1815 brought new trade ideas
and financial connections to Puerto Rico (Moya Pons 230).
While the sugar revolution in Cuba was initiated and run by wealthy landowners, the
Puerto Rican sugar revolution was initiated by the Cédula de Gracias instituted in 1815. This
decree was designed to pull Puerto Rico out of their financial rut by supporting immigration,
foreign investment and the construction and development of sugar plantations. Due to this
decree, Puerto Rico received an influx of thousands of immigrants in the first half of the
nineteenth century.
The immigrants who reestablished themselves in Puerto Rico came from many locations,
such as the Venezuelans escaping their country’s wars of independence, French immigrants from
Saint-Domingue who used the western coast of the island to grow coffee, Mediterranean
immigrants who were interested in taking advantage of the booming trade market, Germans who
50
had previously been involved with sugar trading through St. Thomas, and many others, including
Americans, Dutch, English, and Danes (Moya Pons 232).
In order to service the large amount of plantations, Cuba continued to import slaves, even
after Great Britain abolished the slave trade in 1807. While the slave trade continued strong in
Cuba, Spain signed a treaty with Great Britain in 1835, again, guaranteeing the termination of
slave trading. Despite Spain’s guarantee, Cuba and Puerto Rico continued to finance expeditions
to Africa to acquire slaves. To combat this problem, Great Britain declared a right to search any
ship destined for Puerto Rico or Cuba, making illegal slave trade even more dangerous.
Eventually, these expeditions lost popularity due to the dangers of transportation and as a
consequence the sugar industry in Puerto Rico steadily declined in Puerto Rico after 1840.
Puerto Rico was not blind to the lack of labor supply and began to take measures to
prevent a complete economic downfall 1838. The government declared that the peasant class was
required to work as hired laborers on the plantations. Despite their efforts to create a class of
readily available laborers, Puerto Rico continued to experience even greater shortages in the
labor supply after 1850. Despite the labor shortage and non-mechanized sugar mills, Puerto Rico
remained the second largest sugar producer in the Caribbean at mid-century, right behind Cuba.
Abolition in the Hispanophone Caribbean
The abolition movement and independence were closely linked in the Spanish Caribbean.
The abolition of slavery in the Spanish colonies was not as straightforward as it was in the
French and British colonies. Abolition in the Spanish Caribbean was impacted by constant
disagreements between the United States, Spain, and Great Britain regarding the issue of proindependence attempts.
In Spain, the reformista movement was dying out and was being taken over by a political
movement in favor of annexing Cuba to the United States. In the past, there had been
conversation of the United States annexing Cuba, but it was always postponed to avoid war
between the States, England, and Spain. Rather, Cuba was made to remain a possession of Spain
until it could be properly incorporated into American culture. In addition, many Cuban planters
feared that a revolution would break out should the island be annexed because many believed
that the annexation of Cuba to the United States would lead to an abolition of slavery, which the
Cuban sugar market still depended on.
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At the same time that the annexation negotiations surrounding Cuba were taking place,
Spain was also dealing with Santo Domingo, who had separated from Haiti and declared
independence as the Dominican Republic in 1844. The U.S. was willing to sign a treaty
recognizing the Dominican Republic as an independent nation in 1854, as they would be
supplied with land to operate ships out of the Caribbean. However, when the Spanish, French,
and English trade negotiators joined forces against the United States, the U.S. negotiators
became frustrated with the dealings and did not recognize the Dominican Republic’s
independence.
While the Dominican Republic was facing difficulty in building a strong and secure
economic and social foundation, they suffered invasions by the Haitians in 1855, 1856, and a
civil war in 1857. At a loss for protection, the Dominican Republic accepted a plan to annex to
Spain in return for stability and security. The reincorporation process began in 1860. Among the
many stipulations that were made was that Spain agreed to respect the end of slavery in the
territory and could not choose to reinstate slavery or the transaction would be null and void.
Santo Domingo was then announced to have returned to Spanish possession in 1861.
The relationship was short lived, as the Spanish government did not recognize the
military ranks of officers, as well as the prevalent racial discrimination and mistreatment by local
Spanish military personnel. As a result, in 1863 as rebellion broke out and quickly spread
throughout the region. This rebellion turned into a full- fledged, 2-year war known as the War of
Restoration. While the rebellion was originally intended to end in independence, it quickly
turned into a racial war as well.
During the War of Restoration, many political changes were taking place in Spain as
well. In addition, the government was aware of the great need for reform in Cuba and Puerto
Rico. The situation in Puerto Rico was significantly different than most of the Caribbean in that
the population of whites outnumbered the population of coloreds, and slaves were only a small
percentage of the total population. Williams says that of the 31,653 slaves in Puerto Rico, they
were divided amongst 2,000 owners (290). Many of these slaves held domestic positions and
worked on small plantations that focused on the cultivation of marginal crops instead of
sugarcane. In fact, at mid-eighteenth century, Puerto Rico was considered a food producing
nation and had a sufficient supply of free labor without the use of slave labor. It is even noted
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that in 1866, Puerto Rico sent delegates to Spain to petition for the abolition of s lavery (Williams
291).
While Puerto Rico held a significantly different point of view when it came to the
Caribbean economy and the place of slave labor in it, another aspect to consider in the abolition
of Caribbean slavery is politics. If ideas on slavery were significantly different within the region,
there was only more conflict when considering European perspectives. On one side of the
argument, slave labor surely was an integral force in the high function of colonial plantations and
on the other hand, the abolition of slavery would lead to the democracy that European Reformed
Parliament longed for. One of the first steps toward abolition occurred in 1833 with an
Emancipation Act instituted by the Reformed Parliament and was shortly followed by the French
working class (Williams 293). Immediately following the French Revolution of 1848,
emancipation was declared in France and a taskforce was designed to quickly declare
emancipation in the French colonies. Many in Cuba and Puerto Rico were convinced that that the
only way to combat this issue was to rebel against Spain.
Many in Puerto Rico and Cuba were strongly influenced by Spain’s defeat in Santo
Domingo and felt that they could also defeat the Spanish military. In 1868, the conservative
Spanish government was overthrown and the queen fled the country. The Spanish liberals that
overthrew the government responded to rebellion in Cuba with military force. This military
presence led to war between Cuba and Spain, a war named the Ten Years War after the duration.
When the first war of independence in Cuba broke out in 1868, the Revolutionary Carols
Manuel de Céspedes in the historic Grito de Yara immediately freed the slaves, having learned
from Abraham Lincoln that no nation could survive half slave and half free (Williams 294). Not
only did Spain have to worry about the independence movements in Cuba, they were also
concerned with spreading their resources too thin if they were to simultaneously involve
themselves with abolition in Puerto Rico. In Cuba, rebels nominated Carlos Manuel de Céspedes,
a plantation owner, to lead the rebel army. He emancipated his slaves in 1868 and in turn they
fought alongside him. Many were in agreement that abolition was the only solution for
avoidance of the continued fighting in Cuba.
Meanwhile, the United States, under Ulysses S. Grant, signed an annexation treaty with
the Dominican Republic in 1869, causing fear in Spain of the possible loss of Puerto Rico and
Cuba, while strengthening the confidence of Cuba and Puerto Rico in their drive for
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independence. Segismundo Moret, the Spanish foreign minister, feared that the United States
would enter Cuba under the pretext of slavery. For this reason, he presented a law for the
preparation of the abolition of slavery in Cuba and Puerto Rico to the Spanish Cortes in 1870.
This law was accepted later that same year. Known as the Moret Law, it permitted the partial
abolition of slavery and effectively calmed the abolitionists in the United States and Great
Britain.
The law took two years to go into effect because it took a significant amount of time to
publish and enforce the new regulations. The Moret Law did not quiet the Puerto Rican
delegates, however, as they continued to fight for immediate emancipation. The Spanish
government eventually complied, liberating the remaining slaves in Puerto Rico in 1873. The
complete abolition of slaves in Puerto Rico caused widespread protest amongst the Cuban
plantation owners which led to a warring conflict that lasted five years in Cuba. Cuba’s slave
population was finally decreasing for the first time in the nineteenth century.
Despite the institution of the Moret Law, the United States and Spain continued to benefit
from increased sugar production in Cuba. Many plantation owners were upset with the abolition
negotiations in Spain and were willing to go as far as destroying all the plantations in hopes of
bankrupting Spain. President Céspedes was overthrown in 1873 due to internal disagreements
over how to handle the abolition conversations and the United States declined recognition of the
Cuban Republic due to this change in government.
As the slave population was decreasing in Cuba due to the Moret Law, sugar production
actually increased due to the mechanization of the mills and to a varied workforce. While the
plantation owners preferred to work with slaves, they gradually became accustomed to working
with slaves alongside labored workers. One of the major changes experienced during this time
was the institution of the patronage system, similar to that of Puerto Rico’s system. However,
there was bigger and better machinery available on the market at this time, and the real success
of a plantation lay within those that could afford to purchase the machinery used for mass
production and then later earn back the spendings.
If a plantation owner were rich enough to afford this new machinery and convert his
small ingenio plantation into a monstrous ingenio with less slaves and more production, he could
expect that the average return from a 33 acre plantation originally producing 27 tons of sugar to
provide 36 tons of sugar with the improved equipment (Williams 290). However, those
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plantation owners that could not afford new machinery had no choice but to close up shop
because they would never be able to compete with the new plantation production, leaving fewer,
but much larger sugar producing plantations in the Caribbean.
Centralized Sugar Production
Simultaneous to the abolition of slavery in the Spanish Caribbean was the technological
advancements of the sugar mills, allowing for continued production. At this same time, beet
sugar was creating competition with sugarcane in the European market. While sugarcane
continued to control the European market, beet sugar surpassed it in 1840 in the French and
German markets due to government incentives for producers. The rest of Europe quickly jumped
on the bandwagon and began to produce beet sugar. This influx of readily available beet sugar
decreased the need to import cane sugar and ultimately lowered the price of sugar.
The increased sugar availability led to increased consumption and other markets that
utilized sugar also saw a surge, such as chocolate, tea, and coffee. In order to adequately compete
with the beet sugar market, Caribbean mills had to increase production through modernization of
their mills. The first mills began the mechanization process between 1843 and 1848 in
Martinique and Guadeloupe, and the rest of the region followed suit.
However, the increase in availability of sugar in the European market created a decrease
in the price of sugar, leaving many plantation owners in Guadeloupe with large startup cost debts
that they could not repay. Martinique was able to finance the construction of their central mills
with local finances and therefore was much more successful. Some plantation owners in both
locations chose not to take part in the creation of central mills and chose to partially mec hanize
their mills instead. Again, the decrease of sugar prices in Europe wiped out these plantations,
allowing the larger central mills to remain in production. The smaller mills were liquidated and
sold to European investors who combined smaller mills into larger central mills.
The British Caribbean was only partially mechanized when beet sugar hit the market as a
strong competitor, and similar to the French Caribbean, the British colonies also moved toward
fewer, larger, more centralized mills financed by large companies. However, by 1890 in Jamaica,
newly installed vacuum vat pans created a more desirable sugar product. At this time, Jamaica
and Barbados were the lowest producers of sugar in the Caribbean region. As a result, many
Jamaican peasants began purchasing land that was cultivated for the growth of coffee and
bananas, which would later supply the United States banana market after 1869.
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The Spanish Caribbean experienced the same type of centralization of mills, with the first
one being built in 1873, the same year slaves were emancipated. The Puerto Rican planters were
quick to realize that they too would need to modernize their plantations in order to remain
competitive in the sugar market. The plantation owners purchased as much land as possib le and
began building central mills, centrales, that where more efficient at producing sugar. The
centrales were supplied by colonos where the cane sugar was actually grown. Foreign investors,
such as France, England, and the United States, were necessitie s for the construction of these
centrales, as very few plantation owners could afford to construct one by themselves.
Concurrent to the sugar revolution in Puerto Rico was the increase in sugar production in
the Dominican Republic, also caused by the use of centrales. Due to the Cuban War of
Independence between 1868 and 1878, many Cubans fled the island to purchase cheap, abundant
land in the Dominican Republic. The land in the Dominican Republic was especially fertile, so
immigrants began construction of sugar mills in 1874, near the city of Santo Domingo. Sugar
production in the Dominican Republic continued strong, even through the world sugar crisis of
1884.
The centrales in the Dominican Republic paid higher wages than in other parts of the
Caribbean, creating an even greater reason for immigrants to move there, gradually reducing the
scarcity of laborers. However, this reduction was not enough. The centrales were not producing
enough sugar at a fast enough pace. In addition, the deforestation caused by construction of the
centrales displaced many peasant communities that were responsible for growing sustenance
crops, creating a lack of food and ultimately causing a huge price increase in the food that was
available.
In Cuba, the construction of centrales was much more significant than in other Caribbean
regions. The Ten Years War led to mass destruction of plantations in the eastern half of the
island where fighting was taking place, but in the western half of the island, plantations had not
been affected and continued to produce. American investors saw the destroyed land as a business
opportunity, and immediately began purchasing the ravished lands and offering cash advances to
planters willing to work as colonos for the centrales they planned to build on this land. However,
the loans offered carried high interest rates that many could not repay, and their financers
foreclosed on them.
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The sugar crisis of 1884 did affect Cuba, increasing foreclosures. The lost land generally
was given to the American and Spanish companies who then combined even more plantations
together to create even larger centrales. By the end of the nineteenth century, the sugar market
was again producing sugar in large quantities. Just as Cuba was reaching unprecedented heights
in sugar production, the United States and Spain started a customs duty war in 1894 by raising
prices on exports from Cuba. At this point, Cuba was already dependent upon the United States
market as well as the Spanish market. Any interruption in trade would create financial ruin for
Cuba.
Regardless, Cuba had bigger problems to deal with, as a second War of Independence
broke out in 1895 and proceeded to destroy many of the newly constructed plantations. The war
caused widespread bankruptcy of the plantation owners who could not financially recover from
this devastation as well as the drop in sugar prices in the world market. Throughout the war, the
Cuban public requested that Cuba be annexed to the United States in hopes that free trade
between the two locations would be reinstated.
The United States did intervene in 1898, but rather than annex Cuba, the States took it on
as a protectorate and instated a military regime. During this time, most of the sugar ownership
was transferred to American corporations who could finance the losses and promote growth once
again.
United States Control in the Hispanophone Caribbean
The military strategy of the revolutionaries was to attack Cuba’s economy and therefore
burnt all the property they came across. The Spanish troops in Cuba fought back by doing the
same. The fighting came to a stalemate as the revolutionaries gained control of the island’s
interior and the Spanish troops gained control of the major cities. During this time, both sides
requested intervention from and annexation to the United States, but the stalemate was broken by
the revolutionaries before the United States could respond. The revolutionaries continued taking
over cities one by one and finally the United States, under William McKinley, intervened in
1898, but only to secure peace and then to leave the government reformation to the Cuban
people.
Later that same year, the United States demanded the cessation of hostile activity in
Cuba, but Spain rejected this plea. Five days later, the United States declared war on Spain and
immediately overtook Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. Spain offered these three
57
territories, as well as Guam, to the United States in exchange for twenty million pesos, and in
turn, the United States agreed to recognize Cuba’s independence.
Now under U.S. military control, Cuba quickly reorganized their political parties and
prepared to have elections so that the United States could retreat. The military government
supported the American investors who had come to Cuba to reinstate plantations, sugar mills,
and railroads that had been destroyed by the war. One example of these American corporations
was the United Fruit Company. By 1905, more than 60 percent of the island was owned,
controlled, or operated by American companies or individual investors.
Essentially, Cuba was being run as if it were a United States colony. In 1901, the United
States instituted conditions under which the Cuban government would be reinstated and
demanded that they be inserted to the Cuban constitution as an amendment. This amendment was
known as the Platt Amendment, after the senator that fought for its entrance into the constitution,
Orville H. Platt, and indicated that the United States would and could reinstate military control in
Cuba during politically unstable periods. It also required Cuba to accept any U.S. military action
as valid and final. In 1906, when Cuba attempted to remove their current president, Tomás
Estrada Palma, from office, there was political unrest which led to another U.S. military
intervention. Again, another military government was in power until 1909.
As for sugar production on the island, Cuba quickly bounced back to its role of primary
supplier to the United States, as the U.S. recognized the Cuban government and in turn reduced
trade tariffs. The success of this agreement was apparent, as almost all sugar produced between
1903 and 1910 went directly to the United States.
The United States’ intervention in Puerto Rico was similar to that of Cuba. As the
nineteenth century drew nearer, the Puerto Rican sugar industry was in crisis. The steady drop in
prices caused many plantation owners to give up on sugar altogether and try their hand at cattle
ranching. The United States military arrived on the island in response to their wartime status with
Spain, causing the Puerto Rican economy to suffer even more. Land prices were decreasing and
many landowners were so frustrated that they abandoned their land and sought livelihoods
elsewhere. However, it turned out that the U.S. military occupation was a win- win situation for
both sides, as Puerto Rican sugar began entering the American market in 1899 with much
success.
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With the success that the Puerto Rican sugar was experiencing, many foreign investors
were drawn to the economic opportunities that awaited them in Puerto Rico. French, Corsican,
English, German, Spanish, and American investors began allotting their money to the
construction of new centrales that would process sugarcane. The land where the new plantatio ns
were built was the coastal plains that had not been cultivated before this time. As experienced in
Cuba, the small, independent mills, or hacendados, were forced to join larger centrales or to
work as colonos, cultivating sugarcane and then delivering it to the centrales for processing.
While Cuba and the Dominican Republic were faced with a lack of labor at the onset of such
furied growth, the Puerto Rican plantations in 1919 were more than sufficiently supplied by local
laborers.
Social Change
Throughout the Caribbean, sugar production was back up and most of the islands also
had a sufficient amount of private farms used to grow foodstuffs for the population. In addition, a
new middle class was forming on many of the islands as well, as the free mulattoes and the white
European immigrants began to band together, co-inhabiting cities and towns. This group served a
powerful social function at the time: intermediary between the rural native population and the
foreign population of planters, investors, merchants, and bankers. This rising middle class
became even more widespread and especially diverse in the Dominican Republic and Cuba,
where liberal policies toward immigration enticed new settlement.
Importance of the Sugar Plantation in Caribbean Economic Structure
The sugar plantation has been demonstrated here as the underlying economic factor that
shows the continuity of the Caribbean, rather than the differences in political, social, and
ecological elements. The existence and importance of the sugar industry in the Caribbean
colonies also demonstrates why not only the countries that owned these colonies, but many other
surrounding nations all had such a large part in the formation and control of these territories.
The slave and plantation system dominated this region for almost 400 years, putting
many other structures in place in politics, social relations and, of course, in the economic
functioning of the region. While the Caribbean is generally studied as a fragmented sociopolitical
entity, it is important to recognize the underlying economic system that creates similarity
throughout the region as well.
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Caribbean societies faced major change in 1930, when they were involved in the Great
Depression. It was during this time that each region became entirely dependent upon the
decisions of their local government, and also became the time when the Caribbean nations began
to significantly diversify. Other outside factors, such as World War II and the Korean War,
further diversified the area, as each region was dependent upon their local government’s
decisions. The sugar industry eventually went into financial crisis and only Cuba persisted in
reviving sugar production well into the twentieth century.
Today, the Caribbean functions as a somewhat related e ntity, but is made up of many,
varied backgrounds that play an even larger role in globalization, both in regards to the effect it
has in the world market and in regards to the effect the world market has on Caribbean identity.
Role of Triangular Trade and Slavery in Social Organization
There is no doubt that the triangle trade and the slaves it supplied to the Caribbean and
North American colonies played an integral part in the economy, politics and society during its
existence. Oftentimes, the white colonists were greatly outnumbered by the slave and colored
populations. In Barbados in 1698, slaves outnumbered whites eighteen to one; in Jamaica in the
same year, slaves outnumbered whites six to one; in Martinique in 1701 the ratio was three
coloreds to every one white man; in Guadeloupe in 1697, coloreds outnumbered whites by more
than three per every two white men; and in Grenada in 1700, coloreds were more than double the
number of whites (Williams 137). The seventeenth century would have been significantly
different for the world had the Atlantic slave trade not been such a successful business venture.
According to Williams, what had started in “1450 as a Portuguese monopoly, had, by the end of
the seventeenth century, become an international free-for-all” in which all entrepreneurs had
their opportunity to make it big (Williams 138).
In 1698, the British Parliament opened trade to all British subjects willing to pay a fee for
exporting goods to Africa with the intent of purchasing slaves to later be expo rted to the
Caribbean colonies. While Spain had previously made it clear that the continuation of the slave
trade was certainly necessary for the survival of sugar plantations, Britain made their decision to
collect fees for trade based solely on economic evaluations.
It was no secret that many slaves died during the shipping process due to disease, poor
nutrition and the crowded and poor conditions in which they were transported. However, many
traders were well aware of this possibility and even factored it into their purchases. Very few
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recognized the death of a slave as a loss of human life, but rather a cost of business, despite the
fact that thirty percent of slaves died while crossing the Middle Passage (Williams 139). The
conditions did not change much upon purchase and placement on a plantation. Here, slaves died
just as frequently, about one third in the first three years, making it necessary for increases in
shipments of new slaves from Africa, further promoting the continuation of triangle trade.
In fact, referring back to Lowenthal’s estimations of slave populations, “Africans and
their descendants have outnumbered all other West Indians since the 1650s,” when the slave
trade was in full swing. (Lowenthal 39). Despite outnumbering whites, slaves had little to no
control over what happened to them, as the plantation owners were all powerful beings in the
colonies. The treatment of slaves differed from one master to another and oftentimes, among
other factors, depended heavily on the nationality and religion of the owner (Lowenthal 39).
Lowenthal reports that Spanish law required that slaves be treated “as members of families and
beings with moral personalities” whereas the French Code Noir of 1685 mentioned nothing of
the treatment of slaves, but rather “elaborated slave routines, duties, and punishments, and the
obligations of masters” (Lowenthal 39). The reality is that there was no one all encompassing
code that pertained to all slave owners in the Caribbean. Much less than documentation was
colonial enforcement of the laws set in place, leaving slave owners to their own devices, and
leaving them fully dependent upon their own personal morals and business ethic which,
expectedly, varied widely from one master to the next.
While there were specific Spanish and French codes of law regarding the treatment of
slaves in the colonies, the British colonies were without, and generally slaves of British owners
were treated much more harshly than those protected by the French and Spanish codes of
conduct.
However, there are others still, who swear that the treatment of slaves depended more
upon geography than nationality, meaning the harsher the terrain or the work conditions, the
harsher the commands and punishments of the owner. And finally, there are others who believe
that the treatment of slaves differed drastically from one owner to another, dependent upon
nothing other than the character of the owner. Regardless, slaves throughout the colonies were
met with much the same fate: hunger, disease, death, separation from family, harsh working
conditions, brutal punishments, and the list goes on.
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Lowenthal cites Harris in saying that “the whole debate concerning the relative severity
of different systems of slavery is ‘a waste of time’… since beyond a certain point of brutality and
dehumanization, differences of degree hardly matter to an oppressed population” (41). However,
Lowenthal is also quick to point out that “West Indian slavery was more than a way of life, it
was the way of life, the only one that mattered there” (42). The picture painted here is that of
lack of power and lack of control, both on the part of white slave masters and significantly more
so for slaves themselves. It is quite true that one must follow the rules and regulations of the
period and those who strayed were up against much more than a whipping or the loss of some
friends, but they were up against a whole system (encompassing social, political and economic
factors) that had been strengthened through years of success.
It has longtime been the general consensus of slave holders throughout the world that
West Indian slavery was without doubt the most harsh slavery due to “conditions of work,
nourishment, confinement, and punishment” (Lowenthal 42). In fact, records report that while
almost four million Africans were sold into Caribbean slavery, the African population at the end
of slavery did not even reach one and a half million (Lowenthal 43). It should come as no
surprise that many slaves did not live to be sixty years of age, given the conditions in which they
lived. The absence of slave owners and the well known mortality rate of slaves both encouraged
slave masters to treat slaves in a generally harsh manner, since the slaves were not their own, and
because they needed slaves to produce as much as possible before dying. Despite harsh
conditions and treatment of slaves, owners and masters oftentimes reported runaways and ill
slaves for crimes they had not committed in order to receive compensation from the government.
Unfortunately, the circumstances of the Caribbean were cause for this unbelievable
treatment and existence. When trade prices soared, slaves worked harder, when hurricanes or
other unfavorable weather conditions struck, slaves were the first to be denied rations or
acceptable housing, when slave owners were absent, slave masters were more cruel. The
aforementioned circumstances “created environments favourable to cruelty and inhumanity and
attracted planters and officials who could enjoy or endure them,” leading to much social unrest
and constant slave uprisings (Lowenthal 43). Many whites were in constant fear of the outcomes
of these slave uprisings because they were greatly outnumbered by slaves who would stop at
nothing for freedom. Runaways also became more and more common in the nineteenth century
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as the slave population continued to grow in comparison to the white population because there
was not enough man power to locate and recapture runaways.
The slaves were also subjected to abuses of the colonial government, of which the
metropolitan government had no knowledge. According to Castañeda, “the most outrageous [of
colonial abuses] was the separation of the slave family” (145). While there were laws protecting
families, the slaves were oftentimes sent to very rural areas where they were hidden in order to
break the spirit of another family member. Quite possibly the most damaging of these
circumstances was when children who were born free were sold as slaves or when very young
children were separated from their mothers. Also, the price of slaves was often increased by
slave owners to prevent their sale. Because of this, slaves could face kidnapping if their owner
had raised the price too high for sale. It was always the slave that was punished for the owner’s
last minute price change.
Despite the numerous accusations that slavery in the Caribbean was by far the worst form
of slavery, Lowenthal explains that “in one respect West Indian slavery was less onerous than in
America: the ease of manumission and opportunities for economic advance. West Indian slaves
could and did gain freedom more often and more rapidly than slaves in the Southern states could.
West Indian whites tolerated free coloured persons, for whom “American society found no
place” (Lowenthal 45). Due to the large volume of emancipated slaves, the Caribbean economy
and society would collapse if coloreds were not permitted to enter the work force and take over
many positions previously held by whites who fled the colonies upon abolition and
emancipation. However, since the number of slaves in North American colonies was
significantly less in comparison to the population of whites, it was much more difficult to whittle
a place in society. Colored persons in North American colo nies often faced cruelty and were
demeaned on a daily basis, not to mention they were very infrequently offered work that paid an
adequate salary for survival, whereas this was not the case in the Caribbean.
Upon liberation of slaves, very distinct divisions of belonging were set in place for the
purpose of social ranking. While slaves, it mattered not how light or dark a slave’s skin was, but
upon liberation it did. It was then necessary to produce documentation showing what percentage
of African blood a colored person possessed and their place in society was directly related to this
distinction. Oftentimes, many coloreds would have such light skin that they would be able to
pass as white, bypassing this divisive and demeaning system of identification, as most Caribbean
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inhabitants of African descent had no recollection of Africa or were too far removed from their
original ancestors to have any inkling of Africa itself.
However, this system proved very beneficial for those with light skin or who could prove
very little African ancestry because they were afforded special privileges. This was especially
important for very light skinned women who were more likely to be married by men and could
comply with the desire to “whiten the race” as was the goal of many d uring this transition
period. 24 For slaves lucky enough to have domestic tasks instead of working in the fields, these
women would quite often find themselves in a much better position. Many times, “these
[household] tasks, especially being midwives, helped enslaved women to acquire their freedom,
which could also be obtained through ordinary sexual life with a white man” (Castañeda 143). In
fact, “in the West Indies, interracial sexual liaisons were openly countenanced, especially where
white women were few. Whites customarily had coloured mistresses, and white fathers regularly
placed coloured daughters as concubines” (Lowenthal 47). Therefore, while these women were
afforded the special privilege of having sexual relations with a white man, they oftentimes never
became anything more than the mistress or a concubine. While the white males were expected to
take advantage of the females present in the colonies, it was the females who were punished for
their non- moral acts.
As times changed, it was rather acceptable for a white family to recognize “their coloured
offspring but often educated them in Europe and left them large properties. Some coloured
families rivaled elite whites in wealth and style of life” (Lowenthal 48). This was a much
different circumstance for freed slaves in the North American colonies who received a less
welcoming invitation into society.
24
The plantation masters and white settlers were greatly outnumbered by slaves of African descent as well as other
descent such as Asian and Indian. The white masters greatly feared a slave rebellion that they would not b e able to
control due to the sheer amount of slaves. While this was a very real fear for plantation owners, fear of slave revolt
began to take change over time and eventually resulted in xenophobia, a fear of strangers and their cultures. This
xenophobia was directed at Africans and has played a large part in racial and social relations in the Caribbean.
During this time of mixing of cultures, it remained important for wh ite Europeans to protect the power they
possessed due to the color of their skin. Many Europeans refused to even interact with racially d iverse individuals or
slaves, let alone build intimate relationships with them. It was clear that whiteness was equal to power and mixed
race was not. While many white Europeans refused to interact with the racially d iverse population in order not to
relinquish power and stature, just as many were co mfortable interacting with diverse people. For the people of nonwhite European descent, it was clear that the color of their skin could affo rd them more priv ileges, they whiter they
were. With this in mind, the goal was to reproduce with white Eu ropeans, or someone of mixed ancestry if you were
African, in an attempt to gradually “wh iten the race” by birthing children who were lighter-skinned than yourself.
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Despite the general acceptance of colored offspring and colleagues, the abolition of
slavery did not arise out of a resounding desire to do away with the system, leaving many whites
upset at the change in power structure. Freed slaves were continually at risk of being captured
and re-enslaved, unless proper documentation could be provided. The system that prevailed
when it came to coloreds was that they were guilty until proven innocent.
In most of the West Indies, whites believed that some system of color was necessary in
keeping the power structure in place and found loopholes in metropolitan legislature to make it
possible. For example, after France abolished legal distinction of color among free persons in
1830, white plantation owners excluded free coloreds by creating high financial standards that
could not be met (Lowenthal 50). However, in other regions, such as Haiti, where the freed slave
population greatly outnumbered the whites, the tables were turned; whites were faced with the
same degradation and limitations as the blacks were previously – they were not even permitted to
own plots of land.
As can be seen, the abolition of slavery led to a boom in new legislature, reforming by
and large the laws previously based on slavery. Because the two main factors promoting antislavery were economic and moral, there was a great desire for reform on the behalf of the
mainland, despite lack of interest in the colonies. Many slave owners and masters still in the
Caribbean at the time of slave emancipation chose to leave the Caribbean and head back to
Europe if their funds allowed. Even more difficult than orchestrating the abolition of slavery was
the drive to improve slave conditions, as most plantation owners were required to either provide
a mandatory apprenticeship program or enter into 3-5 year contracts in which they would
compensate their previous slaves for labor completed throughout the duration of the contract.
Examples of laws that were put to action were forbiddance of flogging of females, no
government officials were to own slaves and the necessary speeding up of manumission. Many
colonists did not approve of these laws made abroad, but rather fe ared that even the mention of
reform would lead to more ravenous slave revolts.
After emancipation was achieved in the Caribbean, many reformist leaders believed their
work to be finished, but none were aware of the long term effects that ex-slavery colonies would
suffer. Many of these reformers were so ill informed that they “expected ex-slaves to be eternally
grateful and well behaved” (Lowenthal 56). This was not the case, and many whites were quick
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to point out the naturally poorer state of blacks, as their behavior could not any longer be blamed
on slave conditions.
There were a good amount of plantations that actually increased in production after the
short term apprenticeship programs and contracts were put in place, but soon enough the exslaves were engaging in disagreements with their ex-owners over wages and other financial
business. Because, in many cases, slaves were not given what they wanted in these financial
agreements, they quit the estates and looked for work elsewhere. According to Lowent hal,
“hundreds of planters were driven into bankruptcy” due to lack of man power to harvest the
crops and prepare them for export (Lowenthal 57).
It was proving to be more difficult than previously thought to do away with the plantation
system, and many slaves took matters into their own hands by claiming undesirable or unowned
land plots for their own and began to prepare the land for crops. Plantation owners also took
matters into their own hands. Without manual laborers, they could not harvest their crops and
were faced with imminent bankruptcy if they did not search for other means of survival. Many
chose to recruit manpower from outside the Caribbean to make certain their crops would survive
and their products be sold.
Many plantation owners wore blindfolds when it came to the demise of their plantations
in a post-slavery economy. The decline in production was attributed oftentimes to lazy ex-slaves
who were required to stay on hand either as an apprentice or a hired worker for a period of time
after abolition, but the reality is that the plantation structure just was not working anymore.
Many whites did not understand the continued rebellious spirit of ex-slaves after freedom, but
rather contributed their “defects” to “racial inferiority, innate and ineradicable”(Lowenthal 57).
Time and time again, the success of emancipation was determined by the sole fact that the
production of sugar was rising or falling. Rising production assumed success while declining
production assumed failure.
In regards to allowing ex-slaves the right to vote, many were not even interested,
disbelieving in the power of their vote. Regardless, the majority of slaves were unable to vote on
account of not being landowners. For many, “the hierarchical habit was so ingrained that few
West Indians thought of a broad suffrage; they viewed the ballot as a special privilege, not a
natural right as in the United States” (Lowenthal 63). A fair amount of slaves did not even feel
that voting was their right, nor did many whites want to share their rights with the same ex-slaves
66
that they once owned and controlled. However, in 1846, according to Anton V. Long, the
Jamaica Assembly agreed to seat an ex-slave who had been elected to office, opening the door
for future colored leaders (Lowenthal 64).
Racialized, Gende red History
The female slave played an important role on the plantation that has carried over into
current day social interactions. The role of a female slave was not only that of mother and
protector, but also that of teacher, maintaining strong connections with the land and culture of
their past. In doing this, “they ensured that the slaves would not become mere biological fuel for
the economic and cultural development of Europe,” but rather they would be valued as an
integral component of society (Castañeda 141). Even more so than guaranteeing the survival of
their people and their culture, “they played an outstanding part in the wars for national
independence in Cuba” (Castañeda 141). When no one dared fight, it was the female slave who
took over.
Despite the important roles the female slave played on the plantation and in society, their
worth has never been fully defined. In Caribbean society, then and now, “the black female slave
is triply discriminated against for being black, for being a slave and for being a woman”
(Castañeda 142). I would venture to say that the black female slave is quadruple discriminated
against for being black, for being an ex-slave, for being a woman, and for participating in their
own oppression by engaging in and by using the patriarchal structures that hold them down. It is,
however, the female slave whose oral traditions and storytelling are surely responsible for having
kept African identity alive in the Caribbean.
Lucille Mair has been a pioneering force in the study of women’s history. Beckles cites
her as studying the circumstances under which female history and ideology are formed.
Throughout these studies, Mair insists that the specific discursive practice of women
demonstrates “the degree of space that separated them as well as the experiences that held them
together” (qtd. in Beckles 126). The use of oral tradition and storytelling among these women
demonstrate a difference when compared to male-driven patterns of communication. The most
important of these is the difference in “social meaning” which “are considered culture products”
(Beckles 127). Beckles further continues that social meanings are “socially constructed,
internalised through communicative systems, and depend for their legitimacy upon he gemonic
67
power” (127). These distinctions in cultural understanding and representation demonstrate a clear
gendered history of the Caribbean – one that is told by women, about women, for women.
According to Beckles’ understanding of Mair’s study of women’s history, he concludes
that “in Caribbean slave societies the black woman produced, the brown woman served, and the
white woman consumed’ – a typology which calls for an investigation of real life experiences
across the social structure boundaries of race, class and colour” (Beckles 127). That being said, it
is necessary to further investigate whether or not these divisions exist in present day. Mair
continues to state that “the tendency then, has been for historians of Caribbean slavery to subject
women’s experiences to investigations with respect to caste, class, race, colour and material
relations – rather than to explore how such representations and discourses are internally
organised by patriarchal mobilisations of gender ideologies” (qtd. in Beckles 128). His
conclusions further suggest ways in which women escape the cause of their oppression.
Caribbean history is especially conflicting in regards to the female perspective because
women were segregated based on their skin color, which has inadvertently determined their place
in history. For example, history studies “the notion of the elite white woman’s removal from the
process of sugar plantation production and her reintegration principally at the level of social
reproduction – as mothers and wives within the household,” while, as noted before, the colored
woman generally was used for household chores and the black woman used for the hard manual
labor of producing the products that would later be enjoyed by the white woman (Beckles 130).
While the white woman and the black woman were the two extremes, their existence and
place originally as a free woman or a slave were the roles that drove the maintainance of social
structure once slavery had been abolished. The white woman still maintained the most privilege
amongst the women, the black ex-slave still maintained her position of lowest of the low and the
colored woman was the only one of these divisions that was afforded some type of movement
within the predetermined patriarchal social structure. Beckles indicates that despite female
rivalry in social positions, “the superordinate position of the white male patriarch however,
ensured the marginalisation of all women” (Beckles 131). No matter how much any given
woman worked, she could never be considered part of the (male) in crowd.
While landless white women on the other hand were considered “unfit for marriage” by
white males, they were oftentimes bound to manual labor positions that required them to have
close personal contact with enslaved black men and wo men. Oftentimes, a white woman
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delegated to these tasks would join lives with a male slave and reproduce, creating a large
mulatto population. While one might conclude that this is only natural based on the white
woman’s daily pool of suitors with whom she socialized, however “she was now projected by the
white proslavery literary imagination as lacking a developed sense of emotional attachment to
progeny and spouse, and indifferent to the values of virtue and high moral sensitivity” (Beckles
135). This woman was neither accepted by white society nor slave society.
The representations of the black woman were significantly different, however. The most
popular image
was that of great strength – the symbol of blackness, masculinity and absence of
finer feelings. Her sexuality was projected as overtly physical… - hence brutish
and best suited to the frontier world of the far- flung plantation. Out there, social
immorality, perversity and promiscuity were maintained by her on account of her
possession of satanic powers that lured white men away from association with
their virtuous white females – hence the existence of the mulatto community
within the slave society. (Beckles 135)
This skewed representation of the black woman oftentimes was used as a means to
scapegoat white male infidelity. The black woman was considered nothing more than a sexual
and immoral deviant of plantation structure and was not considered to be a woman, as she was
not afforded the right to form profound, lasting relationships with lovers, not permitted to
properly care for her offspring and not afforded the lifestyle of enjoying the luxuries of the ideal
woman, the white woman.
The representation of women in history and female representation of history have become
gendered representations of a male-driven representation of experience. This work will attempt
to shed some light not necessarily on the role of women in history, but of the history of the most
marginalized woman of Caribbean society. Here I will attempt to analyze their words and project
the Afro Caribbean woman’s experience through a new lens.
In addition to economic failure with the plantation system still in place, the governing
body in the colonies also took a turn for the worse. Because many local white Europeans had fled
the region or had made plans to do so, there was a shortage of qualified whites to run the local
government. However, these non-qualified whites were continually given seats of power despite
the presence of qualified non-whites. Even when the legislative body expanded and seats were
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opened to non-whites, they held very little power when compared to the all powerful white
officials who had been appointed to office.
Many West Indians were denied schooling and medical care for about a century until
stricter laws could be established and maintained. More so now than ever, the color of a person’s
skin mattered because “with slavery gone, colour criteria took on greater importa nce in West
Indian society, not less” (Lowenthal 67). In many ways, it seemed as if the region was regressing
rather than progressing. Many describe the changes as no change at all, such as Lowenthal who
believes that “West Indian ways of life, social circumstances, and prevalent viewpoints remained
substantially those of a hundred years before…in the Caribbean the past is a living presence. It is
easy to match previous description of people, places, and prospects with the contemporary
scene” (Lowenthal 68). The scene of the times was that while slavery had ended, it was not by
choice of the local Europeans.
The lack of changes was noticed so much that “a Trinidadian asserts that until the mid1950s nothing had changed but ‘the legal position of the slave as a slave. The same type of
people remained in charge…The administrative attitudes were the same. The same crops were
grown. The same basic plantation system remained’1 ” (Lowenthal 69). Nothing of substance had
changed, leaving very little hope for ex-slaves attempting to better their life circumstance.
While social situations continued to keep coloreds down, there were, however, some
societal changes worthy of note: the relationship between Europe and the Caribbean all but
diminished along with their business relationship, and white males were not afforded the same
sexual connections to colored women now that white European women had become abundant
and available in the region (Lowenthal 73). While certain islands still maintain segregation under
social pressure or geographic necessity, segregation is not as strong in most other areas.
With the previously unheard of before mixing of race in the Caribbean, the question of
integration arose as the most desired path for ex-slaves and their descendants, but integration has
different meanings for different races throughout the region. For example, “to the free coloured it
meant the emulation of European standards and social acceptance by white Creoles. To the
emancipated blacks it meant self-esteem and a fair share of material and social goods”
(Lowenthal 74). To the whites, however, integration was not the desired effect they had hoped to
have on ex-slaves, in regards to social status, power and political rights. They did, however,
desire coloreds to model themselves after white Europeans in relation to their work ethic.
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CHAP TER TWO
CHANGING TIDES: THOUGHTS ON IDENTITY FORMATION
IN THE CARIBBEAN
The racialized, gendered characters of Caribbean literature serve as representations of the
real- life rebellion against the oppressive silence brought on by colonialism and its after-effects. 25
One of many after-effects of colonialism, slavery, and the repetitious thought process and
behavior brought on by the relived trauma of slavery is that victims and their offspring can
engage in the process of psychological healing by writing fiction, amongst many other
possibilities. These narratives, while oftentimes a mixture of fiction and non- fiction, offer
moments of testimony on behalf of the characters or one specific character in the novel. 26 As
mentioned, oftentimes the character giving testimony is the character most easily identified with
the life of the author or has been marked as a representation of the author’s experiences as
confirmed by the author herself. In further chapters, I will analyze a sample of novels that
exemplify the traumatic after effects of slavery as demonstrated through testimony within
fictional narratives and how these events affect identity formation. 27
This chapter outlines the theoretical framework for the analysis of texts in the following
chapters. This dissertation takes a closer look at the identity process of racialized gendered
Caribbean individuals in the postcolonial context. Therefore, to come to a more profound
understanding of this process, it is necessary to understand first the effects of colonialism and the
postcolonial influences that affect the identity process of the racialized women presented in the
novels of this study. Firstly, the institutional structures left behind by the colonial plantation
system have created a social, political, and economic hierarchy that continues to dictate
postcolonial interactions. Therefore, the traumas brought on by the plantation system can be
dealt with through varied means, many of which are creative outlets, and in this study it is
literature that will be the creative form of testimony that contributes to the healing process of
25
Racialized, gendered characters are defined here as fictional literary characters that have been marked in some
way by race and gender. More specifically, these characters have been marked by their African origin and by female
gender.
26
Testimony is defined in this work as a first-person account of a trau matic or non-traumatic personal experience.
27
Identity is defined in th is work as the collection of characteristics that one recognizes as unique to him/herself and
that s/he uses to define him/herself.
71
colonial trauma. Studies of trauma, memory, and testimony will be further discussed in
accordance with such theorists as Cathy Caruth and Dominick LaCapra, amongst others.
Racial relations will be studied as an affect of colonialism and as a determining factor in
the opportunities and abilities of an individual to rise above the colonial influences that remain.
Race relations are not only indicative of a conflicted identity process while occupying the
marginalized space within Caribbean society, but for those individuals who are either exiled or
choose to leave their homeland. The identity process of racialized Caribbean individuals will be
studied through the theoretical lens of Antonio Benítez-Rojo, Frantz Fanon, and Paul Gilroy.
Oftentimes, the particular plantation structure as representative of slave labor will be the focus of
postcolonial trauma when analyzing the identification process.
The postcolonial racialized gendered individual’s process of identity is also affected by
language and nationalism. Through the theories of Edouard Glissant and Homi Bhabha, the
identity process will be studied as interrelated with langauge and nationalism, and, finally, the
postcolonial pursuit of identity will be analyzed as further problematized by both biological sex
and gender performatives as described in the works of Judith Butler and Bonnie Thomas. It will
be assumed in further analysis that identity is a non-static process that is formed in time and
circumstance, as discussed in the works of Juan Flores, Jorge Duany, and Stuart Hall.
I.
Trauma, Memory, and Testimony
Dori Laub discusses the historical writing of trauma, in both the widely accepted meaning of
the term, and in the testimonial definition of the term. Although Laub is mostly concerned with
Holocaust survivors, the theory presented also pertains to survivors of slavery trauma. A trauma
victim’s telling of his/her personal experience as a testimonial narrative or in some other form
can be considered an event that has not yet been witnessed, despite the possible existence of
historical accounts pertaining to the event. While factual evidence of the events may have been
fully documented, each time a trauma victim tells his/her story, s/he is sharing for the first time
his/her personal experience. It is important to note that sometimes a victim’s personal experience
does not necessarily match historical accounts of the event. In the listener – story teller
dichotomy, “the listener, therefore, is a party to the creation of knowledge de novo. The
testimony to the trauma thus includes its hearer, who is, so to speak, the blank screen on which
the event comes to be inscribed for the first time” (Laub, “An Event” 57). Without the presence
of an active and willing listener, the trauma victim’s story could not be heard. Therefore, the
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listener “by definition partakes of the struggle of the victim with the memories and residues of
his or her traumatic past. The listener has to feel the victim’s victories, defeats and silences,
know them from within, so that they can assume the form of testimony” (Laub, “An Event” 58).
A trauma victim cannot begin the process of healing through testimony if there is not an active
audience with a true concern and genuine desire to hear his/her story.
There is some debate as to the historicity of testimonial narratives due to the sometimes
inconsistent individual reports when compared to the commonly accepted factual events
recorded as history. 28 Laub believes that it is not necessarily the facts that are reported that define
the individual trauma survivor’s experience, rather the perception of the events that have
importance. Laub cites an instance in which a trauma victim testifies to her experience at
Auschwitz during the Holocaust. The survivor testifies that four chimneys were blown up, rather
than the one chimney that historical accounts represent. Laub indicates that “the number
mattered less than the fact of the occurrence. The event itself was almost inconceivable…she
testified to the breakage of a framework. That was the historical truth” (“An Event” 60). A
historical truth is created through the compilation of many individual stories later compiled into
one. In the case of the Holocaust victim’s story, the individual contributes to the greater
understanding of what happened during that historical event.
This same understanding can be applied to victims of Caribbean slavery. While each
individual testimony may not completely agree with the widely accepted historical facts that
occurred while this practice was in place, it is necessary to value the information as a testimony
to an individual’s experience. In previous decades, the publication market was more likely to
accept publications by males, a practice that trauma theory believes to aid in coming to terms
with the past while simultaneously creating space for an identity formation to take place.
Although males once dominated the literary sphere, the market has since opened to women who
can share their experiences. While the commonly accepted historical truth of men is considered
‘history’, the not-so-commonly accepted historical truth of women is termed ‘herstory’. 29
Laub shares that it is important to let the trauma victim share his/her memories of the
experience by including only that which they choose to “because what is important is the
situation of discovery of knowledge – its evolution, and its very happening” (“An Event” 62). It
28
29
Historicity is defined in this work as historical accuracy.
In this work, herstory is defined as history told fro m the female perspective or emphasizing the female role.
73
is through this sharing of knowledge as it surfaces that allows the trauma victim to better
understand the event. Nadine Fresco explains that for a trauma victim to silence his/her story is
to succumb to the event, whereas by testifying to the event, a trauma victim rebels against the
numbing nature of silence. 30 The racialized gendered characters of Caribbean literature are
represented as rebelling against the oppressive hold of silence brought on by a repeating
worldview of generations-past slavery. One of many after-effects of slavery and the repetitious
thought process and behavior brought on by the relived trauma of slavery is that victims and their
offspring can engage in the process of psychological healing by writing fiction. These narratives,
while oftentimes a mixture of fiction and non- fiction, offer moments of testimony on the behalf
of the characters or one specific character in the novel. As mentioned, oftentimes the character
giving testimony is the character most easily identified with the life of the author or has been
marked as a representation of the author’s experiences as confirmed by the author herself. In
further chapters, I will analyze a sample of novels that exemplify the traumatic after effects of
slavery as demonstrated through testimony within fictional narratives.
Laub reports that trauma survivors tend to “experience tragic life events not as mere
catastrophes, but rather as a second Holocaust, the ultimate victory of their cruel fate, which they
have failed to turn around, and the final corroboration of the defeat of their powers to survive and
to rebuild” (“An Event” 65). For trauma survivors who have not come to terms with their
experience, any somewhat traumatic experience later in life will present itself to him/her as a
second holocaust, an event so strong that it will seem as if s/he is experiencing the trauma again,
just as grave as before, or worse. For racialized Caribbean women writers, the triple
marginalization of being a woman of African descent who writes within a male dominated
language may experience the same effect. While not an actual ex-slave herself, the perceptions of
generations past have inclined her to view the world in a certain way, as a survivor and as an
inferior being (both for her heritage and for her sex). Much in the same wa y that Laub explains
the passing on of changed worldviews from Holocaust survivors to their children, slavery
survivors have also participated in a similar passing on of previous generations’ worldviews.
Many of the racially marked female writers of the Caribbean also tell this same story (either their
own, or a represenation of another woman) of repeating an antiquated worldview that, rather than
30
Fresco, Nadine. "Remembering the Un known"
74
frees them from the bounds of slavery, creates a cyclical repetition of the inherited structures of
repression. In the fictional representations, these women oftentimes feel the overwhelming need
to leave their place of birth to escape the oppressive social structures, however, upon return these
women face continued oppression since they have even further ostracized themselves by
becoming educated and by breaking (or attempting to break) the gender roles that caused them to
flee in the first place. 31 Laub acknowledges that “through its uncanny reoccurrence, the trauma of
the second holocaust [or second slavery] bears witness not just to a history that has not ended,
but, specifically, to the historical occurrence of an event that, in effect, does not end,” but can
only be accepted through the process of remembering and testifying (“An Event” 67). Laub sums
up the importance of understanding the psychological state of a trauma victim by stating that:
trauma survivors live not with memories of the past, but with an event that could
not and did not proceed through to its completion, has no ending, attained no
closure, and therefore, as far as its survivors are concerned, continues into the
present and is current in every respect. The survivor, indeed, is not truly in touch
either with the core of his traumatic reality or with the fatedness of its
reenactments, and thereby remains entrapped in both. (“An Event” 69)
The trauma survivor can escape this cyclical pattern through sharing testimony with those who
are willing to listen. Although this requires the victim to repeatedly relive the experience in
his/her mind, it is the telling of the story that prevents him/her from actually reliving the
experience and passing the traumatic effects to later generations. Since slavery was in part
defined by its secretive nature, it is hopeful that the somewhat new wave of testimonies written
by racialized Caribbean women who are grappling with identity issues and loss of ties to their
heritage break this cycle of trauma in Caribbean thought, institution and society.
Dori Laub also works with Shoshana Feldman on trauma theory, and for the most part, they
theorize trauma theory in relation to the Holocaust, but the implications and findings made can
be applied to other fields of study, such as slavery. Laub “recognize[s] three separate, distinct
levels of witnessing in relation to the Holocaust experience: the level of being a witness to
31
I refer to education both in the context of learning factual info rmation, as well as becoming cultured. In some
instances, the racially marked female character/s of the novels receive/s an education within the confines of their
island, wh ile others are sent abroad to the United States or France to become educated. Instances in which the
character is educated on her own island tend to represent a by -the-books education, whereas the characters who
study abroad are expected to not only receive a by-the-books education, but also to become cultured and to raise
their social status because of their experience. I will fu rther analyze the role o f both types of education in chapters 3,
4, and 5 of this dissertation.
75
oneself within the experience; the level of being a witness to the testimonies of others; and the
level of being a witness to the process of witnessing itself” (Laub, “Testimony” 75). Each of
these levels of witnessing are considered necessary for the ability to produce a testimonial of
historic value, in that the greater the scope of testimony, the more likely the story tellers will be
to adhere with historical and factual events. Laub indicates the importance of a trauma victim
sharing his/her story, regardless of relation to commonly accepted historical accuracy. In his
studies, Laub has found that survivors of trauma do “not only need to survive so that they could
tell their story; they also needed to tell their story in order to survive. There is, in each survivor,
an imperative need to tell and thus to come to know one’s story, unimpeded by ghosts from the
past against which one has to protect oneself. One has to know one’s buried truth in order to be
able to live one’s life” (Laub, “Testimony” 78). The inability to tell one’s story most commonly
allows the trauma survivor’s past to impede on their present being and, consequently, prevent a
viable future in which s/he has defined him/herself by something other than the trauma.
Although a trauma victim feels compelled to and can benefit from telling his/her story, “no
amount of telling seems ever to do justice to this inner compulsion. There are never enough
words or the right words, there is never enough time or the right time, and never enough listening
or the right listening to articulate the story that cannot be fully captured in thought, memory and
speech” (Laub, “Testimony” 78). Although the trauma victim attemps to share his/her story, the
inability to comprehend the traumatic experience itself as well as an inability to ever perfectly
represent the event to another due to limitations of psychological understanding and the
inadequacies of language, make this attempt at sharing the story just as frustrating as it is
relieving. But, the consequences of not attempting to share the experinece are far greater.
According to Laub, when a trauma victim chooses not to share his/her story, “the events
become more and more distorted in their silent retention and pervasively invade and contaminate
the survivor’s daily life. The longer the story remains untold, the more distorted it becomes in the
survivor’s conception of it, so much so that the survivor doubts the reality of the actual events”
(Laub, “Testimony” 79). The psychological implications of not sharing one’s story clearly
implicate destruction of the mind over time. The danger of not sharing one’s story of trauma
could result in the inability to discern whether or not the event actually took place. If all trauma
victims were to avoid sharing their stories until the point where they were uncertain as to the
76
legitimacy of their memories, there is a greater possibility that the traumatic experience would
reoccur with new victims at a later date in history.
Laub notes “that what precisely made a Holocaust out of the event is the unique way in
which, during its historical occurrence, the event produced no witnesses. Not only, in effect, did
the Nazis try to exterminate the physical witnesses o f their crime; but the inherently
incomprehensible and deceptive psychological structure of the event precluded its own
witnessing, even by its very victims” (Laub, “Testimony” 80). Even the witnesses of the
Holocaust were involved in the Holocaust and may have been either aggressors or victims in
addition to being victims. The reality “of the Holocaust became, thus, a reality which
extinguished philosophically the very possibility of address, the possibility of appealing, or of
turning to, another” (Laub, “Testimony” 82). The situation was such that no one could be
considered an ally and one “could not bear witness to oneself…this loss of the capacity to be a
witness to oneself and thus to witness from the inside is perhaps the true meaning of annihilation,
for when one’s history is abolished, one’s identity ceases to exist as well” (Laub and Feldman,
“Testimony” 82). The Holocaust, just the same as slavery, created an environment in which one
lost him/herself as a human being in existence and also was stripped of his/her identity.
The effects of the Holocaust that Laub describes can also be applied to the effects of slavery,
as well the ongoing psychological effects of the offspring of slaves as represented in Caribbean
fictional narratives. In the case of slavery, the secrecy needed to sustain life and maintain status
quo on the plantations (or in the homes or mills) prevented many individuals from telling their
story. In the same way that the Holocuast prohibited witnesses, there was also no witnessing of
slavery, no voice to tell a story. Due to the severe consequences and masters who were readily
willing to kill any slave who organized or spoke out against the structure that oppressed them,
many slaves were unwilling to even talk to other slaves about the conditions, let alone trust them
enough to organize a revolt or other form of protest. As seen in Chapter 1 of this dissertation,
even after the prohibition of slavery and emancipation of slaves in the Caribbean, people of color
were oftentimes still castigated for no apparent reason. Ex-slaves and their future generations
remained quiet on the subject and could not bear witness to oneself. Thus, the ex-slave’s history
was denied admission of existence, and in turn, identity was lost with the negated history.
Regardless, research points to the inability of witnesses that may have been produced in
either example to completely grasp and understand the profundity of the trauma at the time of
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occurrence or shortly thereafter. In addition, a traumatic event or e xperience is too complex to
immediately or completely assimilate into the human memory as a fully understood entity. Laub
believes that the only way to regain one’s power as a witness is to recapture it through telling
his/her story. It is the testimony of the trauma survivor that serves as the process through which
one recaptures him/herself and gains the ability to auto- identify themselves as they choose to.
This process of testifying to a traumatic experience “plays a decisive formative role in who one
comes to be, and in how one comes to live one’s life” (Laub, “Testimony” 85-86). If a trauma
survivor never attempts to testify to their experience and to attempt to make meaning of it, s/he is
at risk for not living a full life after the experience. Laub indicates that “the testimony is
inherently a process of facing loss…which entails yet another repetition of the experience of
separation and loss. It reenacts the passage through difference in such a way, however, that it
allows perhaps a certain repossession of it,” and allows the trauma victim to reposess his/her
identity and existence (Laub, “Testimony” 91). Furthermore, a trauma victim must come to terms
with a chronological understanding that past, present, and future do not overlap and what has
happened in the past will not naturally overlap with future events. One theorist who deals with
the roles of time and memory is Cathy Caruth.
Specifically, Caruth discusses the roles that time and memory play in coming to terms with,
and understanding, a traumatic event. For Caruth, trauma “consists, rather, solely in the structure
of its experience or reception: the event is not assimilated or experienced fully at the time, but
only belatedly, in it repeated possession of the one who experiences it” (Caruth 4). The need to
understand trauma over time and in pieces will benefit the survivor, as s/he is able to perform
new applications of learned experience to the past event. Time may also give the survivor a new
perspective on the experience. However, this constant revisiting of the traumatic experience is
also painful for the survivor because “the attempt to understand trauma brings one repeatedly to
this peculiar paradox: that in trauma the greatest confrontation with reality may also occur as an
absolute numbing to it, that immediacy, paradoxically enough, may take the form of belatedness”
(Caruth 6). In order to come to terms with understanding the past, the victim needs to continue
visiting the past, creating a possibly dangerous cyclical pattern for the victim.
Freud terms this “period during which the effects of the experience are not apparent” as
latency (Caruth 7). During latency, the trauma victim may not be aware of the profound effect
that the traumatic experience has had on his/her psyche, but continues to revisit and relive the
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memory. It is through this period of time that the understanding of the traumatic experience is
delayed. According to Caruth, “since the traumatic event is not experienced as it occurs, it is
fully evident only in connection with another place, and in another time” (Caruth 8). Therefore,
the trauma victim must continue relating to the experience at many different points in time until
he/she discovers a place and time where the past intersects with a present understanding of the
traumatic experience. It is understood that “for those who undergo trauma, it is not only the
moment of the event, but of the passing out of it that is traumatic; that survival itself, in other
words, can be a crisis” (Caruth 9). While the trauma victim may come to a greater understanding
of his/her past, the need to continue revisiting the traumatic experience requires that the trauma
victim prove to be a survivor not only in the past moment of experience, but in every moment of
experience afterward.
Caruth believes that trauma survival may be the connection between diverse cultures. The
visiting and revisiting of the site of trauma connects humans and allows us to hypothetically
learn from our past and the past of others. The constant interaction with the past trauma
this speaking and this listening – a speaking and a listening from the site of
trauma – does not rely, I would suggest, on what we simply know of each other,
but on what we don’t yet know of our own traumatic pasts. In a catastrophic age,
that is, trauma itself may provide the very link between cultures: not as a simple
understanding of the pasts of others but rather, within the traumas of
contemporary history, as our ability to listen through the departures we have all
taken from ourselves. (Caruth 11)
While Caruth discusses the greater possibilities of revisiting and working through a traumatic
experience, she is clear to state that the pitfall to this possibility is that
‘human experience’ as referred to in our diagnostic manuals, and as the subject
for much of the important writing on trauma, often means ‘male human
experience’ or, at the least, an experience common to both women and men. 32 The
range of human experience becomes the range of what is normal and us ual in the
lives of men of the dominant class; white, young, able-bodied, educated, middleclass, Christian men. (Caruth 101)
32
For an in-depth explanation of hu man experience see: Varela, Francisco J., Evan Tho mpson, and Eleanor Rosch.
“What Do We Mean ‘Human Experience?’”
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This understanding of the human condition then leaves women and Others, such as racialized
men, out of the equation.
If trauma is defined by normal standards of the male gender, trauma can only then be
defined as “that which disrupts these particular human lives, but no other” (Caruth 101). By this
definition and understanding of trauma, the possibility of cross-cultural understanding would not
work, as a good amount of those in each culture would not be involved in the cross-cultural
communication. Although Caruth recognizes that the commonly accepted range of normalcy
does not include females, she chooses to focus on “a feminist analysis [which] calls us to look
beyond the public and male experiences of trauma to the private, secret experiences that women
encounter in the interpersonal realm and at the hands of those we love and depend upon” (Caruth
102). Oftentimes, women are more likely to experience private traumas than men.
Due to the fact that women are not included in the male-dominated range of normalcy, the
private traumas that women experience are frequently not reported or, when reported, do not fit
the legal and psychological definitions set forth for traumatic experiences. Therefore, private
traumas “are more often than not those events in which the dominant culture and its forms and
institutions are expressed and perpetuated” (Caruth 102). For example, if a woman is raped by a
male counterpart, reports the rape and the woman is not respected as having survived a traumatic
experience, then it is more likely the woman will feel punished for being traumatized. In this
same case, the male is seemingly applauded by society because the current standards allow for
this type of behavior, based on the technicality of what is considered the range of normalcy. This
type of situation consistently leaves women marginalized in a male-dominated society, a “culture
[that] is a factory for the production of so many walking wounded” (Caruth 103). However, it is
necessary to distinguish between what constitutes trauma and what does not.
One large problem with current understanding of trauma is the misconception that common
daily occurrences are not considered traumatic. Caruth uses the examples of unfair treatment at
work and sexual harassment in academia to explain that many women who have survived these
circumstances and who have chosen to speak out are “accused of overreacting” (Caruth 105).
However difficult, “to admit that these everyday assaults on integrity and personal safety are
sources of psychic trauma, to acknowledge the absence of safety in the daily lives of women and
other nondominant groups, admits to what is deeply wrong in many sacred social institutions and
challenges the benign mask behind which everyday oppression operates” (Caruth 105). It is clear
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that “a collusion of the mental health professions with this oppressive dominance can be found in
the rigid insistence that these events, regardless of their felt and lived impacts, cannot be ‘real’
trauma” (Caruth 105). The recognition of an event as traumatic or not is directed by society’s
understanding of trauma and the willingness of the male-dominated group to be more widely
accepting of a broader definition of trauma. This argument is not one-sided, though. By
continually inscribing the “myth of the willing victim, who we then pathologize for her
presumed willingness, we need never question the social structures that perpetuate her
victimization” (Caruth 106). In order to more widely accept certain experiences in the definition
of trauma, it is necessary as a society to not scrutinize the role of the victim as an active
participator in the event. For example, in the case of rape, one must not insist that the woman
was deserving of victimization due to her clothing choice or her level of intoxication.
Maria Root refers to insidious trauma as “the traumatogenic effects of oppression that are
not necessarily overtly violent or threatening to bodily well-being at the given moment but that
do violence to the soul and spirit” (qtd. in Caruth 107). While there may not be one specific
event or experience that can be defined as traumatic, the consistent and repetitious oppression
experienced through many small experiences can group together to form a traumatic experience.
For example, in slavery, the psychological anguish of being controlled each day has led to
greater psychological trauma over time.
Currently, “mainstream trauma theory has begun to recognize that post-traumatic symptoms
can be intergenerational” (Caruth 108). That being said, the traumatic experience and the lived
psychological effects that survivors deal with can cause changes in psychological and behaviora l
patterns. These patterns are then learned by the victim’s children and younger generations,
continuing the psychological anguish, although the now current victims have no direct relation to
the traumatic experience. When this understanding of the strong effects of psychological
damages is applied to the effects of slavery, one can understand how the mental implications of
slavery have been passed down from generation to generation and can still be witnessed in the
present.
Caruth continues on to discuss the changes that are being made to the definition of trauma
and trauma theory. The new definition of a “traumatic stressor” will “no longer require that an
event be infrequent, unusual, or outside of a mythical human norm of experience. There will be
more reliance upon the person’s subjective perceptions of fear, threat, and risk to well-being”
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(Caruth 111). As trauma theory changes and grows, so too does the understanding a victim is
able to discern in regard to his/her traumatic experience. It is important to continually revisit our
understanding of trauma theory and our definition of trauma, just as it is important for a trauma
victim to continually revisit his/her traumatic experience in order to gain a greater understanding.
The continual revisitation of a traumatic memory is characterized by the inability to
integrate the memory into present understanding. According to Caruth, the trauma victim is
plagued by having to “bear witness to a past that was never fully experienced as it occurred.
Trauma, that is, does not simply serve as record of the past but precisely registers the force of an
experience that is not yet fully owned” (Caruth 151). Caruth cites Pierre Janet and further
explains that “trauma is the confrontation with an event that, in its unexpectedness or horror,
cannot be placed within the schemes of prior knowledge” and
not having fully integrated as it occurred, the event cannot become, as Janet says,
a ‘narrative memory’ that is integrated into a completed story of the past. The
history that a flashback tells – as psychiatry, psychoanalysis, and neurobiology
equally suggest – is, therefore, a history that literally has no place, neither in the
past, in which it was not fully experienced, nor in the present, in which its precise
images and enactments are not fully understood. (Caruth 153)
The human mind is unable to fully experience the traumatic experience at the time of the event
and continues to plague the victim as s/he continues to revisit the memory and the mind attempts
to integrate the experience into a logical place in the mind. However, the profundity of the
trauma prevents the trauma victim from ever being able to comprehend it. At this point of the
process, the traumatic experience cannot be translated into a narrative replication due to the lack
of organization and understanding in the victim’s mind.
Sonia Schreiber Weitz, however, points out that the importance of sharing one’s own story
is pertinent to their recovery of understanding because “to speak is impossible, and not to speak
is impossible” (Caruth 154). 33 Caruth believes that it is necessary for the trauma victim to
verbalize his/her experience, as “the danger of speech, of integration into the narration of
memory, may lie not in what it cannot understand, b ut in that it understands too much” (Caruth
154). Despite the need to share the traumatic experience with others, Caruth indicates that an
33
Doepel, David G. and Mark Braverman. Interview with Sonia Shreiber Weit z.
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individual trauma and a collective trauma are different experiences and should be dealt with
differently in regards to producing a narrative.
For Caruth, individual trauma is “a blow to the psyche that breaks through one’s defenses so
suddenly and with such brutal force that one cannot react to it effectively” (Caruth 187). This
trauma is, as indicated by the term, a solitary experience in which the victim experiences trauma
in solitude. Additionally, for Caruth, collective trauma is “a blow to the basic tissues of social
life that damages the bonds attaching people together and impairs the prevailing sense of
communality” (Caruth 187). While collective trauma occurs gradually and does not bear the
same shock as individual trauma,
it is a form of shock all the same, a gradual realization that the community no
longer exists as an effective source of support and that an important part of the
self has disappeared…‘I’ continue to exist, though damaged and maybe even
permanently changed. ‘You’ continue to exist, though distant and hard to relate
to. But ‘we’ no longer exist as a connected pair or as linked cells in a larger
communal body. (Caruth 187)
For many, a shock to the very communal structure upon which they have depended and that has
disintegrated over time, is just as painful as an individual experience. Regardless, in both cases,
the trauma victim is left alone to deal with their experience.
In the case of collective trauma, a victim reacts and feels pain much in the same way that an
individual trauma victim does. The community serves an important function in interpersonal
relations and individuals become dependent upon the community whole for proper functioning,
just as an individual is dependent upon his/her own body to function. A collective trauma has a
way of attacking the weakest links that exist between individuals of a community and making
those divisions even stronger. In the case of a traumatic natural disaster, “these disasters (or near
disasters) often seem to force open whatever fault lines once ran silently through the structure of
the larger community, dividing it into divisive fragments” (Caruth 189). Those who were
affected by the natural disaster tend to group together and form supportive structures while those
who escaped without harm will tend to group together, as well. This is a natural occurrence, as
humans tend to interact with those who have similar experiences to their own and can understand
their perspectives of the world. The greatest indicator of the way a community will react upon a
collective trauma experience is whether it was a natural or human disaster.
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A natural disaster is that which is brought on by natural occ urrences, e.g. situations that
cannot be controlled by humans. A human disaster, however, is a disaster that occurs due to a
technological failure at the hands of humans, an organizational failure, or a social failure. In the
case of a human disaster, the victims “generate a feeling that the thing ought not to have
happened, that someone is at fault, that victims deserve not only compassion and compensation
but something similar to what lawyers call punitive damages,” a compensation that will never be
able to resolve the damages done. In the case of slavery, ex-slaves were guaranteed reparations,
but many were never adequately compensated for their hardships, according to the monetary
value they were determined to receive. Kai Erikson believes that human disaster “bring[s] in
their wake feelings of injury and of vulnerability from which it is difficult to recover easily,” if
recovery is possible at all (Caruth 192). 34
In some cases, a human disaster is considered to be significantly more damaging because
the request of the victims is usually no more than a basic “feature of social life that its absence
becomes inhuman” (Caruth 193). The human directed disaster inflicts pain by denying basic
human rights. In Caruth’s studies, she indicates that “to be treated thus bewilders people at first,
but when time passes and nothing happens, it can infuriate them... It is rarely a healing anger,
however, because it leaves people feeling demeaned, diminished, devalued (Caruth 193). It is
difficult for these victims to comprehend the motivation and lack of concern that those in power
have shown them, as human disasters are always directed by an individual or group of
individuals who have significant power and choose to abuse it.
Those who experience “severe disasters…often come to feel estranged from the rest of
humanity and gather into groups with others of like mind” (Kai T. Erikson qtd. in Caruth 194).
However, the gathering of these individuals takes place by a gathering of “a shared set of
perspectives and rhythms and moods that derive from the sense of being apart” (Caruth 194).
These individuals migrate toward each other because they no longer feel as though they belong
to the greater whole; their marginalization from the accepted norm is what binds them together.
Caruth indicates that this feeling of being separate from the common whole is due to a “changed
worldview” (Caruth 194). Individuals who experience trauma most likely will never revert back
to their previous worldview. Caruth says that “the experience of trauma, at its worst, can mean
34
Erikson, Kai. Everything in Its Path.
84
not only a loss of confidence in the self, but a loss of confidence in the surrounding tissue of
family and community, in the structures of human government, in the larger logics by which
humankind lives, in the ways of nature itself, and often… in God” (Caruth 198). A traumatic
experience does not just affect the individual at the time of the event or through the period of
oppression, but that which changes a person forever. This individual can grapple with an
inability to trust any other individual, group, or organization, further ostracizing him/her from
society. This “changed worldview” is often debated from the historical perspective. As with any
memory or account of a past experience, there is always a question of validity and truthfulness.
In Writing History, Writing Trauma, LaCapra deals with the historical questions
surrounding accounts of traumatic experiences. While there is some question surrounding the
legitimacy or historicity of a trauma testimony, LaCapra is clear on the point that “the focus on
trauma and the use of concepts derived from psychoanalysis should not obscure the difference
between victims of traumatic historical events and others not directly experiencing them”
(“Writing History” ix). When studying trauma theory and victims, it is supremely important to
maintain a clear distinction between a trauma survivor and a trauma empathizer. In addition, the
study of these events should not “become a pretext for avoiding economic, social, and political
issues. On the contrary, the very process of working through problems should be closely related
to these issues” (LaCapra, “Writing History” ix). The widespread understanding of trauma theory
can greatly improve social issues if properly applied and implemented.
With a broader application of trauma theory, however, there surfaces the possibility of
misuse. The purpose of a testimony is “to bring theoretical concerns in sustained contact with the
experience of people who lived through events and suffered often devas tating losses. They also
raise the problem of the role of affect and empathy in historical understanding itself” (LaCapra,
“Writing History” xiv). By sharing a traumatic experience, this testimony opens the floodgates
for imposters and for those not originally involved in the experience to feel as though they are a
greater part of the traumatic experience than they actually are or were.
When it comes to documentaries or research reports, it is expected that the basis is formed
on primary documentation, while a testimonial is a different type of text. With testimonials, it is
expected that the primary resourse is the victim him/herself and no further research or support is
required; the victim’s testimony is taken as truth – the truth about the personal experience of that
specific victim. By writing a historical account, the intent is to accurately depict the factual
85
happenings of the event being reported, however, the intent of writing a testimonial is to express
the victim’s perception of the events that surpassed. In either case, the text serves “an
instrumental role in illustrating what could be expressed without loss in literal terms” (LaCapra,
“Writing History” 3). Simply speaking, language has limits.
LaCapra defines a research framework that is commonly accepted among historians as
“including the importance of contextualization, clarity, objectivity, footnoting, and the idea that
historiography necessarily involves truth claims based on evidence” (“Writing History” 5).
LaCapra indicates that because of these elements, historical writing is a more accurate depiction
of the event than a testimonial. In addition, LaCapra states that “all narratives ‘construct’ or
shape and some narratives more or less drastically distort their objects” (“Writing History” 10).
Despite finding flaws in the narrative structure of testimonial, LaCapra also recognizes that
“saying the right things may not be limited to but does constitutively require saying true things
on the levels of both statements referring to events and broader narrative, interpretive, or
explanatory endeavors” (“Writing History” 11). Although he finds the testimonial or narrative to
be an inferior method of relating history, there are circumstances in which he believes that
“narrative structures may involve truth claims” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 13). Some instances
in which LaCapra feels that narrative accounts of trauma may have a greater use in society is
when the author of the narrative has lived the exact narrative representation or through references
that may be later understood more profoundly due to the pattern that can be studied through the
narrative. In the latter case, the author of the text is usually unaware of the great impact or
profound understanding that his/her testimony will create.
LaCapra also believs that testimonial “narratives in fiction may also involve truth claims on
a structural or general level by providing insight into phenomena such as slavery or the
Holocaust, by offering a reading of a process or period, or by giving at least a plausible ‘feel’ for
experience and emotion which may be difficult to arrive at through restricted documentary
methods” (“Writing History” 13). In this sense, the reader can more fully understand the gravity
of the traumatic event by understanding the emotional and psychological damage experienced by
the survivor. LaCapra warns, however, that the positive effects created by testimonial narratives
are completely lost when the “narrativization is closest to fictionalization in the sense of a
dubious departure from, or distortion of, historical reality when it conveys relatively
unproblematic closure” (“Writing History” 16). For these testimonials to be of historical value,
86
they must represent an accurate depiction of the event in addition to the survivor’s perception of
the events.
In “To Write: An Intransitive Verb?”, Roland Barthes discusses the same dilemma of
whether or not to consider testimonial narratives as historically sound. 35 Barthes says that
“’narrative accounts do not consist only of factual statements (singular existential propositions)
and arguments; they consist also of poetic and rhetorical elements by which what would
otherwise be a list of facts is transformed into a story’” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 17). In
order to properly write a testimonial narrative, Barthes feels as though it is necessary to write the
text in the middle voice, rather than the active or passive voice. 36 By using the middle voice, the
victim is not removing him/herself from the experience, nor is s/he taking an active role in the
experience.
According to Barthes, “‘the meaning or the goal of this effort [writing trauma with the
middle voice] is to substitute the instance of discourse for the instance of reality (or of the
referent), which has been, and still is, a mythical ‘alibi’ dominating the idea of literature’”
(LaCapra, “Writing History” 19). Rather than beating around the bush by creating metaphors and
figurative representations, the narrative middle voice can say exactly what it means, getting
directly to the point. By writing in the middle voice, the victim can write their testimony and take
part in a cathartic process of sharing his/her experience, as well as be the reciver of his/her
written word. Writing in the middle voice allows the trauma victim to be bo th the doer and the
receiver of his/her testimonial.
Hayden White feels that “the middle voice is the way to represent realistically not only the
Holocaust but modern experience in general” and LaCapra continues that “we may want to
consider that by intransitive writing we must intend something like the relationship to that event
expressed in the middle voice” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 25). 37 Although White references
the Holocaust, there are many other structural and personal traumas that narrative testimonials
35
Barthes, Roland. "To Write: An Intransitive Verb?"
Writing in the middle voice would indicate that the text is written neither with the active nor passive voice,
relieving the trauma survivor of the role of agent or patient when relating her trau ma experience. The purpose of
using the middle voice is because this syntactic construction allows the trauma survivor to use language that either
removes all fault or forces the trauma v ictim to assign all fau lt to herself; the trauma victim is both the doer and the
receiver in the later case. Thus, by first assessing no fault to the trauma, the victim can first recognize that a trauma
has occurred and then can later decide whether or how to assess blame.
37
White, Hayden. "The Politics of Historical Interpretation: Discipline and Desublimat ion"
36
87
can report on, such as slavery, rape, molestation, and many others. However, “this is not to
suggest that we will give up the effort to represent the Holocaust [or other traumatic events]
realistically, but rather that our notion of what constitutes realistic representation must be revised
to take account of experiences that are unique to our century and for which older modes of
representation have proven inadequate’” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 25-6). In the past,
historical accounts and testimonial narrative accounts have occupied two separate genres in
textual production. By mixing the two together, perhaps we may result in a genre that provides
the most accurate depiction of history through factual and perceptive accounts.
Thus, by meshing the two genres together in addition to the use of the middle voice, the
result is a less divisive grouping into fiction or non- fiction. For LaCapra, “a rashly generalized
middle voice would seem to undercut or undo systematically not only the binary oppos ition but
any distinction, however problematic in certain cases, between victim and perpetrator, as it
would seem to undercut the problems of agency and responsibility in general” (“Writing
History” 26). While the benefits of this approach are plentiful, there are also negative
implications. For example, “the problem of the victim and the distinction between victim and
perpetrator (or sacrificer) may be readily elided or obscured if one assumes the unproblematic
identification of perpetrator and victim – or at least of observer or secondary witness and victim”
(LaCapra, “Writing History” 27). Unless done with much care and vigilance, the middle voice
may erase the line between aggressor and victim, treating them as equals rather than as
individuals who may share some similarities, but have played very different roles in this specific
trauma. Another pitfall with implementing the middle voice is the possibility of triggering the
acting out process within the victim. Finally, it is unknown what exactly, if any, benefit the use
of the middle voice in testimonial narratives provides for the greater good.
In historiography, there is a great need for objectification because “objectification may
perhaps be related to the phenomenon of numbing in trauma itself” (LaCapra, “Writing History”
40). It is oftentimes necessary for a historian or analyst to emotionally remove him/herself from
the event so as not to cloud his/her persepective and affect his/her ability to report only factual
evidence. The acceptance of feeling empathy for a trauma victim can “be understood in terms of
attending to, even trying, in limited ways, to recapture the possibly split-off, affective dimension
of the experience of others. Empathy may also be seen as counteracting victimization, including
self-victimization” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 40). Thus, it can be understood that there is a
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possiblity that by introducing other perspectives and literary forms into a genre of historical
writings, the result could be more devastating than beneficial.
This empathetic emotional response to the subject presented in a testimonial narrative can
cause an observer to relate too closely with a victim, taking his/her experience as the reader’s
own. However, a reader can also have an emotinal response known as heteropathic
identification, termed by Kaja Silverman, “in which emotional response comes with respect for
the other and the realization that the experience of the other is not one’s own” (LaCapra,
“Writing History” 40). 38 Regardless of the way in which the reader reacts to the narrative
testimonial, “trauma is a disruptive experience that disarticulates the self and creates holes in
existence,” and it is clear that artistic production, especially in the form of narrative testimonial,
has proven a beneficial step in the working through process for victims, if not for their audiences
(LaCapra, “Writing History” 41).
The reality of the current situation, LaCapra tells us, is that “being responsive to the
traumatic experience of others, notably of victims, imp lies not the appropriation of their
experience but what I would call empathic unsettlement, which should have stylistic effects or,
more broadly, effects in writing which cannot be reduced to formulas or rules of method”
(“Writing History” 41). The publication and public interest in narrative traumas is realtively new
in regards to their place in historiography. While there is not conclusive evidence either way of
the positive or negative effects of these texts, the greater “question is whether historiograp hy in
its own way may help not speciously to heal but to come to terms with the wounds and scars of
the past” (LaCapra, “Writing History” 42). LaCapra is clear that there is no one method that can
conclude the traumatic memory. Whether acting out or working through, the trauma victim will
be plagued with the need to continuously deal with the memory of trauma throughout his/her
lifetime. For LaCapra, it is clear that “trauma brings about a dissociation of affect and
representation: one disorientingly feels what one cannot represent; one numbingly represents
what one cannot feel. Working through trauma involves the effort to articulate or rearticulate
affect and representation in a manner that may never transcend, but may to some viable extent
counteract, a reenactment, or acting out, of that disabling dissociation” (LaCapra, “Writing
History” 42). While it is possible that a trauma victim may never be able to represent his/her
38
For further reading on heteropathic identification see: Silverman, Kaja. Male Subjectivity at the Margins
89
preception of reality, and while it is true that narrative testimonials may never be intertwined
with historiography as a means to accurately depict the past, it is clear that the cathartic benefits
that a trauma victim experiences as a result of sharing his/her experience currently outweigh the
negatives, and therefore, is worthy of acceptance.
In a 1998 interview at Cornell University, Dominick LaCapra clarifies his beliefs on both
the “acting-out” and “working-through” processes that trauma victims are subject to
experiencing and the effectiveness of each as a process for psychologica l healing. 39 For LaCapra,
“acting-out is related to repetition, and even the repetition-compulsion – the tendency to repeat
something compulsively” (LaCapra, "Acting-Out" 2). For trauma victims, many find it hard to
surpass the memory and reliving that a traumatic experience provokes in their daily life. These
trauma victims tend to relive occurrences, or at least find that those occurrences intrude on their
present existence” (LaCapra, "Acting-Out" 2). The obsessive compulsive reaction that these
memories cause prevent the trauma victim from breaking out of the cycle of repetition.
LaCapra sees “acting-out” as a way to transgress this captivating repetition. However, he is
clear to denote that “acting-out should not be seen as a different kind of memory fro m workingthrough – they are intimately related parts of a process” (LaCapra, "Acting-Out" 2). The
processes of “acting-out” and “working-through” are not binaries, but rather two separate
processes that oftentimes overlap and intersect at various points. Rather than the repetitive nature
of “acting-out,” the process of “working- through” is one in which the trauma victim “tries to
gain critical distance on a problem, to be able to distinguish between past, present and future”
(LaCapra, "Acting-Out" 2). While the process of “working-through” does indicate some type of
movement or progress and the trauma victim can then begin to separate past events from the
present, it “doesn’t mean that [the victim] utterly transcend[s] the past” (LaCapra, "Acting-Out"
5). Therefore, the victim must remain conscious that the “working-through” method does not
offer a conclusive finish to their anguish but rather offers another type of outlet.
LaCapra warns against the understanding of “acting-out” and “working-through,” indicating
that relating the two as binary opposites can lead to scapegoating. In this understanding, there is
a strong disconnect and disassociation between the victim and the aggressor. By creating this
39
For an earlier defin ition of these processes according to Freud see: Freud, Sig mund. " Remembering, Repeating,
and Working-Through (Further Reco mmendations on the Technique of Psycho-Analysis II)"
90
binary opposition, the victim and the aggressor have nothing in common; the victim cannot see
any of him/herself in the aggressor and vice versa.
While LaCapra is clear that these two processes are different, he is also clear that oftentimes
the progress of one process depends on the other and that they work to gether. LaCapra also
cautions that it is “very important to see them as countervailing forces, and to recognize that
there are possibilities of working-through that do not go to the extreme of total transcendence of
acting-out, or total transcendence of the past” (LaCapra, "Acting-Out" 6). Therefore, the process
of “working- through” is one of continued practice for a trauma victim. Further complicating the
process of “acting out” and “working through” is the reality that each individual deals with
trauma in a different way.
One important step of the improvement process is to distinguish whether the trauma victim
has suffered from an absence or a loss, as they each have distinct characteristics that should be
dealt with separately. Dominick LaCapra believes that trauma victims “face particular losses in
distinct ways, and those losses cannot be adequately addressed when they are enveloped in an
overly generalized discourse of absence, including the absence of ultimate metaphysical
foundations” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 698). LaCapra continues to theorize that distinction between
absence and loss for trauma victims, as each instance can and should be treated differently. For
LaCapra, absence is the non-presence of something that was never present, whereas loss is the
absence of something that was at some time present. For a trauma victim,
when absence is converted into loss, one increases the likelihood of misplaced
nostalgia or utopian politics in quest of a new totality or fully unified community.
When loss is converted into…absence, one faces the impasse of endless
melancholy, impossible mourning, and interminable aporia in which any process
of working through the past and its historical losses is foreclosed or prematurely
aborted. (LaCapra, “Trauma” 698)
When accessing a trauma victim’s experience, it is pertinent to not only distinguish between
absence and loss, because “to blur the distinction between, or to conflate, absence and loss may
itself bear striking witness to the impact of trauma and the post-traumatic, which create a state of
disorientation, agitation, or even confusion” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 699). More simply, LaCapra
claims that an improper definition of a trauma victims experience as absence rather than loss or
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loss rather than absence can exacerbate the survivor’s negative feelings towards the event and
can negatively affect their process of healing.
One example that LaCapra refers to in regards of improper distinction is that of the “posttraumatic situation in which one relives (or acts out) the past” (“Trauma” 699). In this case,
LaCapra notes that the victim’s “distinctions tend to collapse, including the crucial distinction
between then and now wherein one is able to rememember what happened to one in the past but
realize one is living in the here and now with future possibilities” (“Trauma” 699). In this case,
the survivor loses the ability to distinguish the temporality of his/her experience and in turn
begins to blur their understanding between past, present and future. While the trauma victim
knows that the traumatic event took place in the past, s/he continues acting out and reliving
his/her trauma in the present. Now that the trauma victim perceives their trauma as a current
threat to their being, the acting out of the traumatic event also becomes his/her future, since s/he
cannot perceive any other existence other than the living and reliving of this event.
LaCapra indicates that this is not an uncommon phenomenon for trauma survivors, and the
ability to distinguish between absence and loss is in and of itself a very progressive step for the
victim. Specifically, “the very ability to make the distinction between absence and loss (as well
as to recognize its problematic nature) is one aspect of a complex process of working-through. It
should be emphasized that complex, problematic distinctions are not binaries and should be
understood as having varying degrees of strength or weakness” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 699). The
processes of acting out or working through have a wide range of experience and there is not a
clear-cut distinction between the two. LaCapra explains that while “losses may entail
absences…the converse need not be the case” (“Trauma” 700). Each trauma victim’s experience
is different.
Just as each trauma victim’s experience is different, there remains a distinction between
personal trauma and historical trauma, even in narrative accounts. In LaCapra’s account,
“historical past is the scene of losses that may be narrated as well as of specific possibilities that
may conceivably be reactivated, reconfigured, and transformed in the present or future”
(“Trauma” 700). Historical accounts of trauma are dealt with by the collective whole and are
subject to continuing critique and attempts at new perspectives leading to a greater understading.
However, “when absence itself is narrativized, it is perhaps necessarily identified with loss (for
example, the loss of innocence, full community, or unity with the mother) and even figured as an
92
event or derived from one” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 701). Such narrative accounts “addressing the
problem of absence…tend not to include events in any significant way and seem to be abstract,
evacuated, or disembodied. In them ‘nothing’ happens, which makes them devoid of interest
from a conventional perspective” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 701). While historical accounts of trauma
are widely accepted and are continued to be worked with, traumatic narratives do not hold as
strong in the market. Seemingly, the nonconventional nature of the textual structure a nd lack of
temporal understanding represents a traumatic event without any action, making it difficult for
the reader to understand what, if anything, happened. To further confound the reader, LaCapra
notes that absence “is likely to be confronted differently and differently articulated with loss”
(“Trauma” 701).
In present day, “loss is often correlated with lack, for as loss is to the past, so lack is to the
present and future…Lack nonetheless indicates a felt need or a deficiency; it refers to something
that ought to be there but is missing” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 703). To further determine the
difference between absence and loss or lack creates new possibilities for a more profound
understanding of the past event. Rather than being concerned that something that was once
present is not present now, by assuming that the experience creates an absence,
it may not be seen as annihilated only to be regained in some hoped- for,
apocalyptic future or sublimely blank utopia that, through a kind of creation ex
nihilo, will bring total renewal, salvation, or redemption. It is not there, and one
must therefore turn to other, nonredemptive options in personal, social, and
political life – options other than an evacuated past and a vacuous or blank, yet
somehow redemptive, future. (LaCapra, “Trauma” 706)
By accepting the absence, the trauma victim can continue to heal, rather than dwell on the lack or
loss of something s/he once had. In this case, the trauma victim will not be inclined to think
nostalgically about something that has disappeared from their past and to imagine the past in a
utopic light, but rather, will come to terms with never having present that which is absent.
LaCapra moves on to discuss the role that anxiety plays for victims of trauma. LaCapra cites
Freud’s notion of anxiety as having “the quality of indefiniteness and absence or indeterminancy
of an object,” however, “for Soren Kierkegaard and Martin Heidegger, it was the fear of
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something that is nothing” (“Trauma” 706-7).40 According to these two claims, the trauma victim
has placed fear on the absence of a specific object to fear, therefore his/her anxiety is
exacerbated by the fact that s/he is not necessarily clear about what exactly s/he fears. LaCapra
postulates that “a crucial way of attempting to allay anxiety is to locate a particular or specific
thing that could be feared and thus enable one to find ways of eliminating or mastering that fear”
(“Trauma” 706-7). Although an attempt at removal of all anxiety can be made, LaCapra is clear
that oftentimes the victim must learn to live with it.
While the victim does not usually have an exact object of fear, the desire that the victim
feels is quite the contrary. The trauma victim almost never overcomes the desire to replace the
loss or lack s/he feels due to the traumatic event. LaCapra states that “in terms of loss or lack, the
object of desire is specified: to recover the lost or lacking object or some substitute for it”
(“Trauma” 708). Since the desire can be limitless, it is possible that the trauma survivor becomes
melancholic or depressed due to the unattainable nature of their desire. LaCapra views the goal
of the trauma survivor to be able to limit their desire.
While absence is experienced on a personal level with trauma victims, “by contrast to
absence, loss is situated on a historical level and is the consequence of particular events”
(LaCapra, “Trauma” 712). A widespread traumatic event factually recorded in history can
generally be understood and studied from the point o f a cause and effect relationship. More
importantly, LaCapra informs that in the case of historical trauma “when absence and loss are
conflated, melancholic paralysis or manic agitation may set in, and the s ignificance or force of
particular historical losses…may be obfuscated or rashly generalized” (“Trauma” 712). Very
important is the need to prevent improper relationships with the traumatic event. For example,
“the conflation of absence and loss would facilitate the appropriation of particular traumas by
those who did not experience them, typically in a movement of identity- formation that makes
invidious and ideological use of traumatic series of events in foundation ways or as symbolic
capital” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 712). In sharing his/her personal account of a historical experience,
LaCapra fears that the trauma victims’ testimonies may be further traumatized by individuals
who desire to profit from the traumatized individual’s experience.
40
The theories of Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) and Martin Heidegger (1889-1976) have become the basis for the
study of existential psychology, the belief that an indiv idual’s inner conflict is due to his/her existence.
94
LaCapra explains that sometimes the absence that a trauma victim is experiencing can only
be worked through “through the elimination or victimization of those to whom blame is
imputed” (“Trauma” 712). These specific victimizers can be overcome through the mourning of
their loss. In LaCapra’s account, “mourning might be seen as a form of working-through, and
melancholia as a form of acting-out” (“Trauma” 713). Therefore, the process of mourning the
aggressor’s non-existence in the victim’s present day life is a positive step toward healing for the
victim. LaCapra claims that “through memory-work, especially the socially engaged memorywork involved in working- through, one is able to distinguish between past and present and to
recognize something as having happened to one (or one’s people) back then that is related to, but
not identical with, here and now” (“Trauma” 713). The ability of a victim to come to terms with
temporal understanding creates a strong divide between past, present, and future. In
differentiating between temporal events, a victim becomes aware that the past, present, and
future do not overlap, and what happened in the past is not currently what is happening in the
present and consequently does not need to be carried into the future.
In regards to literaturary movements, La Capra has made commentary on the importance of
writing trauma in the poststructuralism and deconstructionist approaches, however, I will apply
trauma theory to postcolonial Caribbean narratives in chapters 3, 4, and 5 of this work. 41 These
texts are pertinent examples of the acting out process allowing the victim to relive the past as if it
were the present. These memories, rather than remaining memories, allow the victim to repeat
the past, creating a repressed state of mind and being. By participating in the mourning process,
the victim is then involved in “simultaneously remembering and taking leave of or actively
forgetting it [the event], thereby allowing for critical judgement and a reinvestment in life”
(LaCapra, “Trauma” 716). The ability of the victim to remove him/herself from the memory for
long enough to gain a different perspective allows him/her to separate the past from the present
and to imagine the possibilities that this distinction offers. On the other hand, if a victim is
unable to mourn in the present moment and “to the extent someone is possessed by the past and
acting out a repetition compulsion, he or she may be incapable of ethically responsible behavior.
Still, with respect to traumatic losses, acting-out may well be a necessary condition of working-
41
“poststructuralism in general, and deconstruction in particular, often involve forms of trau mat ic writing or post traumatic writ ing in closest proximity to trau ma, and they variably engage processes of acting -out and working
through” (LaCapra, “Trau ma” 715).
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through, at least for victims” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 717). There is no one clear option for trauma
survivors.
LaCapra moves away from personal trauma to discuss structural trauma in which the social
structure or organization itself creates a traumatic experience. Structural tra uma is not
uncommon. LaCapra claims that “everyone is subject to structural trauma. But, with respect to
historical trauma and its representation, the distinction among victims, perpetrators, and
bystanders is crucial” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 723). Historical trauma and structural trauma are
different experiences. Whereas “structural trauma is often figured as deeply ambivalent – as both
shattering or painful and the occasion for jouissance, ecstatic elation, or the sublime…historical
trauma is related to particular events that do indeed involve losses” (LaCapra 724). For example,
LaCapra sites historical traumas “as posing the problematic question of identity and as calling for
more critical ways of coming to terms with both their legacy and problems such as absence and
loss” (“Trauma” 724).
Since structural trauma is not necessarily an event or a group of events that are traumatizing,
but rather a situation that causes such strong anxiety that the results of the situation may result in
a historical trauma, the victim faces a different type of psychological reaction. LaCapra feels that
“structural trauma related to absence or a gap in existence – with the anxiety, ambivalence, and
elation it evokes – may not be cured but only lived with in various ways” (“Trauma” 727). In
addition
one may even argue that it is ethically and politically dubious to believe that one
can overcome or transcend structural trauma or constitutive absence to achieve
full intactness, wholeness, or communal identity and that attempts at
transcendence or salvation may lead to the demonization and scapegoating of
those on whom unavoidable anxiety is projected. (LaCapra, “Trauma” 727)
That being said, the effects of structural trauma do not remain with the victim, but can be
transferred to later generations. Also, the trauma victim is likely to project their inability to cope
with the effects of structural trauma on another being, whether deserving or not. These findings
are significant for the textual analyses I provide in this d issertation. As the female authors of the
texts I have chosen all identify with a certain Caribbeanness, their texts and the characters within
also represent the lived reality of a Caribbean individual marked by race and gender.
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Primo Levi has studied the importance of the lived experience and the representations or rerepresentations of a traumatic memory. 42 These studies are beneficial to the understanding of this
dissertation’s textual analyses because the writing and telling of one’s experience can oftentimes
distort the original memory. According to Levi, the process of memory and reliving memories
can both improve a human’s ability to remember as well as distort the original memory.
According to Levi,
certainly practice (in this case frequent re-evocation) keeps memories fresh and
alive in the same manner in which a muscle often used remains efficient, but it is
also true that a memory evoked too often, and expressed in the form of a story,
tends to become fixed in a stereotype, in a form tested by experience, crystallized,
perfected, adorned, installing itself in the place of the raw memory and growing at
its expense. (Arruti 1)
While Levi believes that there are some traumas that are too painful to be dealt with in any
fashion other than through narrative reproduction, he also cautions that narrative reproductions
of a traumatic event, while therapeutic, are not not necessarily the most accurate depictions of
the factual events of the traumatic experience. He warns that “rather than seeking to resolve the
paradoxes with which traumatic experiences confront us, it is imperative to think through the
complexities of the relationship between trauma and representation; and to question the extent to
which such representation may be therapeutic” (Arruti 2). In regards to representation of
traumatic events, it appears that Levi would expect that the therapeutic process of writing be
more beneficial than destructive.
In this sense, Levi clearly understands the limitations of presenting a traumatic memory in
the form of a narrative work. Andreas Huyssen alerts us that, although there are limitations to the
productivity of recreating these traumatic events in a narrative form, it is not for the receiver of
the story to decide whether or not the final product is of value. 43 Huyssen admits that “when
acknowledging the limits of representation becomes itself an ideology, we are locked into a last
ditch defense of modernist purity against the onslaught of new and old forms of representation,
and ethics is in danger of being turned into moralizing against any form of representation that
does not meet the assumed standard” (Arruti 2-3). Therefore, there can be no definitive
42
43
For further reading see: Lev i, Primo. The Drowned and the Saved
Huyssen, Andreas. "Resistance to Memory: The Uses and Abuses of Public Oblivion ”
97
evaluation of the benefits of reporting a traumatic experience via literary means. The trauma
victim’s memory may change as well as their perception of the event throughout time, allowing
for many possible attempts at fully comprehending the event and to contextualize it in the
survivor’s mind.
Arruti reports that the actual process of “therapy is a method and procedure of critical
enquiry rather than the goal” (Arruti 4). The trauma survivor writes his/her memory of the event
in a narrative form as part of a process, rather than as the conclusion to their understanding and
comprehension of the event. Through this process, and many others, the survivor is offered one
of many methods of coming to terms with their experience. Oftentimes a trauma survivor is
plagued by the inability for one single process to effectively guide them to a greater
understanding of their experience, and finds difficulty in telling their story. Ludwig Wittgenstein
suggests that “trauma, therapy and representation are interconnected by exploring these limits of
langauge” (Arruti 4). The trauma survivor can learn just as much about his/her experience by
reaching and recognizing their verbal limitations as s/he can learn by verbalizing the experience.
Rather than criticizing the limits of the process of reporting a traumatic experience through
literary means, Arruti suggests that “a possible alternative is to see critical thought as a
therapeutic process” in which the survivor can improve their psychological state despite the
limits implied in this attempt (Arruti 5). Arruti recommends this changed perspective because,
although trauma theory recognizes that “the urgency to tell the story is present after all trauma”
the “critical reception varies a great deal in terms of focus and coverage if we look at the global
mapping of trauma” (Arruti 6). Arruti believes that there needs to be more consistency in the
public perception and reception of trauma narratives.
Susannah Radstone’s theories further explain the importance of consistent public perception
and reception of trauma narratives because she believes that the human brain treats a traumatic
event differently than a non-traumatic event, and therefore the victim is made to be even more
vulnerable in society because of this coding. Early on in her article, “Trauma Theory: Contexts,
Politics, Ethics,” Susannah Radstone refers to Freud’s account in Beyond the Pleasure Principle
that there is a “peculiar and sometimes uncanny way in which catastrophic events seem to repeat
themselves” (Radstone 12). 44 Radstone attributes this to Ruth Leys’s allegation that “the
44
Freud, Sig mund. "Beyond the Pleasure Princip le"
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traumatic event is encoded in the brain in a different way from ordinary memory,” and should
therefore be dealt with differently than a non-traumatic memory (Radstone 13). Radstone’s
question when dealing with the encoding is whether or not it is possible to generalize a
representational theory in regards to the sharing of trauma experience. Judging by the abundance
of autobiographical and semiautobiographical trauma narratives represented in postcolonial
Caribbean literature, it would appear that writing o ne’s individual or group experience (either via
an autobiographical account or via characters in the narrative) can lead to healing.
Radstone answers her own question by using an anti- mimetic model in which “the
production of memories is no longer understood to be linked to the unconscious, unbiddable,
processes of the inner world. Instead, memories are understood to be the unmediated, though
unassimilable records of traumatic events,” meaning that while the memories are accessible in a
conscious state of mind, they remain disassociated from other experiential memories in the mind
of the victim because of the inability to create meaning and relation with other non-related
memories. Radstone explains that “these memories are understood to undergo ‘dissociation,’
meaning that they come to occupy a specially designated area of the mind that precludes their
retrieval. Whereas in the mimetic theory, trauma produces psychical dissociation from the self, in
the anti- mimetic theory, it is the record of an unassimilab le event which is dissociated from
memory” (Radstone 14). In this case, the traumatized subject does not experience a physical
removal from their self, rather the separation occurs in the organization of memories, in which a
degree of separation exists between trauma ridden memories and trauma free memories.
Radstone reports that in Leys’s understanding of the difference between the mimetic and
anti- mimetic theories of traumatic memory relations that “in the mimetic theory, the subject
unconsciously imitates or repeats the trauma, in the anti- mimetic theory the subject is
“essentially aloof from the traumatic experience” (Radstone 15). 45 Essentially, the trauma
survivor, while aware of the existence of the memory of their traumatic experience, has
completely removed him/herself from relating to the experience in any fashion. Ley continues to
further explain this seemingly repressed memory as having to do with “the traumatized subject’s
relation to the aggressor. Whereas the mimetic paradigm ‘posits a moment of identification with
the agressor (…) the anti- mimetic theory depicts violence as purely and simply an assault from
45
Leys, Ruth. Trauma: A Genealogy. For further read ing fro m Leys please see: Leys , Ruth. Traumatic Stress: The
Effects of Overwhelming Experience on Mind, Body and Society
99
without. This has the advantage of portraying the victim of trauma as in no way mimetically
complicitious with the violence directed against her’” (Radstone 16). Therefore, a traumatized
subject is even further traumatized if s/he perceives any type of relationship or understanding
between him/herself and the aggressor.
Radstone explains that “in alternative re- interpretations of Freud, it is the unconscious
production of associations to a memory, rather than qualities intrinsic to certain events, that is
understood to render a memory traumatic” (Radstone 16). Assuming the validity of these
assertions, it is clearly understood why the same event may be considered traumatic by some and
not by others. Further understanding and assigning of meaning to the memory strengthens an
individual’s belief that the experience was traumatic for him/herself. Radstone confirms that this
belief is commonly accepted both in psychoanalysis and trama theory.
While these two theories concur in regards to the definition of a traumatic event, being an
event that is perceived to be traumatic by the survivor, Radstone is clear to emphasize that
“psychoanalysis avoids any radical differentiation between the ‘normal’ and the ‘pathological’.
Trauma theory, on the other hand, does tend to distinguish between the ‘normal’ and the
‘pathological’. One has either been present at or has ‘been’ traumatized by a terrible event or o ne
has not” (Radstone 18-9). These two theoretical basis diverge at the point where trauma
originates. While “psychoanalysis takes the ‘darker side of the mind’ for granted, emphasizing
the ubiquity of inadmissible sexual fantasies, for instance, trauma theory suggests, rather that the
‘darkness’ comes only from outside” (Radstone 19). Thus, Radstone negates her earlier
convictions by supporting here that a victim can only define their experience as traumatic when
they do not have any relation to or understanding of the aggressor.
Radstone states that “the inner world of the traumatized subject is characterized not by
repression of unacknowledgeable fantasies but by dissociated memories – traceless traces”
(Radstone 20). If a trauma victim does not have any trace of these memories, they cannot access
them or attempt to make meaning of a memory that, in their mind, is not accessible. In the case
of the trauma survivor that cannot access these memories, the “act of ‘recovery’ takes place in
relation to a witness…[which] refers to a relation of witnessing between the subject of trauma
and the listener” (Radstone 20). For the trauma survivor, these previously meaningless memories
- if accessible at all – are brought to the forefront of the victim’s memory and must then be dealt
with – assimilated and related to other memories – in order to create meaning.
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Further, the traumatized subject cannot remember the event without the account of a witness
that can offer a non-traumatized, non-experiential representation of the event, but rather a factual
account of the event witnessed. Trauma theory and history disagree in this respect, as historical
“events were always ‘without a witness’ – in that though events happened, they could only be
known ‘afterwards’ through representation, through language, through the always partial and
situated discourses and languages of their telling, trauma theory constituted the ‘limit- text’ of
this position” (Radstone 21). In this sense, trauma theory has opened the playing field for
witnesses of historical events, but only as a limited account, since in witnessing the event they
also experienced the event, clouding the factual historicity of their account to some degree.
Radstone cites this discrepancy as “perhaps understandable, given history’s primary
concerns with deeds and happenings. Yet contemporary history’s dominant tendency to link or
oppose history to memory, to the near exclusion of other items including fantasy and the
imaginary, does invite some discussion” (Radstone 21-2). In fact, current theories of trauma are
entering into the field of literature where there is “a drive to engage with and reveal trauma’s
‘traceless’ (SD, 199) or absent textual presence” as well as the integration of trauma theory into
literary studies also “demonstrate[s] the ways in which texts may be engaged with the belated
remembrance of trauma” (Radstone 22). 46 These newfound attempts at analyzing the traumatic
events testified via literary means offer as a result, new approaches to the understanding a nd
telling of history. In addition, these experiential historical accounts tell both the factual and the
experiential history, “facilitating the cultural remembrance and working-through of those
traumas whose absent presence marks the analysed text/s” (Radstone 22). Thus, through various
different approaches of relating to the past, the collective memory of the greater whole can serve
as an act of working through in which some sort of conclusion can be met, whether final or
ongoing. However, the more often a trauma victim repeats her story and the longer she lives with
the trauma of the event, the more likely the memory is to become distorted.
Bob Plant makes some very important claims regarding the validity of memories in his
report “On Testimony, Sincerity and Truth.” Here, he deals with the probability that a trauma
survivor’s recollection of the event is accurate and whether or not it should be taken at face
value, or, if it should be accepted as the victim’s memory, but not necessarily the historical truth.
Plant asserts that “attending to how someone perceives their situation cannot simply override
46
Susannah Radstone, ed. "Special Debate: Trau ma and Screen Studies ”
101
questions of what their situation actually is. Not only can others bear false witness, we are often
confused about our own experiences” (Plant 30). In making this claim, it is clear that Plant
believes that the reality of a trauma victim having a memory of a specific experience does not
mean that it should be unequivocally accepted. As a non-victim, the listener of the victim’s story
has an obligation to question the validity of the victim’s claims. In addition to the ability of a
victim to embellish a story, either intentionally or not, we also cannot assume that the victim has
thoroughly thought through his/her memory and has organized the memory of the experience
into meaningful representations meant to be shared with another.
In addition to Plant’s supposition that a traumatic memory is not necessarily representative
of a historical account of a traumatic experience, he also admits that “testimony is subject to
iterability…testimony has numerous performative possibilities…testimony has a futural or
promissary component” (Plant 32). If a memory of a traumatic experience is open to
interpretation due to its ability to be transformed and retold many times in many contexts, for
Plant, it is not clear what role the retelling of the experience has, either for the listener or the
speaker. The uncertainty of the storyteller’s intent leads Plant to contend that a representation of
a traumatic experience can be nothing more than a performative act. Rather than discount the
importance of a trauma victim’s recounted experience, Plant refers to Foucault’s understanding
that the “‘genealogy of the modern subject as a historical and cultural reality’ [is] namely, as a
subject open to ‘change,’” offering not only a polymorphic representation of experience, but also
offering myriad applications of this personal account of trauma, either for the victim or the
receiver of the story (Plant 34). Regardless of the historical accuracy of a trauma victim’s
account, trauma theorists concur that just the act of telling one’s experience, whether orally or in
writing, has significant healing effects for the victim.
Richard Kearney further discusses the importance of narration and artistic representation of a
traumatic experience as more beneficial than an oral telling of the experience. His argument is
that the repetition of rethinking and reliving the traumatic experience(s) is an act of working
through in and of itself. By rethinking and reliving the trauma through literary production, the
victim recreates the event – whether exactly as remembered or with changes to the plot – and in
doing so “discover[s] a way to give a future to the past” (Kearney 51). Kearney is clear that it
does not matter that the exact memory may have been changed to create a different but similar
plot, as the process of remembering and recreating a future is the focus of writing the trauma.
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According to Kearney, the only way to release the traumatic experience from t he memory
and to stop reliving it is to take part in the cathartic pleasure and release that writing the trauma
offers. In writing the trauma, the victim is met with other survivors of the same or similar
trauma, who allow for a new reading of the reality of the experience. In addition, the victim is
also met with compassion from onlookers who had nothing to do with the trauma, yet are
empathetic of the psychological and emotional strain that the victim has represented in their
literary recreation of the traumatic experience. The victim then must create a balance between
reliving and repeating and “this balancing that resulted in catharsis – that singular experience of
release, equanimity and calm which issued from the mutual encounter and surpassing of pity by
fear and of fear by pity. In short, catharsis invites us a) beyond a pathology of pity to compassion
and b) beyond a pathology of fear to serenity” (Kearney 52). The catharsis experienced from the
writing process is the pathway to acceptance.
Kearney’s claim is that catharsis must be experienced and expressed as an altered memory of
the reality. For him, Catharsis is expressed “often as a power of vicariousness, of being
elsewhere (in another time or place), of imagining differently, experiencing the world through
the eyes of strangers” (Kearney 52). In stepping back from oneself, the traumatic event can be
seen and experienced with a different perspective. This removal from the traumatized
individual’s initial state of being and state of mind during the traumatic experience allows the
victim to broaden their perception and to come to terms with a more realistic perspective of the
experience. Much of memory has to do with perception and through a change of perception, the
victim may also have a change either in the memory or in the way in which s/he perceives the
traumatic experience.
While one trauma victim’s memory of the experience may differ slightly or even
significantly from another trauma victim’s memory, it is the collective whole that comes together
to create a historical account. Kearney states that “what cannot be solved historically, in other
words, can be resolved fictionally” through the cathartic process of recreating the event (Kearney
54). In other words, a victim may not be able to psychologically and emotionally improve just
knowing that their experience is a part of a greater whole and that it is recognized as a whole in
historical accounts, rather there is a great need to have their own voice and their particular
experience heard, which oftentimes is achieved through narrative accounts.
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Many times, the narrative accounts produced by survivors of trauma use a good vs. bad
binary to express the clear-cut difference between what is right and what is wrong, clearly
representing their abuser as a wrongful agent of power. Kearney uses the example of “foster
mothers and fairy godmothers – in famous folk tales [which] allow[s] for the symbolic
articulation of children’s deeply ambivalent attitudes towards their own mothers (good because
loving, nourishing, present/bad because other, separate, absent). And the same goes for surrogate
fathers (as benign protector or malign castrator)” (Kearney 55). These oversimplified binaries
may serve many purposes in the emotional and psychological catharsis of sharing one’s
traumatic story, but Kearney does not delineate the possibilities here. Rather, Schnell is cited as
accounting “for the phenomenon of ‘creative compensation’ by suggesting that the narrative
repetition of events can release us from the obsessional repression of trauma” (Kearney 56). 47
Again, not every trauma victim was meant to be a writer, therefore these oversimplificatio ns
occur as a result of nothing more than the psychological need to share their story, whether it is
done according to literary and historical standards of reality and truth, or not.
Near the end of Kearney’s explanation of narration and catharsis, the reader is reminded that
“not every narrative version of the past tells it ‘as it actually happened’; and the inevitable
temporal discrepancy between past and present usually allows for a certain conflict of
interpretations” (Kearney 64). It is clear that temporality plays a role in the formation and
maintenance of the traumatic memory. While the trauma survivor may replay this memory in
their mind, s/he will not necessarily be aware of any mutations it undergoes as time passes and as
his/her perception of the event changes with further life experience.
II.
Race and Ethnicity
It is no doubt that such a traumatic experience as slavery has recently been discussed as one
of the greatest factors of the postcolonial Caribbean identity formation crisis. However, theorists
such as Antonio Benítez-Rojo, Frantz Fanon, and Paul Gilroy take another angle when
discussing Caribbean identity formation. For Benítez-Rojo, Afro-Caribbeans face a profound
battle for identity due to the effects of slavery and specifically the plantatio n structure that
dictated inferiority based solely on phenotype. According to Fanon, the division between blacks
and whites is much more than a division of phenotype, but rather the psychological and power
47
Schnell, Lisa. "Learning Ho w To Tell: Narratives of Child Loss"
104
relations constructed by this division. In this case, Fanon argues that the black individual can
only identify him/herself in relation to a white master. In short, the black individual is not
capable of an autonomous identity. Finally, Gilroy indicates that the African slave experiences
double consciousness, a condition in which the individual attempts to emulate both their personal
heritage and that of the dominant culture in which they were relocated. Each of these three
theories on race and ethnicity play a significant role in the greater understanding of the AfroCaribbean woman’s process of identity formation and are further discussed here.
In Antonio Benítez-Rojo’s study of Caribbean society, The Repeating Island, he discusses
the “sociocultural fluidity” of the region (Benítez- Rojo 3). In this study, he claims that “one can
sense the features of an island that ‘repeats’ itself”, which in regard to Chaos theory indicates
that “every repetition is a practice that necessarily entails a difference and a step toward
nothingness (Benítez-Rojo 3). Although, this step toward nothingness does not indicate a lack of
complexity and value, but rather shows that what is produced is complex, highly organized, and
intense (Benítez- Rojo 3). This complexity flows over from the Plantation society that ruled the
social and institutional structure of the Caribbean for decades, and has left its visible mark to this
day.
The mere existence of a highly complex and integrated social ordering clearly depicts the
“ethnological processes that derived from the extraordinary collision of races and cultures thus
produced, speak for syncretism, acculturation, transculturation, assimilation, deculturation,
indigenization, creolization, cultural mestizaje, cultural cimarronaje, cultural miscegenation,
cultural resistance, etc.” (Benítez-Rojo 37). These, and many other processes, occurred
repeatedly over time. While some intermix and overlap, the end product of Caribbean society
“illustrates not just that these processes occurred again and again, but also, and above all, that
there are different positions or readings from which they may be examined” (Benítez-Rojo 37).
While, oftentimes, it is necessary to group a nation, region, or other entity according to a
commonality, the Caribbean frequently is grouped together by cultural similarity.
However, according to Sidney W. Mintz, it is inappropriate to group the region together by
its cultural similarities “if by ‘culture’ is meant a common body of historical tradition” because
“the very diverse origins of Caribbean populations; the complicated history of European cultural
impositions; and the absence in most societies of any firm continuity of the culture of the
105
colonial power have resulted in a very heterogeneous cultural picture” (Benítez- Rojo 38). 48
While the historical events of each Caribbean nation are distinct, Mintz indicates that “the
societies of the Caribbean – taking the word ‘society’ to refer here to forms of social structure
and social organization – exhibit similarities that cannot possibly be attributed to mere
coincidence (Benítez-Rojo 38). While each Caribbean nation underwent different historical
events, it would appear that there were some other connection relating this region that has
allowed each nation to develop similar social institutions and patterns. Mintz believes that the
most accurate way to refer to the Caribbean is “as a ‘societal area,’ since its component societies
probably share many more social-structural features than they do cultural features” (BenítezRojo 38). Benítez-Rojo believes that this feature that seems to bind the Caribbean is the
plantation system, and in turn, the slave labor that kept it in place for so long.
Benítez-Rojo believes that “the arrival and proliferation of the plantations is the most
important historical phenomenon to have come about in the Caribbean, to the extent that if it had
not occurred the islands of the region might today perhaps be miniature replicas – at least in
demographic and ethnological terms – of the European nations that colonized them” (BenítezRojo 38-39). While it was the plantation system that allowed the Caribbean nations to separate
and define themselves as different from their colonial owners, it is also the plantation system that
molded and defined their societies. Even “beyond their [the plantation’s] nature – sugar, coffee,
etc. - , beyond the colonizing power that set them up, beyond the epoch in which the dominant
economy in one or another colony was founded, the plantation turns out to be one of the
principal instruments for studying the area, if not indeed the most important” (Benítez-Rojo 39).
The plantation structure offers basis for the study of social, ethnic, gender, anthropological,
literary – among many more – factors that occur as a result of this organizational structure.
While Benítez-Rojo indicates that “it is certain that in the scond half of the century the
Negro’s demographic presence in the Antilles was substantially greater than that of the white
colonists,” the majority of “the sugar mills, almost without exception, belong[ed] to officia ls of
the crown” (Benítez-Rojo 42). Therefore, it was clear that not only the economic status, but also
the racial status of an individual in the Caribbean during early New World plantation production
was determined by these two factors alone, the racial definition being the primary indicator of
place in society. As the demand for greater plantation production rose and as technology
48
For further reading see: M intz, Sidney W. "The Caribbean as a Socio-Cultural Area"
106
advanced, many islands began to adopt the Plantation structure over the plantation organization
that was previously in place. In the plantation structure, the owner of the land utilized slaves to
both cut the cane and to produce the molasses byproduct on his own land, whereas the adoption
of the Plantation structure greatly increased production because the crops were cut from the land
and then shipped to a local mill where many plantation’s crops were converted to a sellable
product. Benítez-Rojo believes that the most important factor differentiating the Caribbean
islands is the date at which the Plantation became the model of choice, changing the structure of
society.
Therefore, other factors, such as the amount of slaves brought to the island has a
significantly lower influence on African cultural presence in Caribbean society. According to
Benítez-Rojo, “the later it [the Plantation system] was implanted, as happened in Jamiaca when
compared to Barbados, the Africans already living there, slaves or not, would have had occasion
actively to bring their cultural influence to bear on European things for a more prolonged period
of time” (Benítez-Rojo 70). More importantly, Benítez-Rojo explains that the effects of the
plantation as machine-like society has made a profound mark on social relations that has become
ingrained in Caribbean society over time. These structures that were put in place during slave
times did not end when slavery was abolished or when slaves were liberated. While “certainly
there are changes and adjustments to go with this new situation…the plantation machine in its
essential features keeps on operating as oppressively as before” (Benítez- Rojo 73). This model is
viewed as ideal by the few powerful individuals who would benefit from its organization, but “its
rigidity and disproportion will essentially persist under more modern work relations, and will
continue to exert a similar influence in all of the different spheres of the national life” (BenítezRojo 74). Despite this commonality in the development of current day Caribbean society, each
nation still implemented the system slightly differently, but Benítez- Rojo cites this ability to
conform to ever-changing situations as the reason it has stayed intact for such a significant
period of time.
Père Jean-Baptiste Labat believes, however, that the common feature linking Caribbean
nations is rhythm. Benítez-Rojo believes that this “crossed rhythm that shows up in Caribbean
cultural forms can be seen as the expression of countless performers who tried to represent what
was already here, or there, at times drawing closer and at times farther away from Africa”
107
(Benítez-Rojo 81). 49 The Caribbean rhythm is a cultural element as well, both making
connections to cultural traditions and breaking away from them. Leopold Sédar Senghor
indicates that “within this chaos of differences and repetitions, of combinations and
permutations, there are regular dynamics that coexist, and which, once broached within an
aesthetic experience, lead the performer to re-create a world without violence…the elusive goal
where all possible rhythms converge” (Benítez-Rojo 81). 50 However, the literary representation
of the sociocultural complexity of the Caribbean does not always follow this model.
In the study of Las Casas’s representation of a dream in Brevísima Relación de la
destrucción de las Indias, it is important to recognize that the uncanny representation “erupts
within a chronicle intended to inform us” and for that reason “it should be seen as surrounded by
violence” (Benítez- Rojo 94). 51 It is clear that this type of representation is not what Benítez-Rojo
considers appropriate within the historical framework that this text claims to be, although it does
have some remnants of reality. Further continuing his explanation of the importance of the
uncanny embedded in historical representations, Benítez-Rojo indicates that the uncanny of Las
Casas’s account of slavery is that “Las Casas discovered the plantation’s vicious circle: the more
sugar, the more Negroes; the more Negroes, the more violence; the more violence, the more
sugar; the more sugar, the more Negroes” (Benítez-Rojo 109). The truth that has surfaced from
this uncanny dream representation serves an important purpose in the understanding of
Caribbean plantation society.
In modern literature, it can been seen that the previously held canonical definition of beauty
was being defied by authors such as Nicolás Guillén, who attempted to transgress the restraints
of the Plantation system that had been forced on them. 52 As a result, postmodern literature shows
an inability to represent one single truth, “but instead there are many practical a nd momentary
ones, truths without beginnings or ends, local truths, displaced truths, provisional and
peremptory truths of a pragmatic nature” (Benítez-Rojo 151). This search for identity is never
concluded and represents limitations in and of itself. For example, the analysis of a postmodern
text indicates that “in spite of all that’s been said, one must use analogies and establish
49
Labat, Jean-Baptiste. Nouveau Voyage aux isles Françoises de l'Amérique
Senghor, Leopold Sédar. " L'espirit de la civ ilisation ou le lois de la culture négro-africaine"
51
Written in 1542 and published in 1552, this account of the mistreatment of indigenous peoples in the New World
was sent to King Phillip II of Spain.
52
Cuban poet and writer (1902-1989). Gu illén is known for his poesía negra that emerged in Cuba in the 1930s.
50
108
oppositions in order even to establish the postmodern point of view” (Benítez- Rojo 154). Many
critics have explained this polyphony of voices and points of view through musical rhythm.
Senghor also believes that rhythm is the most “effective word,” meaning that the language
used by Caribbean writers to demonstrate identity, the “common everyday word – ours” is a
language “that never manages to mean what it wants to mean” because it does not refer to
anything that is truly owned by such a diverse society (Benítez-Rojo 169). Benítez- Rojo explains
further that for the Caribbean peoples, “before Rhythm there was Chaos; after it, Order, except
that, in time, in the West, such Order came to be seen as (Dis)Order” (Benítez-Rojo 171).
Despite the ability to implement a rhythmic word that is most closely related to the Caribbean
individual, there are still limitations to full representatio n. This polyglossic, polycultural society
was ordered, however, Western criticism viewed this type of organization as disordered, since it
was seemingly disordered when compared to their own systems of organization. This diverse,
chaotic society has been the departure point for the common theme of the search for identity in
postmodern literature.
Benítez-Rojo concludes that the definition of this fragmented identity and the search for a
utopian society is due to the Plantation society and in turn “is the experience of every man and
woman in the Caribbean” (Benítez-Rojo 186-87). The problem with the identity process is that it
is an imaginary point that the individual is attempting to reach, an “imaginary point, which is
fashioned by desire, is neither static nor localizable, but rather in continuous displacement”
(Benitez-Rojo 187). If a whole society is searching for an imaginary point that is always
changing and that can never be fully achieved, what is left is a society that is always in flux. In
an attempt to define itself as individual and separate from Europe, the Caribbean text generally
does not eliminate certain aspects of European influence from its literature, but rather includes
all the possible influences “that might allow a reading of the varied and dense polyphony of
Caribbean society’s characteristic codes” (Benitez-Rojo 189). The most ordinary, consistent
element of Caribbean society is its inconsistency and varied nature. One explanation for the
inclusion of so many different elements in the Caribbean literary tradition can be explained by
the Caribbean concept of history.
Various critics, including Enrique Bernardo Núñez 53 and Alejo Carpentier have noted that,
“in the Caribbean orbit one historical state does not cancel the earlier one as happe ns in the
53
Venezuelan writer, jounalist, and crit ic (1895-1964).
109
Western world…[history] is a circularity imposed by isolation and, above all, by the implacable
repetition of the economic and social dynamics inherent in the plantation system” (Benítez- Rojo
203). This explains the seemingly repetitive nature of Caribbean history and social experiences.
However, by maintaining a relation with events that have passed and by holding a place for them
in current explanations of history does not necessarily indicate a repetition without change. The
force of this repetitive experience of history has affected the Caribbean in whole, as “there is not
one single country in the Caribbean that has ever been able to break away completely from the
repetitive Plantation mechanism” (Benitez- Rojo 203).
One way in which Caribbean literature attempts to break this cycle is through performative
literature. Not only are the main characters in novels performers of some type, but the “text
itself, the star of the show, the great performer,” takes center stage as the greatest performance
(Benitez-Rojo 218). The European critique of these performative novels is that they are
“excessive, baroque, [and] grotesque,” although Benítez-Rojo confirms that this is the European
assumption and the reality is that within the text “lie codes that the Caribbean people alone can
decipher. These are codes that refer us to traditional knowledge, symbolic if you will, that the
West can no longer detect” (Benitez- Rojo 220). Because the European and Western individual
cannot detect or understand these social and cultural references, much of the text’s meaning is
lost on outsiders, whereas, the greater meaning of the text weighs heavily on the understanding
of its own peoples. The type of repression experienced in the Caribbean is one that impels the
Caribbean individual “to flee from himself and, paradoxically, which leads him finally back to
himself” (Benítez-Rojo 124). Thus, in fleeing, the individual – and in turn, the collective – ends
up right where s/he started, although with a new understanding and experience. Benítez-Rojo
feels that “every Caribbean person’s present is a pendular present, a present that implies a desire
to have the future and the past at once,” however, “in the Caribbean one either oscillates toward
a utopia or toward a lost paradise, and this not only in the politico-ideological sense, but, above
all, in the sociocultural sense” (Benitez-Rojo 251). In this sense, the Caribbean individual, as
well as the collective, continues to swing back and forth between two unattainable imaginatives,
and only through accepting the reality of the present sitaution can the pendulum be stopped.
However, Frantz Fanon does not believe that these two divisions expereince such fluidity.
Rather, the divisions are very clear: black and white.
110
In Black Skin, White Masks, Frantz Fanon discusses the psychological and power relations
constructed between black and white men. In his analysis, he is clear to state that his analysis is
time sensitive and pertains only to the present moment; however, much of this analysis still has
implications in today’s world. Fanon begins by asking what a man wants as opposed to what a
black man wants. However, Fanon indicates that “the black is not a man," clearly distinguishing
between the dichotomy of white humanity and black non-humanity (Fanon 8). The lived reality
of the black is that “the black is a black man; that is, as the result of a series of aberration of
affect, he is rooted at the core of a universe from which he must be extricated” since there are
only “two camps: the white and the black” (Fanon 8). One is in the power position and the other
wants to be in the position of power.
Fanon explains that the majority of the relation between black and whites is spent strongly
wanting to be the other or strongly disinterested in being the other. For whites, “the man who
adores the Negro is as 'sick' as the man who abominates him. Conversely, the black man who
wants to turn his race white is as miserable as he who preaches hatred for the whites" (Fanon 89). Either way, there seems to be no acceptable neutral ground in black and white relations. The
fact is that “the white man is sealed in his whiteness” and “the black man in his blackness"
(Fanon 9). Fanon desires to explore the point in which this relationship formed and the results of
its current interactions.
Fanon actually believes that “white men consider themselves superior to black men” and
that “black men want to prove to white men, at all costs, the richness of their thought, the equal
value of their intellect” (Fanon 10). Without some form of open mindedness, neither of these
desires will ever be achieved, especially because Fanon believes that the one and only destiny of
the black man is to be white. Although, he also believes that “the inferiority complex…is the
outcome of a double process” that he describes as both the economic differences and the
differences in phenotype (Fanon 11).
The black man of the Caribbean is subjected to the repercussions of colonial oppression.
The black man has had to assimilate to the rules of society, a colonial society that has turned into
a post-colonial society. According to Fanon, “the black man has two dimensions. One with his
fellows, the other with the white man” (Fanon 17). As Fanon mentioned earlier, if the goal of the
black man is to become a white man, but his daily activities and cultural tendencies do not match
a white man’s, so it is necessary for him to act differently in different company. If a black man
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were to act as a white man while in black company, he would be ostracized from both groups.
The black man will never completely assimilate to the white man because he is not white and the
black man will never accept him completely because he has negated his blackness and heritage
to become white. According to Fanon, that the need to act differently in different situations “is a
direct result of colonialist subjugation [is] beyond question" (Fanon 17). This self-division is one
way that post-colonialism has manifested itself in the black-white relation.
When acting as one group or the other, a black man will often mimic the language of the
dominant class. Language is power, and the black man who achieves this level of power has the
possibility of using his power to advance closer to the white sphere. However, Fanon points out
that “to speak means to be in a position to use a certain syntax, to grasp the morphology of this
or that language, but it means above all to assume a culture, to support the weight of a
civilization" (Fanon 17-18). In mastering the language of the oppressor, the black ma n runs the
risk of replacing his own culture with that of the white man. The ability to properly use the white
man’s language gives a black man clout in the white man’s circle and in the end “the Antilles
Negro who wants to be white will be the whiter as he gains greater mastery of the cultural tool
that language is” (Fanon 38). While whitening of the race can be achieved through biological
reproduction, the black man can also achieve this by gradually learning the language and culture
of the dominating class, and using it to his advantage.
Fanon explains further the existence of the black man. He explains that “not only must the
black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man” because “the black man has
no ontological resistance in the eyes of the white man" (Fanon 110). Therefore, not only is the
black man not considered human, but an object, and not only is he considered inferior to the
white man, but he also only exists through the inferiority of the other. Leopold Senghor goes as
far as to indicate that even the Negritude movement is only that of a black representation in
relation to a white representation, a movement that exists only because of and in relation to the
white man. 54 Therefore, even the Negritude movement only brings us to the halfway point of a
human existence, a point that Fanon debates.
Fanon continues to argue this point by declaring that “consciousness, black consciousness is
imminent in its own eyes. I am not a potentiality of something, I am wholly what I am” but
54
A literary and social movement begun by Francophone individuals in France during the 1930s. This movement
promoted black solidarity as opposed to the racist French ideals in place at the time.
112
rather that “Negro consciousness does not hold itself out as a lack. It is. It is its own follower"
(Fanon 135). The black man is conscious of his existence, not the absence of his existence. In
addition it is necessary to understand that the “Negro experience is not a whole, for there is not
merely one Negro, there are Negroes" (Fanon 136). One singular representation of a black man
cannot and should not be fully representative of the black man’s condition, but rather one part or
one account of the black man’s position. It is important that "the white man is not only the Other
but also the master, whether real or imaginary" (Fanon 138). 55 It does not matter if the feeling of
inferiority is representative of an actual relation of inferiority, but rather if the fee ling is felt, then
it exists as real for that person. The black man who is “face to face with this man who is
'different from himself,' he [finds that he] needs to defend himself. In other words, to personify
the Other. The Other will become the mainstay o f his preoccupations and his desires" (Fanon
170). In the case of the black man, he has personified the other as the white man, and therefore
continues to preoccupy himself with the white man.
Fanon speaks of Carl Jung’s theoretical basis of transference in which when something so
repulsive enters into our consciousness, our circle of being, the immediate resolution is to get rid
of it. 56 In this case, the white man would be pushing the black man out of his mind, out of his
state of being, erasing him from existence. According to Fanon, "in the collective unconscious,
black = ugliness, sin, darkness, immorality. In other words, he is Negro who is immoral,"
creating a dichotomy of white = good and black = bad that is another limitation for the black
man to transcend (Fanon 192). However, Fanon further complicates this issue by explaining that
“moral consciousness implies a kind of scission, a fracture of consciousness into a bright part
and an opposing black part. In order to achieve morality, it is essential that the black, the dark,
the Negro vanish from consciousness. Hence a Negro is forever in combat with his own image"
(Fanon 194). By attempting to extinguish the dark, black portion of consciousness, the black man
is in danger of extinguishing himself.
While Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks is “a foundational text for reconfiguring
psychoanalysis to account for race” a central critique to his work is that he “takes the male as the
norm. For the exemplary colonized subject, Fanon uses the term le noir 'the black man'” (Bergner
55
The Other is an idea originally presented by philosopher Georg W ilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831) and further
progressed by Edward Said (1935-2003). The concept of the Other is that which is different fro m the Same in
philosophical studies.
56
Carl Jung (1875-1961) is the founder of Analytical Psychology.
113
76). However, while Fanon chooses to use the black man as representative of the colonial
subject, he “does not ignore sexual difference altogether” but rather the women in his analysis
“are considered as subjects almost exclusively in terms of their sexual relationships with men”
rather than individuals themselves (Bergner 77). 57 Further than the use of the “masculine as
normative – il, lui, le noir, l’homme,” T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting explains that Fanon uses
“rigid constructions of gender and sexuality, resulting in the erasure of (black) feminine
subjectivities” (10). In the case of white women, it is believed that Fanon’s study continues to
relegate them “to the realm of the neurotic and characteriz[e] their sexuality as essentially
masochistic” (Sharpley-Whiting 10). However, it is important to recognize gender relations
when Fanon published Black Skin, White Masks in 1952, as the social structure of the time may
be more indicative of the representation of women in this text than Fa non’s personal beliefs
themselves. Joy James asserts the importance of contextualizing Fanon’s work in Transcending
the Talented Tenth, indicated that:
masculinism does not explicitly advocate male superiority or rigid gender social
roles, it is not identical to patriarchal ideology. Masculinism can share
patriarchy’s presupposition of the male as normative without its antifemale
politics and rhetoric. Men who support feminist politics, as profeminists, may
advocate the equality or even occasionally for the superiority of
women…However, even without the patriarchal intent some works may replicate
conventional gender roles. (qtd. in Sharpley-Whiting 11)
Therefore, while Fanon’s study of race and class relations is pertinent to the stud y of postcolonial
psyche, it is also necessary to incorporate gender studies in order to complete the psychological
analysis of the gendered racialized subject.
Paul Gilroy believes that by attempting to extinguish the dark, black portion of
consciousness, the black man is in danger of extinguishing himself, that it is not only the
necessity of a double consciousness, but also the conscientious recognition of double
consciousness that is necessary for a more truthful representation of identity.
In The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Paul Gilroy cites Edouard
Glissant referring to modernity at the beginning of his introduction to The Black Atlantic. For
57
For further critical readings of Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks, see: Gendzier, Irene. Frantz Fanon: A Critical
Study; Gordon, Lewis R., T. Denean Sharp ley-Whiting and Renee T. White, eds. Fanon: A Critical Reader
114
Glissant, modernity “is a vexed question. Is not every era ‘modern’ in relation to the preceding
one? It seems that at least one of the components of ‘our’ modernity is the spread of the
awareness we have of it. The awareness of our awareness (the double, the second degree) is our
source of strength and our torment” (Gilroy 1). This citation seems to sum up the undertaking
that Gilroy resolves in the aforementioned text. Gilroy contends that the effort of Afro-Caribbean
individuals who are “striving to be both European and black requires some specific forms of
double consciousness” (Gilroy 1). These individuals must have a full understanding and
consciousness of both their European heritage and their African heritage. Although many current
cultural studies put pressure on the division between black and white cultures, this approach
represents “ethnic differences as an absolute break in the histories and experiences of ‘black’ and
‘white’ people,” despite the possibility that these differences may exist due to factors other than
ethnicity (Gilroy 2).
The strong feeling that ethnicity defines the differences in a nation’s culture “typically
construct[s] the nation as an ethnically homogeneous object and invoke[s] ethnicity a second
time in the hermeneutic procedures deployed to make sense of its distinctive cultural content”
(Gilroy 3). It is necessary, however, to approach studies of these nations from a different
persepective. Gilroy cites the terms “creolisation” and “syncretism” as key representations of
how ethnicities and political cultures have given new perspective to the people of the Caribbean
as well as other parts of the world (Gilroy 15). Gilroy explains that ships play an integral role in
the new perception needed for proper understanding and study of the Caribbean. For Gilroy,
“ships were the living means by which the points within that Atlantic world were joined. They
were mobile elements that stood for the shifting spaces in between the fixed places that they
connected. Accordingly they need to be thought of as cultural and political units rather than
abstract embodiments of the triangular trade” (Gilroy 16-17). Therefore, it is the ships of the
triangular trade which serve as cultural and politcal elements that have developed and
transformed Caribbean society, politics, and culture.
Because the ships were passing from one island to another, Caribbean nations could not
realisitically maintain the social, political, and cultural purity, but rather, each island was
influenced by the other. For this reason, Gilroy refers to the Caribbean as the Black Atlantic
which “can be defined, on one level, through this desire to transcend both the structures of the
nation state and the constraints of ethnicity and national particularity” (Gilroy 19). This
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understanding of the Caribbean as a larger entity has allowed for myriad perspectives on the
further identification of western blacks. According to Gilroy, “this perspective currently
confronts a pluralistic position which affirms blackness as an open signifier and seeks to
celebrate complex representations of a black particularity that is internally divided: by class,
sexuality, gender, age, ethnicity, economics, and political consciousness” (Gilroy 32). It is clear
that Gilroy believes that the black subject is more than just an ethnic signifier. The western black
must assume further issues “of nationality, exile, and cultural affiliation [that] accentuate the
inescapable fragmentation and differentiation of the black subject. This fragmentation has
recently been compounded further by the questions of gender, sexuality, and male domination
which have been made unavoidable by the struggles of black women and the voices of black gay
men and lesbians” (Gilroy 35). It is not just the ethnicity of a black Caribbean subject that must
be considered when attempting to comprehend the larger structural limitations put on him/her.
Marxism “allocates priority to the latter [systemic crisis] while the memory of slavery insists
on the priority of the former [lived crisis]” (Gilroy 40). 58 This is an important element when
studying the formation and development of post-slave Caribbean society. Gilroy specifically
looks at the difference between working in the normal labor force versus artistic expression as a
means of economic survival. Gilroy believes that because “for the descendants of slaves, work
signifies only servitude, misery, and subordination,” while artistic expression became “the means
towards both individual self- fashioning and communal liberation” (Gilroy 40). Therefore, the
individual experience of slavery can be overcome through self- expression that leaves the exslave feeling more liberated than any job could.
III.
Language and Nationalism: You Are What You Speak.
In addition to trauma, race, and ethnicity, language and nationalism also play an important
role in identity formation. The language one speaks oftentimes is used as a uniting factor to
strengthen her ties to the collective nation. On the other hand, nationalism is oftentimes defined
by the language(s) spoken by the individuals making up the whole. Two theorists who have
strong beliefs regarding this phenomenon are Homi Bhabha and Edouard Glissant. For Bhabha,
language is an imperative factor in cultural formation. Since language is a great determiner of the
formation of a cultural environment, and since cultural environment is a great determiner o f
58
For further reading see: Marx, Karl and Friedrich Engels. The Communist Manifesto
116
identity formation, so must language play an important role in identity formation. While Bhabha
considers the formation of culture and its influence on the identity process, Edouard Glissant
delves into the specifics of Caribbean discourse and the role it plays in literary production of the
experience of the collective whole. For Glissant, it is imperative to understand the identity of the
whole before coming to any conclusions about one’s individual identity. Thus, language and
culture are cornerstones to the identity processes and, for this reason, are further discussed here.
As discussed in Homi Bhabha’s The Location of Culture, identity is strongly affected by
language and the environment surrounding a given subject. This environment has been come to
be defined as culture. For Bhabha, culture takes place “in the moment of transit where space and
time cross to produce complex figures of difference and identity, past and present, inside and
outside, inclusion and exclusion” (2). Culture has always played an important role in identity
formation. However, recently, there has been less emphasis put on the role that class and gender
play in this process. Instead, this change in perception “has resulted in an awareness of the
subject positions – of race, gender, generation, institutional location, geopolitical locale, sexual
orientation – that inhabit any claim to identity in the modern world” (Bhabha 2). It is clear that
there is no clear-cut definition of which factors combine to aid in the idenity process. These
factors can change from one culture to another, from one time period to another, and from one
person to the next. Rather, it is most important to “focus on those momements or processes that
are produced in the articulation of cultural differences. These ‘inbetween’ spaces provide the
terrain for elaborating strategies of selfhood – singular or communal – that initiate new signs of
identity, and innovative sites of collaboration, and contestation, in the act of defining the idea of
society iteself” (Bhabha 2). Therefore, there is a great need to include any and all points of
cultural inbetweenness when determining the factors needed to determine identity.
One great difference in determining identity may have to do with the minority or majority
status of the individual. A society’s ability to be culturally complex allows for a greater amount
of acceptable hybrid cultures, that may or may not jive with the majority norm. According to
Bhabha, “the social articulation of difference, from the minority perspective, is a complex, ongoing negotiation that seeks to authorize cultural hybridities that emerge in moments of historical
transformation” (3). As a society changes through history, the minority perspective then has the
ability to continue fighting for recognition and cultural acceptance. The difficulty in allowing
these hybrid cultures to survive and infiltrate the dominant culture lies in the fact that “the
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borderline engagements of cultural difference may as often be consensual as conflictual; they
may confound our definitions of tradition and modernity; realign the customary boundaries
between the provate and the public, high and low; and challenge normative expectations of
development and progress” (Bhabha 3). 59 Changing a society’s or a culture’s thought process or
perspective is a very slow process, and by asking an entire culture to accept that which is new or
uncomfortable is not something that is easily or quickly taken on.
This very idea of going beyond the current accepted norms “signifies spatial distance, marks
progress, promises the future; but our intimations of exceeding the barrier or boundary – the very
act of going beyond – are unknowable, unrepresentable, without a return to the ‘present’ which,
in the process of repetition, becomes disjunct and displaced” (Bhabha 5-6). In addition to
temporal issues, the boundaries where marginal groups interface with the cultural norm then
“becomes the place from which something begins its presencing in a movement not dissimilar to
the ambulant, ambivalent articulation of the beyond” (Bhabha 7). It is this place of elocution that
allows for cultural mixing and for giving a voice to certain marginalized groups. Currently, “the
very concepts of homogenous national cultures, the consensual or contiguous tra nsmission of
historical traditions, or ‘organic’ ethnic communities – as the grounds of cultural comparativism
– are in a profound process of redefinition,” allowing for a greater understanding of a broader
range of culture’s contributing factors and their individual strengths (Bhabha 7).
Bhabha finds that with the “‘new’ internationalism…that the move from the specific to the
general, from the material to the metaphoric, is not a smooth passage of transition and
transcendence. The ‘middle passage’ of contemporary culture, as with slavery itself, is a process
of displacement and disjunction that does not totalize experience. Increasingly, “national cultures
are being produced from the perspective of disenfranchised minorities” (Bhabha 8). Regardless
of whether or not these narratives are representative of the whole picture, their presence is strong
in the market. Bhabha explains that while “the great connective narratives of capitalism and class
drive the engines of social reproduction,” they “do not, in themselves, provide a foundational
frame for those modes of cultural identification and political affect that form around issues of
sexuality, race, feminism,” and many others” (Bhabha 8). The mainstream literary productions
also only offer part of the picture of the culture they depict even though they are more widely
59
For further Border Studies see: Anzaldúa, Gloria E. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza
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accepted. There is danger in assuming either the mainstream cultural productions or the cultural
productions from ‘beyond’ at the forefront of cultural understanding. However, there is
significant cultural value to putting emphasis on marginal cultural productions because “to dwell
‘in the beyond’ is also…to be part of a revisionary time, a return to the present to redescribe our
cultural contemporaneity; to reinscribe our human, historic commonality; to touch the future on
its hither side. In that sense, then the intervening space ‘beyond’ becomes a space of intervention
in the here and now” (Bhabha 10). The attention placed on culture from ‘beyond’ is the link that
temporally connects a culture to what came before, what is currently true, and that which will be
in the future.
This culture that comes from the borderline between majority culture and the beyond is
neither a representation of the past nor the present. These cultural productions do “not merely
recall the past as social cause or aesthetic precedent; it renews the past, refiguring it as a
performance of the present. The ‘past-present’ becomes part of the necessity, not the nostalgia,
of living” (Bhabha 10). It is this point of elocution, on the borderline, that offers a position of
agency. According to Bhabha, “it is the desire for recognition, ‘for somewhere else and for
something else’ that takes the experience of history beyond the instrumental hypothesis. Once
again, it is the space of intervention emerging in the cultural interstices that introduces creative
invention into existence” (Bhabha 12). It is through the desire of the subject to be recognized
into existence that allows him/her the locus of agency to produce a cultural utterance that will in
turn be heard by the majority culture.
The act of speaking out from the borderline, a place of cultural division, creates an
“estranging sense of the relocation of the home and the world – the unhomeliness – that is the
condition of extra-terretorial and cross-cultural initiations. To be unhomed is not to be homeless,
nor can the ‘unhomely’ be easily accomodated in that familiar division of social life into private
and public spheres” (Bhabha 13). The ability to find space in this inbetween space creates a
conflictual image creating difficulty in differentiating between the private and the public, a
“vision that is as divided as it is disorienting” (Bhabha 13). Bhabha cites Johann Wolfgang von
Goethe in suggesting “that the possibility of a world literature arises from the cultural confusion
wrought by terrible wars and mutual conflicts” because in this sense, “nations ‘could not return
to their settled and independent life again without noticing that they had learned many foreign
ideas and ways, which they had unconsciously adopted, and come to feel here and there
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previously unrecognized spiritual and intellectual needs’” (Bhabha 16). 60 The coming together of
many world cultures in this space of overlapping borderland by producing culture from this point
of interaction would allow for a phenomenon of widespread and irreversible changed
perspective.
Goeth also believes that the cultural experience of a nation is experienced in an unconscious
fashion in which the subjects are not aware of the cultural acts they are performing. It is possible
that “the study of world literature might be the study of the way in which cultures recognize
themselves through their projections of ‘otherness’” (Bhabha 17). Previously, the “the
transmission of national traditions was the major theme of a world literature, perhaps we can
now suggest that transnational histories of migrants, the colonized, or political refugees – these
border and frontier conditions – may be the terrains of world literature” (Bhabha 17). Putting
these border accounts at the forefront of a nation’s cultural identity is the link that connects
cultures and creates a culturally sound world literature. Bhabha ind icates that while this is
desirable, it is not necessarily within our control. According to Hannah Arendt, while the “author
of social action may be the initiator of its unique meaning, as agent he or she cannnot control its
outcome” (Bhabha 18). 61 Therefore, rather than creating a profound connection and bonding link
with other world cultures, the literary production becomes a “crossroads of history and literature,
bridging the home and the world” (Bhabha 19). The agent continues to be caught in between.
One example of this locus of enunciation in the interstices of cultural definition is the
“ethical repositioning of the slave mother, who must be the enunciatory site for seeing the
inwardness of the slave world from the outside” (Bhabha 23). By represe nting this place from
both perspectives, the purpose of the author is “to affirm a profound desire for social solidarity,”
in which both sides of the division can be united (Bhabha 27).
Walter Benjamin sees this production of post-colonial literature from the interstices as a
strong representation and determiner of history. 62 According to Benjamin, “the struggle against
colonial oppression not only changes the direction of Western history, but challenges its
historicist idea of time as a progressive, ordered whole” (Bhabha 59). The ability to produce
from the borderline space is a visual representation of the disordering of Western history,
60
Von Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. "Note on World Literature"
Hannah Arendt (1906-1975) is a German theorist and philosopher. For further readings regarding on the
psychological imp lications of trauma see: Arendt, Hannah. The Li fe of the Mind
62
Ben jamin, Walter. "Theses on the Philosophy of History"
61
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because these works do not follow the cultural norms nor the goal of passing along national
traditions. More disturbed than the historical ordering of this literature is the “even more deeply
disturbed…social and psychic representatin of the human subject. For the very nature of
humanity becomes estranged in the colonial condition and from that ‘naked declivity’ it emerges,
not as an assertion of will nor as an evocation of freedom, but as an enigmatic questioning”
(Bhabha 60). The post-colonial subject is a conflicted subject that is in constant question of
his/her identity. For example, the black presence in post-colonial narrative “its present,
dismembered and dislocated, will not contain the image of identity that is questioned in the
dialective of mind/body and resolved in the epistemology of appearance and reality” (Bhabha
60). The question of image and identity will continually resurface as long as the subject is
dealing with the post-colonial effects of slavery and other post-colonial influences.
Fanon questions the individual and social agency of an individual from the standpoint of
demand and desire. He finds that “the social virtues of historical rationality, cultural cohesion,
the autonomy of individual consciousness assume an immediate, Utopian identity with the
subjects on whom they confer a civil status” (Bhabha 61). However, the same is true in this case
that both “the Negro enslaved by his inferiority” and “the white man enslaved by his superiority
alike behave in accordance with a neurotic orientation…the validity of violence in the very
definition of the colonial social space” (Bhabha 62). Colonial existence is co nflictual, even
violent. This conflictual state of being creates difficulty in individual and collective idenity
processes.
Bhabha believes that their are three main conditions of the identification process. Firstly, for
one to exist, s/he must “be called into being in relation to an otherness, in look or locus” (Bhabha
63). Secondly, to occupy the space of the Other is the desire of the colonial subject, permitting
the subject to represent a fantastical inversion of roles. Thirdly, the conclusion of the
identification process is never the identity that previously existed and the subject has come to
know or recognize, but rather “it is always the production of an image of identity and the
transformation of the subject in assuming that image” (Bhabha 64). Therefore, the subject cannot
identify him/herself as s/he is, but rather as s/he imagines him/herself to be. S/he must project
and embody the image that s/he desires to assume in order to identify him/herself. Bhabha
further explains that “for identification, identity is never an a priori, nor a finished product; it is
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only ever the problematic process of access to an image of totality,” a utopic image seeking
perfection (Bhabha 73).
The illusion of a conclusive “identification, as it is spoken in the Desire of the Other, is
always a question of interpretation, for it is the elusive assignation of myself with a one-self, the
elision of person and place” (Bhabha 75). According to Bhabha, the elision of identity is not
either the lack of identity or the realization of the perfect identity, but rather the space between,
“signified in the process of repetition” (Bhabha 77). In this instance, the subject seems to bounce
back and forth between these two possible outcomes. On the other hand, Jacques Derrida
believes that “the reader is [also] positioned – together with the enunciation of the question of
identity – in an undecidable space between ‘desire and fulfillment, between perpetration and its
recollection…neither future nor present, but between the two’” (Bhabha 77). 63 Bhabha reminds
us that this process of identification is rather complex and that “remembering is never a quiet act
of introspection or retrospection. It is a painful re- membering, a putting together of the
dismembered past to make sense of the trauma of the present. It is such a memory of the history
of race and racism, colonialism and the question of cultural identity” (Bhabha 90). However, the
repetitive nature of the process of identification is highly rewarded. According to Fanon in Black
Skin, White Masks, “it is through the effort to recapture the self and to scrutinize the self, it is
through the lasting tension of their freedom that men will be able to create the ideal conditions of
existence for a human world” (Bhabha 90). If consciously repeated time and again, this process
will allow for a more desirable state of being within a given culture and amongst many cultures.
As Fanon mentions many times in his analysis of the relationship between white and black,
his idea of the “belatedness of the black man” indicates that the black man identifies himself in
relation to the white man, but rather “uses the fact of blackness, of belatedness, to destroy the
binary structure of power and identity: the imperative that ‘the Black man must be Black; he
must be Black in relation to the white man’” (Bhabha 340). According to Bhabha this is because
of the relationship between the Black man and the White man, which was created in modern
times; however, the inability to surpass this relationship and the inability to look past colonial
repression has created a postcolonial period in which history is repeated as it occurred in modern
times. The time- lag has created an overlapping of modern and postmodern times.
63
Derrida, Jacques. Dissemination
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For Bhabha, “the power of the postcolonial translation of modernity rests in its
performative, deformative structure that does not simply revalue the contents of a cultural
tradition, or transpose values ‘cross-culturally’” (Bhabha 347). For example, “the cultural
inheritance of slavery or colonialism is brought before modernity not to resolve its historic
differences into a new totality, nor to forego its traditions. It is to introduce another locus of
inscription and intervention, another hybrid, ‘inappropriate’ enunciative site, through that
temporal split – or time- lag…for the signification of postcolonial agency” (Bhabha 347). Again,
in a predetermined space between the temporal periods of postcolonialism and modernity, there
remains a borderline locus of enunciation that can be used as a departure point for cultural
narratives that offer a profound significance to representations of postcolonial agency. Bhabha
believes that “the ‘subalterns and ex-slaves’ who now seize the spectacular event of modernity
do so in a catachrestic gesture of reinscribing modernity’s ‘caesura’ and using it to transform the
locus of thought and writing in their postcolonial critique” (Bhabha 353). The postcolonial
critique that Bhabha discusses is that of determining the role of the past in relation to a
disjunctive present. By effectively creating this relationship, it would mean that racism would be
defined “as part of the historical traditions of civic and liberal humanism that create ideological
matrices of national aspiration, community” (Bhabha 359). In short, literature written by the
‘beyond’ culture from the locus of the borderline is the link that joins cultures and bridges
postcolonialism with modernity.
Rather than discussing bridges between cultural entities, Edouard Glissant discusses the
importance of a specific Caribbean discourse in Caribbean Discourse. Here, Glissant further
discusses the role of discourse in Caribbean (specifically Martinican) literature, as well as the
factors that contribute to his image of Caribbeanness. Specifically, Glissant emphasizes “the
structuring force of landscape, community, and collective unconscious” in literature (Glissant
xiii). It is his belief that the problem in depicting an accurate representation of the Caribbean is
that “the intellectual has looked outside of the land and the community for a solution,” when the
answer can only be found within (Glissant xvii). Glissant attributes this to “‘nonhistory – [which]
is seen as a series of ‘missed opportunities,’ because of which the French West Indian is
persuaded of his impotence and encouraged to believe in the disintere sted generosity of France,
to pursue the privilege of citizenship and the material benefits of departmental status” (Glissant
xviii). Glissant feels as though the lack of consciousness of the events surrounding the French
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Caribbean is what has inadvertently contributed to the current loss of opportunity and continues
still. The danger is that “in a situation where the group is ignorant of its past, resentful of its
present impotence, yet fearful of future change, the creative imagination has a special role to
play,” and specifically, “Martinicans need writers to tell them who they are or even what they are
not. A collective memory is an urgent need for the Martinican community if oblivion is to be
avoided” (Glissant xix). A consciousness that is shared by the community is what is needed to
remember the past and to move into the future.
Glissant fears that Creole will be lost if more literary works are not produced and those that
are do not make use of the language. In this case, there seems to be an excess of the production
of French that runs parallel to the loss of Creole, however, this is to be expected since “an
elaborate French is the highest achievement of the assimilé (assimilated) speaker” (Glissant
xxii). By producing this type of language, the author is perceived to be of a higher class. This is
true because the Creole language faces the negative perception gained during slave times. Creole
was used as a “secretive means of communication” in which “its predominant characteristic
became extreme or intense sound” that to the outsider seemed nothing more than “an
‘accelerated nonsense created by scrambled sounds’”(Glissant xxiii).
Glissant defines the national language as “the one in which a people produces” (Glissant
xxiii). However, Martinique, as well as many other Caribbean islands, does not have a national
language that is their own. In the case of Martinique, this is because the nation “is crippled by an
absence of self- sustaining productivity” and also because “French is the langue imposée – the
imposed language – and Creole is the langue non-posée – the nonsituated language” (Glissant
xxiii). Whether an author decides to produce texts in French or Creole would determine the
nation’s national language, but the problem lies in that the nation is not producing in either
langauge.
Glissant warns that a writer’s attempt at writing in a language that is not comfortable for
him/her is just as dangerous and can prevent a transparent representation of lived experience. He
also recommends the Caribbean writer avoid the use of realism and objectivity when describing
his/her experience, but suggests that “the French Caribbean writer must forge a new discourse
that transcends spoken languages, written conventions, literary genres, traditional notions of time
and space” (Glissant xxvi).
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Glissant is clear to indicate, however, that historian and historical writings are not the
stronghold that is meant to represent Caribbean history, but rather that “it is the collective
experience that matters,” whether the collective experience jives with historical accounts or not
(Glissant xxix). Glissant concludes that “if History is essentially a system of signs that are part of
a discourse of domination and control, literature can also harbor an equally pernicious narrative
strategy,” and can serve as an important means for recording and sharing the Caribbean
experience (Glissant xxx). According to Glissant, the Caribbean as a whole suffers from a lack of
history - an amalgamation of events that may or may not have happened there and which have no
chronology. Martinique is an exemption from this lack of history because Glissant believes that
it is “an example of an extreme case of historical dispossession in the Caribbean, is caught
between the fallacy of the primitive paradise, the mirage of Africa, and the illusion of a
metropolitan identity” (Glissant xxxii). Martinique does not know where or to whom it belongs
and its inhabitants are uncertain as to the history of their homeland, unfortunately, because “land
is central to the process of self-possession,” and the inability to place yourself within a national
identity makes identification more complex (Glissant xxxv).
In this sense, however, Glissant “declares that it is not enough simply to describe the
landscape” (Glissant xxxvii). Rather than “being merely decorative or supportive,” landscape
“emerges as a full character” that aids in the representation of the relationship with the land as
well as aids in the recreation of history (Glissant xxxvii). Due to the lack of chronolo gy in
Caribbean literature, individual dates are of no importance, but rather the collective lived
experience can be situated in a temporal background by linking past and present together by
using the landscape as a basis for this change. The danger is that any society “can be the
victim[s] of History when we submit passively to it,” never questioning or sharing an individual
or collective experience that conflicts with the widely accepted historical accounts of the
experience (Glissant 70).
According to Glissant, the earliest relation between history and literature is the myth. For
him, “myth is the first state of a still- naïve historical consciousness, and the raw material for the
project of literature” which “anticipates history as much as it inevitably repeats the accidents that
it has glorified; that means it is in turn a producer of history” (Glissant 71). What links history
and literature together is a lived experience. Once a representation of an individual’s lived
experience enters the historical text, it becomes literature. However, Glissant reminds us that”the
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difficulty of knowing history (one’s history) provokes the deepest isolation (Glissant 82). This
type of isolation is one that separates the individual from the dominant group as well as creates a
division between him/herself and the marginalized culture from which s/he comes. The product
that emerges is fragmented in more ways than one.
According to Glissant, the fragmentation prevents the literature from actively implementing a
linear chronology and in turn “time cannot be conceived as a basic dimension of human
experience” in Caribbean literature (Glissant 84). The “most used measure of time is the change
from day to night…The rhythm of night and day is the only measure of time for the slave, the
peasant, the agricultural worker” (Glissant 84). While this type of movement and unstructured
action is the norm for Caribbean literature in the wake of postcolonial issues, the danger lies in
that “when the collectivity does not yet permit the individual to stand out, we are faced with what
Western thought (for which the dignity of the individual is the yardstick) calls primitive
societies” (Glissant 86). By failing to represent the individual as part of the collective whole,
Caribbean culture is perceived as less civilized than the Western world.
Glissant insists that the difficulty of the search for individual identity lies in the attempt to
find one’s identity without first trying to find the identity of the collective whole. In this case, the
quest for identity becomes “uncertain and ambiguous” because “there is a contradiction between
a lived experience through which the community instinctively rejects the intrusive exclusiveness
of a single History and an official way of thinking through which it passively consents in the
ideology ‘represented’ by its elite” (Glissant 93). When an individual from a non-elite faction of
the whole reads texts – either historical or literary – that are meant to represent his/her lived
experiences, but are not representative of reality for him/her, the subject becomes confused about
who s/he really is and where - if at all – s/he fits into the larger collective. By accepting that
there is one true history, according to Glissant, we are also accepting that there is one true power:
the Western world.
Glissant believes that if these subjects choose not to share their lived experiences with the
world, althought they may differ from the accepted norm, “they deprive the world of a part of
itself” (Glissant 99). It is important that these experiences are not only shared, but that they are
shared on the terms of the author him/herself. For example, the choice of language in which an
author chooses to write should be decided by him/her alone, not by the politics surrounding the
decision. It should not matter whether a French language literature will sell more than a Creole
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language literature. This forced poetics will only exacerbate the friction that already exists
between the two languages and will eventually force the author to decide “between a langauge
that one uses and a form of expression that one needs” (Glissant 121). In addition, the lived
experience of the author will be altered if s/he uses a langauge that is not familiar to him/her,
creating even further ambiguity and confusion. The lived experience of the slave is best
represented in a written literary fashion. As a slave, the individual had no control over his/herself
and acted only in response to the orders of the master. Thus, “to move from the oral to the
written is to immobilize the body, to take control (to possess it)” (Glissant 123). Only through a
written account of his/her lived experiences can the slave begin to regain control of his/her life
and identity.
For the Caribbean slave, conversation was strictly prohibited, causing the slaves to alter their
language to appear as nothing but a shout or a call of the ‘savage’ African. By creating a
language that seemed to be meaningless sounds, the slave man/woman was able to dispossess
him/herself from the stronghold of the slave master (Glissant 124). This very Creole langauge
has a rhythmic quality to it that is dictated by the speaker, and it reiterates the rhythm of the
plantation system. Glissant recognizes that the plantation system has been done away with in
Martinique, but he assures us that while slavery and the production of cane sugar no longer exists
on the island, the plantation system has not yet been replaced by another ordered system.
Glissant states that Martinique is a land that does not produce anything for itself, yet rather
consumes products that are developed elsewhere. It is clear for Glissant that if Martinique does
not take action to produce for themselves, the Creole language will be lost to the influence of
French and will eventually be lost “if it does not become functional in some other way” – if it is
not used to represent the lived experiences of its individuals in a literary context (Glissant 127).
Because Creole is a language that was created by the intermixing of two or more cultures a nd
because it did not preexist the presence of a colonial power that caused the intermixing of said
cultures, the Creole langauge is even more susceptible to influence from the dominant language.
Glissant indicates that while placing emphasis on the use of Creole in order to strengthen its
place in Martinican society is not necessarily easy, there are some elements of lived experience
that the Creole language would be ideal for representing in literature. These are the lived
experiences of the minority class and are “elements that give direction to the Martinican
collective unconscious: slave trade, slavery, loss of collective memory, liberation of slaves
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(Glissant 160-1). By representing these shared lived experiences from the point of view of the
oppressed rather than from the perspective and language of the oppressor, Martinique will have
the ability to share the whole experience and in turn, it will become less difficult to determine the
collective memory and the collective identity of the island. For cultures formed under the
plantation system, such as the Caribbean, “what is missing…is the transition from the shared
experience to conscious expression; the need to transcend the intellectual pretensions dominated
by the learned elite and to be grounded in collective affirmation, supported by the activism of the
people” (Glissant 222). In translating a lived experience from memory to written word, the
Caribbean will be able to gain strength in confirming its collective consciousness when affronted
with critique from other dominating forces.
For Glissant it is this critique from the dominating cultures within and outside of the
Caribbean that is the greatest influence in preventing the development of a collective
consciousness in the Caribbean. While the Caribbean is surrounded by many neighboring
nations, the isolation of the island is felt amongst its inhabitants and it is “this isolation [that]
postpones in each island the awareness of a Caribbean identity and at the same time it separates
each community from its own true identity” (Glissant 222). However, Glissant feels that
“Caribbeanness is not to be seen as a last resort” because “one is not Marinican because of
wanting to be Caribbean. Rather, one is really Caribbean because of wanting to become
Martinican” (Glissant 224). Therefore, through the desire to become one with an individual’s
island of origin and to participate in the formation of a collective culture and identity, one is also
pledging his/her allegiance to the Caribbean as a whole. However, this is a complex situation that
is not meant to be addressed only in the intellectual realm, but must also be dealt with on the
human level in which all the peoples involved take an active role.
Glissant laments that there was a system of communication and interaction that functioned
well in the Caribbean before the arrival of the Spaniards and the creation, development and
exploitation of the plantation system. According to Glissant, with the onset of slavery, “all
history seemed to come to a halt in the Caribbean, and the peoples transplanted there had no
alternative but to subject themselves to History with a capital H,” the univocal history and lived
experience of the elite and dominating class (Glissant 248). Glissant concludes that the goal of
the Caribbean is that the non-dominant cultures return to their roots and to take seriously the
opportunity to write their lived experiences, because the result will be a reconciliation between
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orality and written culture that will lead to a resolved collective consciousness and identity for
Caribbean culture and for each of its individual parts.
IV.
Gende r and Performativity: Breadfruit vs. Chestnut 64
As an important addition to the role that collective identity plays in individual identity
formation, it is necessary to mention the role that the mother (or other- mothers) play in the
identity formation of their female offspring. For young females, their mother is the main role
model whose actions they will choose to emulate or reject. Judith Butler believes that while
one’s biological sex is predetermined, their gender is learned by environmental factors. Thus, the
daily representations of femaleness that an individual is predisposed to are key determinants of
the influences leading to female identity formation. For Bonnie Thomas, the matrifocal nature of
many Caribbean societies and literary representations creates an emphasized identity conflict
because, oftentimes a racially marked woman not only faces an ostracizing force due to her
gender and race, but also due to an inferiority of the island culture to mainland culture (e.g.
France, England, Spain, the United States, etc.). Finally, Muriel Schulz and Ruth Wodak discuss
the importance of the acquisition of linguistic structures from a mother or mother figure. It is
also through language that a female child determines her role in society and the proper way to
present herself. This theory is paramount in the study of representations of race and gender
marked literary representations of the Caribbean, as traditionally, personal accounts and family
histories are passed orally from mother to daughter. In many cases in Caribbean literary
representations, the woman is the keeper and teller of history. Thus, by being knowledgeable of
her family’s history as well as that of the collective whole, female identity formation is
influenced by the past. 65
In Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, Judith Butler discusses the
formation of a subject based on their environment and based on the surrounding power structure.
Butler claims that “the subjects regulated by such structures are, by virtue of being subjected to
them, formed, defined, and reproduced in accordance with the requirements of those structures
(“Subjects” 4). If this assumption is true, than it can be determined that women are considered
64
Refers to a Creole proverb contrasting gender roles. For further explanation see Thomas, Bonnie. Breadfruit or
Chestnut?: Gender Construction in the French Caribbean Novel
65
In some cases, knowledge of the past allows the female literary character to break free fro m the pattern that her
family and society have experienced over time. In other cases, the circumstances prevent the female literary
character fro m b reaking free fro m the cyclical pattern experienced by her ancestors despite full knowledge of past
experience. In both cases, the experience of knowing and breaking free or knowing and repeating significantly
influence her identity format ion process.
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the subject of feminism and, in turn, “the feminist subject turns out to be discursively constituted
by the very political system that is supposed to facilitate its emancipation” (Butler, “Subjects”
4).66 By using the discourse practices that are learned through a male-dominated society and
structure, a woman is accomplishing nothing more than the reiteration of the male social norms.
Despite the feminist content of her discourse, the patriarchal structure prevents separation from
containment in these preconceived institutions.
According to Butler, the term women itself is problematic since “apart from the
foundationalist fictions that support the notion of the subject, however, there is the political
problem that feminism encounters in the assumption that the term women denotes a common
identity” (“Subjects” 6). The term itself groups all women together and offers only one possible,
shared identity amongst a group that is homogeneous in biological sex. The term woman fails to
encompass all aspects of womanhood including all the intersections that it shares with cultural
production. Butler indicates that it is important to consider that “gender is not always constituted
coherently or consistently in different historical contexts, and because gender intersects with
racial, class, ethnic, sexual, and regional modalities of discursively constituted identities” and “as
a result, it becomes impossible to separate out ‘gender’ from the political and cultural
intersections in which it is invariably produced and maintained” (“Subjects” 6). Because gender
is dependent upon so many factors that cannot be separated, it should be considered, also, that
gender cannot be individually inspected without including its defining factors. However, the all
encompasing term of woman does leave some room for separation – that of biological sex vs.
performed gender. This division was “originally intended to dispute the biology- is-destiny
formulation, the distinction between sex and gender serves the argument that whatever biological
intractability sex appears to have, gender is culturally co nstructed: hence, gender is neither the
causal result of sex nor as seemingly fixed as sex” (Butler, “Subjects” 9-10). In considering
gender, it is possible then, that a woman has some choice in determining her sexual identity.
Butler warns however, that this system of “a binary gender system implicitly retains the
belief in a mimetic relation of gender to sex whereby gender mirrors sex or is otherwise
restricted to it” (“Subjects” 10). In this sense, sex and gender may both be determined as
culturally constructed and the distinction really indicates no distinction at all. Here, Butler refers
66
For further reading see: Butler, Judith. Undoing Gender; Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky and Andrew Parker.
Performativity and Performance; Spivak, Gayatri. "Can the Subaltern Speak?"
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to Simone de Beauvoir’s belief that “one ‘becomes’ a woman, but always under a cultural
compulsion to become one. And clearly, the compulsion does not come from ‘sex’” (“Subjects”
12).67 It is also clear that cultural compulsion emphasizes the identification of femininty and
womanhood with the female sex, while masculininty and manhood are strongly emphasized as
the correct choice for the male sex. So, while sex does not directly lead to gender definition,
cultural compulsion strongly recommends this outcome.
Luce Irigaray believes that the issue lies not in the definintion of woman, but in the absent
representation of so defined individual. 68 For Irigaray, “women are the ‘sex’ which is not ‘one.’
Within a language pervasively masculinist, a phallogocentric language, women constitute the
unrepresentable,” resulting in the fact that “women represent the sex that cannot be thought, a
linguistic absence and opacity” (Butler, “Subjects” 14). In this sense, it does not matter if the
woman is woman because of her sex or because of her gender, but it matters that she is
nonexistent because of the inability to bring her into being under a male dominated language.
Irigarary takes this even a step further, accusing masculinity of inhabiting the role of both subject
and Other, effectively excluding the female from entering the dominant society.
Butler argues that despite the restrictions put on female sex and gender in cultural function
“gender is a complexity whose totality is permanently deferred, never fully what it is at any
given juncture in time” (“Subjects” 22). Therefore, while this is currently the structure of gender
and sex in society, it is subject to change when any one of its defining factors is altered. Again,
Butler reiterates “Beauvoir’s claim that one is not born, but rather becomes a woman” and “it
follows that woman itself is a term in process, a becoming, a constructing that cannot rightfully
be said to originate or to end. As an ongoing discursive practice, it is open to intervention and
resignification” (“Subjects” 43). The gender of a woman can change over time, although there is
not much room for movement when defined as either male or female. Regardless, Butler sums up
her belief that “gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a
highly rigid regulatory frame that congeals over time to produce the appearance of substance, of
a natural sort of being” (“Subjects” 43-4). So, while gender is strongly influenced by cultural
factors and pressures, it is also determined by the choice the individual makes in regard to the
67
68
de Beauvoir, Simone. Le Deuxième Sexe.
Irigaray, Luce. The Sex Which is Not One.
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performatives she will implement in order to create an image of the identity she desires to
portray.
Judith Butler further discusses gender formation in Bodies that Matter, indicating that she
believes that gender is more than just a biological sex, but is further defined by the performative
acts learned through environmental factors that have previously inscribed widely accepted
gender rules over time. While performance can happen in many different contexts, Butler deals
with discourse in this text. In her belief, “most performatives, for instance, are statements that, in
the uttering, also perform a certain action and exercise a binding power…the performative is one
domain in which power acts as discourse” (“Queer” 225). A performative utterance may be
spoken without a subject being actively conscious of the role that it plays in his/her formation of
gender. According to Butler, “recognition is not conferred on a subject, but forms the subject”
(“Queer” 226). In this sense, gender is not a chosen performative act.
Butler continues to explain that “the practice by which gendering occurs, the embodying of
norms, is a compulsory practice, a forcible production, but not for that reason fully determining”
(“Queer” 231). In addition to a subject’s non-choice of peforming gender norms, s/he also does
not have the ability to prevent practice of these performatives, as they have bee n determined and
repeated throughout history. In this case, “femininity is thus not the product of a choice, but the
forcible citation of a norm, one whose complex historicity is indissociable from relations of
discipline, regulation, punishment. Indeed, there is no ‘one’ who takes on a gender norm,” but
rather it must be changed slowly, by active choice of performatives, as history continues (Butler,
“Queer” 232). Therefore, one’s gender cannot be determined completely by the performative acts
s/he engages in because the performance is based on “a reiteration of norms which precede,
constrain, and exceed the performer and in that sense cannot be taken as the fabrication of the
performer’s ‘will’ or ‘choice’” (Butler, “Queer” 234). Gender norms have been de veloping for a
long time and changes to these predetermined norms will also take a long time to replace the old
beliefs, if that is what a society consciously decides to do.
Bonnie Thomas utilizes the theories that Judith Butler has set forth regarding the differences
between gender and sex and further explains. She also studies the matrifocal society that appears
at the forefront of many Francophone Caribbean nations and literary representations. Thomas
indicates through literary studies that the most prominent factors for determining gender
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performance or gender role norms are that of slave society and the lingering elements of colonial
influence that still affect Caribbean nations to this day.
In order to differentiate between male and female genders, Thomas uses the old Creole
proverb that man is a breadfruit while woman is a chestnut. This proverb aims to define men as
the weaker sex (breadfruits break apart easily when then fall from the tree, just as men break
apart easily when faced with adversity), while women are defined as the stronger sex (chestnuts
do not easily break or fall apart, even when they fall from the tree). One large issue within the
Francophone Caribbean is the feeling of Otherness in relation to France. However, the
Francophone islands have completely assimilated in culture and language to France, leaving
society stuck in the middle. Women of the Francophone Caribbean have even further degrees of
ostracization from the accepted norms because of the gender debate. This feeling of not
belonging, of being stuck in the middle, has become the dominant literary production of
Francophone Caribbean women – an identity crisis.
In many Francophone literary productions, a conteur, a storyteller who used to motivate
slaves in the fields, generally plays an important role in the creation and representation of French
society, since stories used to be passed along orally, rather than textually. To some degree, this is
still true today, as there is some language discrepancy between Creole and French. While the
literacy rate in both languages is increasing, it is clear that while some individuals feel that the
stories they have to tell need to be told in Creole, French will remain the preferred language for
literary production. Thomas indicates that Afro-Francophone literary productions by men and
women differ, not because of their biological sex, but because of their learned gender norms.
Further, these differences offer a greater insight into the female Francophone experience, since
this experience is different from that of the male counterpart.
Thomas leans on three feminist approaches to understanding racialized, gendered
Francophone Caribbean literature. Citing Maryse Condé’s approach to understanding this
literature, Thomas indicates that Condé believes in the necessity of a male counterpart in the life
of a woman in order for her to live a full life. 69 Thomas also positions Simone Schwarz-Bart’s
understanding that slavery caused the breakdown of the nuclear family unit, leaving the woman
69
Maryse Condé (1939-
) is a pro minent Francophone Guadeloupean writer.
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no choice other than to step in as a strong support for the family, while the man only remains
present in the background, if at all. 70
Gisele Pineau represents racialized Francophone Caribbean women as a strong voice that
does not overstep the male experience, but runs parallel to it. 71 Her belief is that the woman has
become the strong head of the family due to the social hierarchy of slavery. In this structure, a
woman held more value than a man because she could offer greater sexual and economic
advantages for the slave master and for the safety of her family, since reproducing with the slave
master was a step toward whitening the race and earning freedom for herself and her children.
Valérie Loichot takes this explanation even a step further by explaining that it was necessary
for families to survive without male guidance in slave times and this learned structure has
inadvertently been passed on through generations. 72 Thomas explains that the history of the
Francophone Caribbean is defined by rupture rather than continuity, and it is naturally the
representation of this rupture that makes its way into racialized, gendered Francophone
Caribbean literary productions. Thomas concludes that the most effective approach to
understanding cultural and individual identity alike is to engage in literary analysis across
temporal restrictions.
In studying literature across temporal restrictions, it becomes clear that the relationship that a
female has with her mother is oftentimes a telltale representation of her process of identity in
relation to her mother. In The Language of Love and Guilt: Mother-Daughter Relationships from
a Cross-Cultural Perspective, Muriel Schulz and Ruth Wodak discuss the formation of motherdaughter relationships as strongly reliant upon their communicative patterns. While Wodak and
Schulz indicate that children of both sexes engage in communicative patterns with their parents,
it is “assume[d] that the ritual exchanges of mothers and daughters will differ from those of
mothers and sons and will reflect specific aspects of their relationship” (2). According to Wodak
and Schulz, “today much of a mother’s life style – if she still lives according to traditional values
– must be rejected as the main female model for her daughter if the daughter is to create a nontraditional role for herself” (3). Thus, the relationship for mothers and daughters is one fraught in
a tug-of-war type of movement.
70
Simone Schwarz-Bart (1938- ) is a pro minent Francophone Guadeloupean writer.
Gisele Pineau (1956- ) is a pro minent Francophone Guadeloupean writer.
72
For further reading see: Lo ichot, Valerie. "Negations and Subversions of Paternal Authorities in Glissant's
Fictional Works (Le Quatrieme Siecle, La Case du commandeur,Tout-monde)"
71
134
One point that Wodak and Schulz make is the conflictual reality that is created and enforced
not only by social expectations, but also by the mother herself. Wodak and Schulz indicate that
“on the one hand it is the partriarchal structure of society which is responsible for women’s
status, while on the other it is often the mother herself who passes on to her daughter a negative
appraisal of the female role” (3). It is not uncommon that the woman reiterates the practice of the
subservient role of the woman in any society. When the mother emphasizes these expectations to
her daughter, it not only demonstrates the repetitive nature of gender roles, but also manifests
itself as a mother’s personal desires. While some daughters may be able to easily break ties with
what is expected by society, many more have difficulty in breaking from their mother’s wishes.
This difficulty is exacerbated by the daughter’s emotional dependance on her mother as a
role model. Wodak and Schulz explain that “the uniqueness of the mother-daughter tie derives
from the fact that the daughter participates not only in the anaclitic (emotionally dependent)
relationship of the child with its mother, but also from the fact that both mother and daughter are
of the same sex” (4). This is especially debilitating for the daughter because “our culture, while it
encourages boys to become independent of their mothers at an early age, sanctions – and in fact
encourages – continued dependence in girls” (Wodak and Schulz 4). Thus, while a fema le is
expected to remain dependent on her mother, she is also expected to create a separate identity,
creating a conflictual situation in which the female must either disappoint her mother by
emotionally separating or disappoint herself by not ever being able to create an identity for her
own self.
Wodak and Schulz conclude that the most important factors determined by a motherdaughter relationship are those of “speech acquistion, of sex-specific socialization, of
identification, of cognitive and emotional development, and of psychological developme nt (5).
Continuing, Wodak and Schulz indicate that, while the mother-daugher relationship is an
important indicator of the role of a woman, it is the mother’s discourse that directly affects the
following:
1. a model for the child’s acquistion of linguistic and pragma- linguistic
competence;
2. an important source of emotional, cognitive, and communicative socialization;
3. a model of sex-specific speech behavior;
4. an instance of the super-ego (imparting moral values and norms);
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5. the channel for a relationship, the dynamics and alteration of which make
possible the development of the child’s identity following symbiosis and
individuation. This relationship is, so to speak, the model for all the subsequent
object relationships which will be formed by the daughter. (5)
Therefore, a mother (or mother figure) plays a significant if not guiding role in the identity
formation process of her daughter.
V.
Identity
While trauma, race, ethnicity, language, and gender all play important roles in identity
formation, Juan Flores, Jorge Duany, and Stuart Hall have determined some of the finer points
influencing identity formation. While Flores specifically discusses Puerto Rican identity, the
claims he makes relate well to other islands of the Caribbean. Flores especially discusses the role
that travel and migratory patterns of Caribbean individuals who return to their island of origin
plays in determining identity formation. Duany continues Flores’ discussion of identity
formation and applies it to identity formation of individuals who not only remain on the
mainland, but also to those Caribbean individuals who identify themselves as Caribbean while
living in another location. In this case, there are certain elements that are central to the identity
formation process and others that are marginal to self- identification. Finally, Hall indicates that it
is necessary to remember that identity is a process and a definition that can change over time. So,
while it is important to root identity in the present, the same individual may identify herself
differently at another space and time.
Juan Flores’ discussions on Puerto Rican identity in Divided Borders: Essays on Puerto
Rican Identity can be applied to identity formation conflicts in other Caribbean nations. Early on
in his compilation of essays, Flores cites Jean Franco, setting the tone for the undertaking of this
production. Franco says that “the fact that Puerto Rico is absent from the map of Latin America
and appears only marginally on the map of the United States forces all of us to reconsider the
meaning of identity” (Flores 10). This is true for other Caribbean islands as well. Depending on
the map, some islands are not even included where they would appear, but instead are not
considered to exist amongst the blue ocean. If one does not exist to the rest of the world, or if
s/he is not recognized by the rest of the world, the manner in which s/he defines him/herself is
distinct from those who are considered for existence.
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In the case of Puerto Rico, in addition to “the absence of economic and political opportunity
is the lack of cultural access and direction of any kind: the doors to the prevailing culture are
closed” (Flores 186). Because Puerto Rico is a commonwealth of the United States, its national
identity will inadvertantly be subject to influence from the mainland, however, the lack of
economic and political means available prevent a complete identification with the dominant
culture. However, when an islander does migrate to the States, “the validation of Spanish is an
important initial impetus, even if that means, as in the phrase ‘my isla heritage,’ the inclusion of
a Spanish world in an English- language context” (Flores 188). By representing his/her heritage,
the Puerto Rican migrant can maintain an emotional bond with the island, even while immersed
in a new culture.
Flores indicates that “this so-called ‘syncretism’ has occurred in Puerto Rico under
conditions of colonial domination and of the social dynamic and points to the class dimension of
cultural change” and although it “appears on the surface to be no more than the nostalgic,
metaphorical evocation typical of an immigrant sensibility is in the Puerto Rican case an
apprenticeship in social consciousness, the reconstructed ‘patria’ [is] serving as the relevant
locus of cultural interaction and contention (Flores 189). As in colonial times, the identification
with and participation in popular traditions expose both race and class distinctions. This is the
same experience for Puerto Ricans (or other island immigrants) relocating to the United States.
While there is some need to assimilate to the dominant culture, there is a greater need to
emphasize the differences between “la patria” and the new land.
Further explaining the use of Spanish upon arrival and thereafter in the United States, Flores
says that “the predicament of bilingualism…which confronted the Nuyorican in the first moment
as a confining and prejudicial dilemma with no visible resolution, now becomes an issue of
social contention and beyond that, a sign of potential enrichment and advantage” (Flores 190). 73
While originally perceived as a disadvantage, “bilingual discourse and continued access to
Spanish have been a major element in the reinforcement of Puerto Rican cultural identity” both
in the United States and on the island, where the influence of the English language has become
quite strong (Flores 190). Flores indicates that, regardless of langauge use, it is the continued free
association status that Puerto Rico holds with the United States that plays the strongest role in the
73
Here, Nuyorican refers to the individual co mprised of Puerto Rican descent that migrated to New York mid -20th
century. This term can also refer to the cultural and linguistic changes brought on by this migration phenomenon.
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formation of a Puerto Rican national identity for individuals in the States. In conclusion, Flores
states that “in the Puerto Rican case, neither the migration iteself nor the cultural encounter with
U.S. society is a one-way, either/or, monolithic event. Rather, it is one marked by further
movement and the constant interplay of two familiar yet contrasting zones of collective
experience” (Flores 193). Further interaction between the two cultures will indicate the
importance, if any, that bilingualism will play in Puerto Rican identity issues in the United
States.
Jorge Duany further discusses the back-and-forth movement common between the
Caribbean and the United States, paying special attention to the case of Puerto Rico in The
Puerto Rican Nation on the Move: Identities on the Island and in the United States.74 This text
deals with the ability or lack thereof to create an understanding of national identities despite the
in-and-out nature of many Caribbean islands. For Duany, “national identities are not completely
artificial or abstracted from everyday experience; on the contrary, they are historically grounded
in social relations, cultural practices, and shared conceptions of what constitutes a people, a
country, and a community” (Puerto Rican 8). However, a national identity does not necessarily
have any grounding in the physical geography of a nation. One indication of this is that “the
nationalistic discourse in Puerto Rico has traditionally omitted racial and ethnic minorities and
other subaltern groups from its nation-building project, whether they were inside or outside the
Island’s frontiers” (Duany, Puerto Rican 24). It is not the location that creates a national identity,
but rather an amalgamation of other factors. In some cases, according to Nancy Morris, “the
significance of dietary habits for most Puerto Ricans [serves] as a key symbol of their culture,”
as well as other influences that may not be easily seen or understood by the outsider (Duany,
Puerto Rican 32).
Although Puerto Rico has been considered a postcolonial society for quite some time now,
Duany believes that these colonial restraints still manifest in soc iety and inadvertently in the
identification (individual and national) process. According to Duany, “Puerto Rico has become a
‘postcolonial colony,’ in which traditional forms of external domination (such as direct
metropolitan control over the Island’s government) have been replaced by neolate, or lite
colonialism (in the sense of indirect rule and some measure of local autonomy, especially in
cultural and linguistic affairs)” (Puerto Rican 122). While this lite colonialism is not as
74
This mig ratory pattern has been referred to by some theorists as the Revolving Door Theory or El vaivé n.
138
oppressive as previous colonial influences, there are factors that need to be considered when
creating a national identity. One of these factors is “anthropological ideas and practices…[which
have become] key elements of cultural nationalism in Puerto Rico” (Duany, Puerto Rican 125).
One explanation that Duany gives for these seemingly marginal means of creating a national
identity is that “without a sovereign state or an autonomous economy, the people of Puerto Rico
have often lacked the political power and material resources to represent themselves under
commonwealth status” (Puerto Rican 136). Regardless, Duany opens the debate for what exactly
will contribute to the definition of a Puerto Rican (or Caribbean) identity by indicating that the
extreme mobility experienced in this region, whether officially considered a factor in
identification, must be considered.
In a later article, “The Rough Edges of Puerto Rican Identities: Race, Gender, and
Transnationalism”, Jorge Duany continues the discussion of representative factors co mmonly
called upon in the identity process, specifically related to Puerto Ricans. In this article, he
discusses the principal factors, which he terms “cores”, as well as the marginal factors, termed
“rough edges”. Duany uses the “the phrase ‘on the edge’ to mean that the study of Puerto Ricans
on the island and in the United States has become a productive site for the analysis of the
multiple intersections of critical variables, such as gender, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity,
nationalism, and transnationalism (“Rough” 178). Rather than limit Puerto Rican nationality to
the island, Duany observes that the identity process occurs even as Puerto Ricans move between
the island and the mainland.
Duany indicates that “recent studies of Puerto Rican identities on and off the island have
increasingly focused on their rough "edges" (such as their subordinate racial, ethnic, gender,
sexual, or diasporic locations), rather than on their hard "cores" (such as the Spanish language,
the Catholic Church, the canonized literature, and other island-centered cultural practices)
(“Rough” 178). These rough “edges” are more frequently being used to analyze and access the
process of identification for Puerto Ricans. Although beneficial in many respects, the absence of
inclusion of the rough “edges” can only produce a partial analysis of Puerto Rican identity.
Recent works “have insisted on deconstructing the master narratives of the Puerto Rican nation
and replacing them with more fragmentary stories” in which “subjects negotiate their places
within the imaginary communities of Puerto Rico and its diaspora,” while other studies have
shown that national identity is not necessarily the greatest defining factor of relation amongst
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individuals who have a fragmented lived experience (Duany, “Rough” 178). 75 Duany takes this a
step further by declaring that Puerto Rican identity is determined by much more than “being born
in Puerto Rico, living on the island, and speaking Spanish” (“Rough” 179).
Duany deals with the race relations in P uerto Rico as a defining factor in identity, explaining
that the already complex racial and ethnic hierarchies have become more enhanced, due to
widespread immigration from neighboring nations. Puerto Rico suffers from “the founding myth
of mestizaje, which tends to privilege whiteness and sometimes the indigenous heritage at the
expense of the African contribution (Duany, “Rough” 180). Although highly underrepresented,
the African influence in Puerto Rico is widespread, both biologically and culturally. In addition
to a disproportionate representation of African heritage in Puerto Rican national identity, women
have also systematically been underrepresented in the definition of the nation. Duany even
postulates that women have had to take on a genderless to ne in realms such as the workplace and
literature in order to establish a certain level of authority.
While Duany does not offer conclusions to these misrepresentations and
underrepresentations of the Puerto Rican process of identification as well as the absence of the
majority of its members, this article does bring the issues to the forefront of the study of national
identity.
Stuart Hall has placed cultural identity at the forefront of recent political agenda. Hall
observes that this is the case in the Caribbean and intends to discuss Caribbean cultural identity
in terms of locating “an origin for its peoples” (“Negotiating” 5). The search for identity is
heaped in a need to discover tradition via nostalgic memory, and “almost always involve[s] the
silencing of something in order to allow something else to speak” (Hall, “Negotiating” 5). Hall
indicates that the difficulty of a collective identity is based in the abundant cultural traces that
have mixed over time and that have been exacerbated by the historical violence of the Caribbean.
Hall claims that in addition to taking the historical violence into account when creating a
Caribbean identity, it is also necessary to consider the perpetual power play that has created
distinct race, class, gender, etc. hierarchies on the islands. For Ha ll, it is important to remember
that identities are rooted in the present and can therefore change over time. Another factor that
affects change in identity is the experiences of the individual or nation, and how the individual
sees him/herself in relation to the identity that they image him/herself to have. However, the
75
For further reading on imaginary co mmun ities see: Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities
140
process of identity is not a solitary act, but rather, “identities actually come from outside, they
are the way in which we are recognized and then come to step into the place of the recognitions
which others give us. Without the others there is no self, there is no self-recognition” (Hall
“Negotiating” 8). Considering the aforementioned factors that may alter identity, it is clear that
this complex interweaving of factors from each individual and from the nation as a whole create
the need for a malleable identity, as it is most certain to change if one of its influences changes.
Stuart Hall discusses cultural identity and the role that diaspora plays in the influencing of
the identification process. Hall insists that we think of “identity as a ‘production’, which is never
complete, always in process, and always constituted within, not outside, representation”
(“Cultural Identity” 222). Since identity depends not only on the projected image of the subject,
but also on the perceived image of the surrounding others, identity is always in flux.
One common perception of cultural identity is the definition of cultural identity as “one,
shared culture, a sort of collective ‘one true self’, hiding inside the many other, more superficial
or artificially imposed ‘selves’, which people with a shared history and ancestry hold in
common” (Hall, “Cultural Identity” 223). In this instance, this relation as one entity supersedes
the other factors that affect identity. This perception of the cultural identity of a diasporic region
figures “Africa as the mother of these different civilisations” (Hall, “Cultural Identity” 224).
However, another perception of cultural identity allows for many different identities within the
larger cultural identity. This perception takes individual experience into account, rather than
reducing all individuals into one categorization. According to Hall, “this second position
recognises that, as well as the many points of similarity, there are also critical points of deep
significant difference which constitute ‘what we really are’; or rather – since history has
intervened – ‘what we have become’” (“Cultural Identity” 225). This second perception takes
into account individual experience and the effect that history has taken on the individuals within
the group.
In the second perception of cultural identity, it is a process of becoming rather than a final
destination. Cultural identities are rooted in time and history and “like everything which is
historical, they undergo constant transformation” (Hall, “Cultural Identity” 225). It is important
to understand that identity is based in time and history in order to understand the black Caribbean
experience. As Hall indicates, it is only through the second perception of identity “that we can
properly understand the traumatic character of ‘the colonial experience’. The ways in which
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black people, black experiences, were positioned and subject-ed in the dominant regimes of
representation were the effects of a critical exercise of cultural power and normalisation” (Hall,
“Cultural Identity” 225). In the case of the Caribbean, historically, there has been no individual
representation, which has created a falsely homogenous representation of Caribbean identity that
is not homogenous at all.
Because cultural identity relies so heavily on its historical moment in time, and because the
perception of identity changes over time, “there is always a politics of identity, a politics of
position, which has no absolute guarantee in an unproblematic, transcendental ‘law of origin’”
that offers protection from a false identification (Hall, “Cultural Identity” 226). Hall indicates
that the Caribbean has suffered this positioning in cultural identification through two specific
vectors: “the vector of similarity and continuity; and the vector of difference and rupture”
(“Cultural Identity” 226). So, while there is similarity and continuity from one Caribbean nation
to the next, there is also present a harsh reality of cultural difference and historical rupture. These
two vectors exist simultaneously and oftentimes create conflicted attempts at representing an all
inclusive cultural identity. Hall notes that “the paradox is that it was the uprooting of slavery and
transportation and the insertion into the plantation economy (as well as the symbolic economy)
of the Western world that ‘unified’ these peoples across their differences, in the same moment as
it cut them off from direct access to their past” (“Cultural Identity” 227). Again, it is this type of
conflict that prevents a straightforward process of cultural identification for the Caribbean.
While many studies tend to group together all Caribbean nations, for one reason or another,
Hall insists that Caribbean identity “is a profound difference of culture and history. And the
difference matters” (“Cultural Identity” 227). He positions Caribbean cultural identity to the
relation of three main presences: “Presence Africaine, Presence Europeenne, Presence Americain
(Hall, “Cultural Identity” 230). Hall defines “Presence Africaine [a]s the site of the repressed”
(“Cultural Identity” 230). In this description of cultural identity, it is either the presence or
absence of African heritage that has become the new approach to Caribbean identity. Hall says
that “Presence Europeenne is about exclusion, imposition and expropriation,” whereas the
Presence Americaine is what defines the Afro-Caribbean peoples of the Caribbean as inherently
part of a diasporic peoples (“Cultural Identity” 233). The importance of each of these presences
indicates that the Caribbean identity is formed on the basis of hybridity and indicates that
“diaspora identities are those which are constantly producing and reproducing themselves anew,
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through transformation and difference” (Hall, “Cultural Identity” 235). The cultural
heterogeneity of the Caribbean peoples is what allows for this reproduction and re-representation
of an ever-changing identity.
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CHAP TER THREE
I AM MY MOTHER: MOTHER-DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIPS
AND IDENTITY FORMATION IN THE ANGLOPHONE
CARIBBEAN
All wo men beco me like their mothers. That is their t ragedy.
No man does. That’s his.
-Oscar Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest
The analyses in this chapter will further explain the importance of the mother-daughter
relationship in the formation of identity in relation to the cultural influences that guide the
building of this relationship. Homi Bhabha explains the conflicted in-between nature of
postcolonial individuals, indicating three necessary steps in the journey to identification: one
must exist in relation to an Other, one must desire to occupy the space of the Other, and one must
become the projected image of identification and transformation into said image. 76 Hence, one’s
cultural surroundings and social relations create the framework within which one must develop
and access identity. Due to the gender norms already accepted within any given society, a
female individual is subjected to not only social norms through her environment, but to the much
more intimate representations of these gender norms by her own mother.
Judith Butler indicates that while an individual can be born biologically female, gender is
learned through the norms presented to her. 77 Therefore, a woman is created by taking part in
performatives that categorize her as such. Females are taught to be expressly dependent upon
their mothers to represent the ideal female, and therefore have difficulty separating from their
mothers in order to create an individual identity, apart from their relationship with their
mothers. 78
The two novels discussed in this chapter, Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home by
Erna Brodber and Anna In-Between by Elizabeth Nunez, offer exemplary representations of the
76
Bhabha, Ho mi. The Location of Culture
Butler, Judith. "Subjects of Sex/ Gender/Desire"
78
Wodak, Ruth and Muriel Schulz. The Language of Love and Guilt
77
144
role that the family (specifically the mother) plays in a female’s identification process. 79 More
important, the mother-daughter and other- mother relationships that a young female has
oftentimes determine the complexity or ease of determining and defining her individual identity,
as well as that of her place in the collective. Historically, the Caribbean woman has been the
leader of her family within a matriarchal society. In many cases, the male influence is absent in
the family context. Therefore, despite a male-dominated discourse, it is the role of the woman to
guard her family’s history and identity through a non-dominant discourse, oral tradition. Despite
a relevant surge of female Caribbean writers in the global market, the works of these authors
have not been widely accepted as canon literature, leaving Caribbean females in the margins of
both Caribbean society, as well as the global community.
In Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home, the female gender is referred to as the inferior
gender. Race is seen only as a binary: African values are not valued, while white values are. The
collective identity in this book is defined as both a protective force and a suffocating barrier, and
individual identity is something that must be done alone; one must successfully maintain her
roots while simultaneously growing wings.
Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home is a story about Nellie, a girl who grows into
womanhood in her small Jamaican village. Nellie, like few other young women in her position, is
sent to the United States for educational reasons. Upon her return to Jamaica, Nellie is
confronted with the harsh reality that she does not fit in with the others any longer. However,
Nellie is soon to realize that she is not the only one in her community who cannot decide
between white bourgeoisie practices and African practices, both forming her past. Nellie is
confronted with the decision to allow the community’s protective kumbla to continue suffocating
her, or to break out on her own. 80
The countless representations of women and their role in society offer an illustration of
the psychological stage of this small community in Jamaica where Nellie and her family live.
79
Amongst others, see exemplary representations of an Anglophone Caribbean gendered, racialized identity process:
Hodge, Merle. Crick Crack Monkey ; Kincaid, Jamaica. A S mall Place; Rhys, Jean. Wide Sargasso Sea
80
Here, kumbla is defined as the barrier created to protect an individual or co mmunity. The barrier can be a social
construction, a language, or any other means used to protect those of the in -crowd fro m those of the out-crowd. For
other exp lanations of the kumbla see: Cudjoe, Selwyn Reginald. Caribbean women writers: essays from the first
international conference; Davies, Carolyn Boyce and Elaine Savory. Out of the Kumbla: Caribbean women and
literature; Liddell, Janice and Yakini Belinda Kemp. Arms akimbo: Africana women in contemporary literature
145
There are many factors that affect identity. The following elements will be discussed in this
chapter as factors that influence identity formation: First, it is necessary to understand the
representation of the woman as perceived by the members in this community and as outlined by
the author. It is imperative that an individual understands the outsider’s perception of her, as it
plays an important part in identity, whether or not she agrees with this perception of herself.
Second, Story-telling is a necessary part of identification in this small community, as the oral
nature of the story-telling allows and even promotes female story-tellers. Female story-tellers are
especially important because they play an important role in documenting the female’s
perspective of her own battle towards identity, both collectively and individually. Third, storytelling also opens a window to the past, where memories and past traumas can be played out and
psychologically dealt with, allowing the subject the psychological and emotional space necessary
for identity formation. Fourth, through story-telling and other means, women of this community
oftentimes fill the role of “other- mother”, creating a strong collective female identity. Sixth,
language takes an important place in story-telling and “other-mothering” because it teaches
young girls the differences between the ethnic backgrounds forming the individuals of their
community. Seventh, it is only through the understanding of one’s collective identity that a
woman from this Jamaican community can come to know her own identity. Moreover, each of
these formative aspects of identity outlined here has finer, more specific examples applied
throughout the text. Here, I further discuss the role that each of these factors plays in the novel
and in the greater understanding of identity.
First, we will look at the representation of the perception of women in this novel, as the
perception of a woman’s identity is a large factor in the woman’s perception and formation of
her own identity. The three specific representations of ide ntity that will be discussed are: the
representation of superficial relations and conversations between women; the representation of
educated women as valuable and valued, but not sexually desired; the representation of women
as compliant with a patriarchal society, and therefore supporters of this mode of thought and
social organization. The women represented in this text do not appear to have profound
conversations or relations with each other, but rather operate under the common understanding of
the role of the protective, binding nature of their kumbla, their cultural cocoon. Despite the
overwhelming ability of characters in this novel to bond under the constraints of the kumbla,
there is not an open dialogue amongst women characters. While Nellie clings tightly to her Aunt
146
Alice and Granny Tucker, she has little ability to speak on important topics with her own mother.
For example, when Nellie approaches the age of biological womanhood, her mother merely
mentions that something will change in her body and when it does, she is to report to her Aunt.
Nellie is left in the dark, wondering what change she should be prepared for. She is not told how
or why this change occurs, nor is she told how to deal with it. Nellie recognizes that once the
change happens, women begin to quietly whisper about the change, since it is not to be openly
discussed. Nellie is not looking forward to this change, but she does recognize the power this
change will afford her. It is these “powerful, older women [who] provide the protagonist[s] with
their most vital link to alternative perspectives on the roles of women as individuals and
members of the community” (Cobham 53). It is through them – specifically Aunt Alice and
Granny Tucker – that Nellie can understand her family lineage. When Nellie reaches biological
womanhood, she is told that she may no longer visit with Mass Stanley because she is not longer
a child. Here, Brodber is quite possibly critiquing the same structure that appears to be praised
throughout the novel. While the women are portrayed as less biologically sound than the men in
this society, it is the women who perpetuate and strengthen the belief that female is the lesser
gender through their secretive behavior. In turn, the women perpetuate a collective identity
within the community.
The women in this story shy away from profound and truthful interaction amongst
themselves, as seen when Nellie’s own mother shirks away from the responsibility of discussing
the menstrual cycle with her daughter, and leaves the discussion to other women in the family.
Cobham believes that women “are able to base their rejection of patriarchal models on a fictive
affinity with an entire civilization rather than retreating into an exclusively female subculture,”
however this is not the representation of women as seen in Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come
Home (55). If the women never make this powerful but difficult change public knowledge in
mixed presence, it is easier to continue to place blame on the patriarchal social structure that
supposedly keeps them in a place of inferiority. However, it is the women’s compliance with
age-old male-dominated structures that prevents them from creating an equally comfortable
environment for women within the self-created protective kumbla. The desire to protect is so
strong that the protective forces become prohibitive. How then, does an Afro-Caribbean woman
escape the boundaries that have been imposed on her, as well as those she imposes on herself?
147
Another factor that complicates the female identity p rocess is the community’s treatment
of educated women as valuable and valued, but not sexually desired. In addition, there also
appears the representation of racialized women in this text as exotic and sensual. As T. Denean
Sharpley-Whiting outlines in Black Venus: Sexualized Savages, Primal Fears, and Primitive
Narratives in French, the French woman has suffered under the gaze and fear of the French man.
The stereotype of a savage being was projected on the bodies of racialized women and they were
in turn seen as overtly sexual beings. This cultural phenomenon has been clearly documented in
nineteenth century French literature and Francophone literature of the Caribbean. As
demonstrated by Nellie’s experiences and the dialogue amongst women in Jane and Louisa Will
Soon Come Home, an Afro-Caribbean woman is sexually desirable for corporal reasons while an
educated woman is no longer seen as the exotic, sexual being she was previously perceived to be
and, therefore, is no longer attractive to the males of this society.
The Afro-Caribbean woman has always been linked to attributes such as “physical
strength, sexual independence and economic resourcefulness” (Cobham 52). In addition, since
slave times, the Afro-Caribbean woman has also been considered an exotic, sensualized object of
men’s sexual fantasy, but very rarely represented as men’s choice of mate in literary fiction. 81
81
Other perspectives on the sexualization of racialized, gendered subjects can be understood through the theories of
T.Denean Sharpley-Whit ing and Vera M . Kut zinski. In Black Venus: Sexualized Savages, Primal Fears, and
Primitive Narratives in French, Sharpley-Whiting explains the emergence of the image of the black wo man as a
“sexualized savage” beginning with Sarah Bart man, often referred to as Hottentot, who was an African wo man
exhibited at fairs in Europe during the 1800s under the pretense of physiological studies of the genitalia and
buttocks, which were significantly different in appearance to her European counterparts. Bart man was represented as
a sexualized savage and this was equated with a savage-like sexual deviancy. Sharpley-Whiting argues that Bart man
was a specimen of men’s sexual desires, rather than a specimen of psychological studies. Due to the white male’s
gaze focusing on the black wo man, Sharpley-Whit ing refers to “Black females as perpetually ensnared, imprisoned
in an essence of themselves created fro m without” (Sharpley-Whit ing 10). Therefore, the racialized Caribbean
wo man not only has to contend with gender related pressures when attempting identity format ion, but also has to
transgress prejudicia l racial categorizations, as well.
Vera M. Kut zinski offers another account of the representation of the nonwhite female in Sugar’s Secrets:
Race and the Erotics of Cuban Nationalism. Her analysis of the role of the representations of mu latta wo men in
various art forms throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth century have significantly contributed to the
hybridizat ion of Cuban culture and national identity. Kut zinski indicates that “as much as this site, [the nonwhite
wo man’s body conceived as the site of troubling sexual and racial d ifferences], has all the attractions of a mythic
place of intellectual and psychological refuge and “epistemological consolation” in a society like Cuba, it is
simu ltaneously feared as the locus of potential change, disruption, and complication” (Kutzinski 172). Th is
understanding of the mulatta wo man takes Sharp ley-Whiting’s account of representations of racialized wo men in
literature a step further by indicating the role of these representations in social formations.
For further reading, see: Bergner, Gwen. “Who Is That Masked Woman? Or, the Role of Gender in Fanon's
Black Skin, White Masks”
148
One example of a literary representation of a racialized, gendered subject can be seen as
recent as Luis Palés Matos’ 82 “Majestad Negra”83 from Tuntún de pasa y grifería. Here, the
Afro-Caribbean woman has held an objectified role in men’s eyes: “Culipandeando la Reina
avanza / Y de su inmensa grupa resbalan/Meneos cachondos que el congo cuaja / En ríos de
azúcar y de melaza” (21). The Majestad Negra represented in this poem offers the image of a
sexualized creature made sweeter with the sugar and honey produced from her labors cutting
cane in the fields. As Cobham notes, “these qualities were imposed on her as part of her status as
non-person (and therefore non-woman) during slavery” (52). Just as New World conquistadors
could exploit the economic gains of products produced under slave labor, they could also justify
taking advantage of the Afro-Caribbean woman’s sexuality, since she was no mo re than an
object to be possessed.
Also in the same stanza of Pales Matos’ “Majestad Negra” is the inherent physical
strength and sexual independence of Afro-Caribbean women that Cobham refers to. While
women may not be represented as having myriad optio ns, they are in control of their bodies, and
with continued education they will gain control over their life decisions. This attempt at taking
control of one’s life decisions can be seen in Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home when
Nellie, is strongly advised to choose a worthy educational path. Early on in the novel, Nellie’s
mother tells her that she should be spending more time studying for her college entrance exams
and less time exchanging letters with worthless men (Brodber 8). All members of the family are
supportive of Nellie receiving an education and Nellie’s Granny Tucker even tells her, after
winning a scholarship, that her “blessings shall flow like a river. Not unto your children but to
your children’s children,” firmly indicating the importance of education in maintaining a fruitful
family lineage (Brodber 8). Granny Tucker’s promise of blessings for generations to come due to
an educational advance directly negates the perception of the Afro-Caribbean as nothing more
than the object of man’s sexual desire. However, this is not the norm.
While most Jamaican females of Nellie’s age on the island are getting married and
starting families, Nellie’s family prods her into receiving a good education. One evening, Nellie
is asked on a date by the smartest and most popular boy in school, but her Aunt Alice reminds
her that she has “a chance to make something of [her] life. Seize it,” indicating that no man, no
82
83
Puerto Rican poet (1898-1959) who created the Afro-Antillano genre in which Black issues are discussed.
Palés Matos, Luis. “Majestad Negra”
149
matter what his social status or education level, is worth giving up her own education (Brodber
17). Nellie decides not to fight her aunt on this point, and continues to focus on her education.
After attending college in the United States, despite staying true to her educational goals rather
than paying attention to boys, Nellie finds that she does not fit in upon her return to Jamaica.
Nellie has no experience with men, but it “is not so much that [she doesn’t] understand as that
[she] ‘fraid to feel,” leaving her in a very different position than the other women who have not
left Jamaica for an education. Nellie has been made to believe that women identify themselves
by certain means, such as education; however, this is not the norm in Jamaica, where the
majority of women identify themselves as a portion of their male counterpart, or as an element o f
her male-driven society. Nellie is made to feel as though she does not fit in with the men of her
homeland, nor does she feel that her education has provided her a positive, guiding outlet to
represent herself as the respectable Afro-Caribbean woman who, through earning an education
and avoiding early pregnancy, deserves to be treated as such. Neither the role of the educated
Afro-Caribbean woman nor that of the island woman birthing a family seems to be the right fit
for her. Again taking cues from her family community, Nellie must understand that the island
culture that she has grown up with is now a thing of the past, and her future lies in education
(Brodber 43). Nellie is made to believe that breaking with Jamaican culture and the social norm
by receiving an education is what will ultimately help her to rise in status.
A third representation of women in this novel illustrates the women as compliant with a
patriarchal society, and therefore supporters of this mode of thought and social organization.
While the obstacles that Afro-Caribbean women in this text face when choosing their place in
life and within their community are abundant, one factor continually outweighs the other:
isolation. Again, the women are portrayed as weak and unassuming, yet it is the women who are
afraid of being outcast from society who are the ones that most strongly perpetuate the
hierarchical, patriarchal structure of this community. Whether through active decision making or
through compliance with the social structure of this community, the women conform to maledriven organization and rarely break from the mold of what is accepted by the majority. Thus, it
seems that all women in this position define themselves exactly the same as the other women.
However, it is the isolation associated with island culture as a whole that notes the inability for
escape or outside influence on the inhabitants of an island. While on a smaller geographical
scale, the isolation that families and small communities experience within an already isolated
150
region can be even more oppressive, offering its inhabitants few options for change, and even
fewer options for the triple-marginalized Afro-Caribbean woman, persecuted for her gender, race
and discourse. 84 Representations of these repressive pocket communities in Afro-Caribbean
women’s literature “make it clear that the women themselves have participated in reproducing
the system and that the power they now possess to challenge that system has often been won by
their complicity within it” (Cobham 51). The mental tug-of-war experienced by Afro-Caribbean
women in this situation further complicates the process of identification. If a woman cannot
decide whether she is for or against the patriarchal system, how does she have any ability to
escape the very constraints she is debating in her mind?
Furthermore, to demonstrate the force of the isolation one can feel when separating
herself from the dominant culture, one can observe the events following Nellie’s loss of her
lover, Robin. Even within the close-knit society, Nellie feels shame. While publicly lamenting
his death, other members of the community feel sorry for her, with the preconceived notion that
she is with an abusive man, rather than knowing that Robin has in fact died. Nellie wishes this
were true. She prefers to fit the mold of the structure under which she lives rather than be the
outsider woman without a partner. In other words, she would rather propagate the predetermined
nature of her surroundings instead of accepting and sharing the reality of her situation. In
pretending that what the community believes to be true to actually be true, Nellie exercises one
of her few powers as a woman in this situation: perpetuation of male dominance. As Cobham
notes, “women are not merely the disfigured victims of the patriarchy, doomed to reproduce their
own oppression. They are also active partners in the ongoing game, with a chance each time the
wheel turns to change their partners and alter the steps of the dance” (51). As previously
mentioned, the females in this community seemingly willingly participate in male dominance.
Upon Nellie’s return to the island, she feels differently after having experienced another culture’s
perspective on this matter. She has taken the opportunity to receive an education, all the while
keeping men on the back burner to avoid pregnancy. Nellie is respected for her education and
doctoral status in the United States (Brodber 33). She does not feel as though she owes the men
back home anything, as most women in the community do. For these cloistered women,
definition through marriage and motherhood is the only choice they have, but Nellie has taken a
different path. She feels that she finally has rights and amongst those is the “right to refuse to
84
In this work, the term discourse is defined as the communicat ion of thought through words.
151
drink [a man’s] snail,” the right to refuse sexual advances, the right to refuse anything that does
not satisfy her individual wants and needs.
More than strictly the avoidance of challenging the male dominated structure is the
complete lack of desire to challenge any repressive structure. In the government compound
where Nellie lives, there are two types of people: those who continue to self-educate and stand
up for their beliefs and rights, and the others who comply with the system and use drugs, alcohol
and illegal gambling to escape the reality of their lives. It is these people who “have no culture,
no sense of identity, no shame or respect for themselves,” and are those who perpetuate the cycle
that keeps them from rising above structural boundaries (Brodber 51).
The second factor to be discussed as a contributing factor to female identity formation in
this text is story-telling. The importance of female story-telling will be discussed in regards to
the roles of orality and intertextualization, which create a stronger bond amongst the in-crowd,
while excluding the out-crowd. Story-telling is one way in which the women of this society do
not perpetuate patriarchal structures. Through story-telling, women have the ability to tell their
own stories from their point of view. Oftentimes, the female story-teller’s point of view is very
different than the accepted norm of the society and creates a separate female version of history HERstory. This story-telling contributes to the formation of collective and individual female
identities. Playing up the oral nature of female recorded history, Brodber’s novel is rich with
intertexual references. The use of these references is threefold: to reference cultural clues that
have meaning only for the small percentage of people who will understand them a nd read the
novel; to create a heightened sense of reality as if the references were ficticious; to create
binaries with strong lines of separation, such as black vs. khaki, khaki vs. white, rich vs. poor,
standard American English vs. Patois, man vs. woman, history vs. HERstory, and male discourse
vs. female discourse. 85 Cobham suggests that “the juxtaposition of orature, children's games and
dance with female protagonists is hardly unique, as Black women traditionally have been
associated with the handing on of oral rather than written cultural forms in the work of Black
nationalist writers” (50). The use of such intertextual references then, is an attempt to create
space for the Afro-Caribbean woman writer, not in place of the male writer, but in addition to
85
In this work, the terms male discourse and female discourse are defined as the gender-influenced commun ication
of thought through words.
152
him. This desire for a rebuilding of a new social structure in Jamaica is apparent throughout
Brodber’s novel.
For example, one attempt at the novel’s beginning is a refrain from a popular Jamaican
children’s song, “Jane and Louisa”, referring to the rebuilding and restructuring of Jamaican
society (Brodber 9). The glaring reference these lyrics make is easily brushed aside before
arriving at the novel’s end. Just like popular U.S. children’s songs such as “Ring Around the
Rosy” have a much more profound meaning than children typically understand while singing it,
similarly, Nellie will not reach a full understanding of the song’s meaning until she begins the
process of self- identification. Throughout the novel, countless other references are made to the
folk tale about the trickster spider, Anancy, and the almost-blind Dryhead, part of a series of
stories told throughout the Caribbean about Anancy, a spider that came on a ship from Africa. 86
The idiom “go enna kumbla” in this story is both a way for Anancy and his son to trick Dryhead
and escape his dangerous cocoon- like captivity. This idiom, according to the story, is a code
phrase that requires the person to whom it was directed at to search for a new identity in order to
escape captivity, just like Anancy’s son had to do in the fairy tale. Since the phrase is spoken in
code, it is only meant to fall on the ears of those select few who understand its true meaning.
Thus, when Nellie’s family sends her away with this adage, they are not leaving her on her o wn
to find herself without purpose or direction. Everyone must remain captive in the kumbla for a
period of time to remain safe, and then they must break free on their own by figuring out their
own identity and making a change, for when the circle comes to an end, the end of one circle is
just the new beginning of another.
Other references that are made, such as Alice in Wonderland, 87 Jack and the Beanstalk, 88
Plato, 89 Moses, 90 the reggae beats of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and the Upsetters’ “Psyche and Trim,”91
86
This character is also known as Anansi. For further reading on this Jamaican folktale see: Egg lestone, Ruth
Minott. "A Philosophy of Survival: Anancyism in Jamaican Pantomime"
87
Carroll, Lewis. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
88
A fairytale that dates as far back as the early 1800s. The story tells of a young boy who disobeys his mother, but
comes into riches by robbing an ogre who lives at the top of a beanstalk that grew fro m mag ic beans. As with most
fairytales, there is some degree of d ifference fro m one version to the next. For various representations of this tale
throughout the 19th, 20th, and 20th centuries see: Ashliman, D.L. Jack and the Beanstalk
89
Greek Philosopher (424 B.C. – 348 B.C.) whose studies greatly influence the Western World. Also, he was a
student of Scrates and a mentor for Aristotle.
90
A religious leader who is exalted for carry ing out and teaching regulations set forth by the divine. He is
considered a prophet in many religious traditions, including Islam, Judais m, and Christianity.
91
Lee “Scratch” Perry (1936 - ) is a Jamaican musician. The song “Psyche and Trim” was first released in Jamaica
in 1978 on the album Return of the Super Ape.
153
Sleeping Beauty, 92 and Biblical cities Sodom and Gomorrah, 93 as well as various Christian
church songs, all make reference to either create an exclusive group of readers who understand
their importance, to create a more realistic story or to create degrees of separation from those
who live outside the kumbla and will never understand the reality of those on the inside. The
kumbla has, historically, protected slaves from their colonial masters.
Story-telling allows the individual to psychologically and emotionally deal with the
postcolonial effects of slavery that remained after emancipation. Trauma theory, as discussed in
Chapter 2, tells us that the effects of slavery on a given society can and do still psychologically
affect current day inhabitants of the Caribbean. Trauma theory tells us that story-telling opens a
window to the past, where memories and past traumas can be played out and psychologically
dealt with, allowing the subject the psychological and emotional space necessary for identity
formation. This section discusses the recovery attempts of the Jamaican women story-tellers in
Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home, as well as the parallel goals of Caribbean women
writers of fiction. As Cobham notes, “living in a world ‘without history’ or with a history too
brutal to contemplate, speaking in the language of the colonizer from within the psyche of the
colonized, Caribbean writers more than most have had to find ways to accommodate paradox,
not merely in order to create but in order to survive” (60). These colonial encounters left behind
much more than repressive social structures in the psyche of Caribbean inhabitants, they have
left behind psychological and sociological wounds that still have yet to heal.
Historically, it has been the female figure that nurtures and restores order when a
situation has gone awry. As a testament to this role, Afro-Caribbean women writers “seem
singularly committed to that oldest of female/colonial responsibilities of maintaining and
renewing the sociosymbolic order” via the healing powers of writing and sharing the AfroCaribbean woman’s piece of history (Singh xvii). As Dominick LaCapra explains in his trauma
theories that a victim of trauma (whether primary, secondary, tertiary, etc.) can implement any
combination of “acting-out” or “working-through” in order to better deal with the memory of
trauma. One such way that LaCapra mentions as a means of “working-through” is to share one’s
experience, and through the sharing of the traumatic experience, such as the entrenched effects of
92
Sleeping Beauty is a fairytale that has unknown origin, but that represents elements of many different fairytales.
The general storyline is that a young, beautiful wo man falls into an enchanted sleep and was only able to be
awakened by the kiss of a prince many years later.
93
Sodom and Go mo rrah are cit ies mentioned in the holy books of the Islamic, Jewish, and Christian traditions.
154
slavery, the victim lessens the pain associated with the experience. However, Nellie must first
understand her individual past in order to apply it to a greater understanding of her cultural
history.
Nellie begins this search for understanding with her own genealogy. First, she must know
where she comes from and what her roots are in order to understand her current place in society.
In the process of learning more about herself and her family, she also comes to a better
understanding of Jamaican culture and history. Her family, like many, has mixed roots. Her great
grandfather was a child of white tobacco growers, and later married Nellie’s great grandmother,
who is the daughter of his black nanny. Together, the couple has many khaki children. While the
majority of the society attempts to only participate in their white history and culture, Nellie’s
family is no different, for even within Nellie’s family, she learns that the always prim and proper
Aunt Becca has a penchant for sitting “on those bamboo benches surrounded by perspiration,
drum beat and moaning” (Brodber 93). Albeit trying, she cannot completely squelch her roots
and the blood-deep rituals of her ancestors. Nellie feels caught between these two worlds, just as
many female authors of mixed Caribbean descent; both find refuge in sharing their stories. Thus,
Nellie understands more profoundly the importance of the cultural kumbla and, more
importantly, the importance of sharing the experiences she has while under its cover.
Before the protective powers of publishing and dispersing Afro-Caribbean woman’s
literature were known, it was the kumbla that created this pod of comfort, stability and safety.
The very act of writing and sharing one’s story has given Afro-Caribbean women the opportunity
to question themselves and their surroundings. Unfortunately, “the kumblas which have
protected them for long enough to allow them to consolidate their status before turning to
interrogate it do not exist for the majority of their lower-class sisters” (Cobham 60). While
attempting to break with a repressive tradition, Afro-Caribbean female empowerment cannot be
complete for the triple-marginalized subject until the majority has become an agent of change for
their own destiny.
At first glance, many might consider Caribbean women’s writings to have an agenda no
different than mainstream feminist writers. However, “the Caribbean women writers' insistence
on the presence of aggression and negation in the lives of their protagonists, while affirming their
potential for initiating change, differentiates their work…from all but the most experimental
mainstream feminist writers” (Cobham 51). This being said, the overall agenda of Caribbean
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women writers may be none other than to inscribe their place in history. By sharing a triple
marginalized perspective of Caribbean history and experience, Caribbean women writers do not
present their HERstory as more important or truer than the traditionally accepted dates and facts
of HIStory, but as equally important.
The triple-marginalized Caribbean woman writer may seem to be strong-handing the
competition, but more likely, these works “could be read as a revisionist attempt to create a space
for themselves within the dominant discourse” (Cobham 60). Afro-Caribbean women
traditionally do not have access to the resources and immediate acceptance of many white
Caribbean male publishers of literature. The Afro-Caribbean woman has three levels of
resistance to break through: gender, race, and an alternative gender-based discourse within the
constraints of male-dominated discourse. Therefore, efforts of resistance and survival have long
been misconstrued as a general attack against hegemonic discourse.
These marginalized texts, “like Brodber's kumblas, come to function as a potential
critique of the process they embody” (Cobham 61). While Nellie is coming into her own, she
recognizes the constraints of her protective kumbla and slowly learns that whether or not she
escapes her kumbla or remains under its protective cover, she cannot escape life itself unscathed.
Through Nellie’s experiences, the reader can better understand the limitations of the kumbla and
of the society in which she lives, gaining a greater understanding of the critique that Brodber
makes of the larger repressive structures in Jamaica. As part of the "femenist agenda [the]
necessary marriage of the personal or private and the public is politically and aesthetically
significant" in creating a wider acceptance of female preserved and female written histories
(Gilkison 720).
Surprisingly, quite different than the previously accepted misunderstanding of the goals
of female Caribbean writing in which female discourse and experience was to overtake male
experience and patriarchal discourse, the intent of this new genre of literature directed by the
triple- marginalized female Jamaican population suggests a blurring of the hard lines
distinguishing between male/female, black/white, rich/poor and HIStory/HERstory. According to
Cobham, “by presenting these categories as fluid and provisional the writers urge us to envision
a social order capable of containing without necessarily erasing both extremes within the
dualistic frameworks through which we have learned to apprehend our reality” (61). As such,
there is always more than one account of reality. While the characters in Brodber’s text engage
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in a search for identity, such is a side effect of publishing works by the very type of women
represented in the fictitious Jamaican community depicted in Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come
Home.
In Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home, Nellie is affronted with the issue of the
integrity of history as told by males versus history as told by females. Nellie spends a significant
amount of time with Mass Stanley, listening to his stories and personal life experiences. Nellie
understands that storytelling (history telling) creates power and a rise in status. Because Mass
Stanley is Baba’s grandfather, Nellie understands that it is not her right to share his stories, so
instead she is relegated to sitting on the sidelines, “watch[ing] opportunities for conversation and
status go by and sit[ting] on a store of knowledge all by [her]self” (Brodber 111). In the past,
Afro-Caribbean women have also been subjected to this same rule-playing when it came to
history and the representation of real- life personal experiences. It has not been until recently in
the late twentieth and early twenty- first centuries that these experiences have been taken
seriously and their publications have shown-up on the world-wide market.
In keeping with the desire to complement or create another equal genre to male-driven
literature, the community already functions as such. Men and women in Brodber’s novel do not
have all- inclusive all-knowing roles as mothers and fathers. One gender cannot survive without
the other and one generation cannot move forward without knowing the past experiences of the
preceding generations. Just as the kumbla protects its inhabitants, it also creates a self- containing
environment where all necessary elements to survive can be obtained through one’s neighbors, if
not directly from their biological parents. In this other- mothering and other-fathering
community, “the inevitable link between biological and social mothering [and fathering] is
ruptured,” creating a greater need for community-driven survival (Cobham 56). The “discipline
and unconditional affection which one normally associates with the mother figure is provided”
by various community members (56). For example, Nellie takes a liking to Mass Stanley and
spends a significant amount of time with him, as a child might do with a grandfather.
Nellie consistently plays in Mass Stanley’s yard and visits his house to spend hours
listening to his stories and conversing with him. Nellie recounts that “she would walk in and sit
at the doorway and Mass Stanley, smoking his pipe in his rocking chair by the door, would
crinkle his eyes and start talking to [her]” (Brodber 103). In addition, as previously mentioned,
Nellie is very close with her Aunt Alice, who reserves the right to make decisions for Nellie, in
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her best interest. While these rights and responsibilities are usually reserved for the biological
mother, the responsibility of properly bringing up a child within the kumbla is shared by all. This
type of relationship is not just the experience of the protagonist, but that of all the children in the
protective kumbla of the society. Cobham notes that the “continuous exchange of partners is
reminiscent of the children's game for which the novel is named, but it also re-enacts the way in
which the seemingly arbitrary patterns of kinship and nurturing in Nellie's community weave an
intricate web of social possibilities” that create a denser, stronger, more protective outer cover
for this community’s kumbla (57). The “other- mothering” that this community participates in not
only creates a strong community, but specifically, a strong female community and a strong
female identity. Due to the fact that the majority of men in this Jamaican community are not
present, the burden of creating role models for the young girls to emulate falls on the shoulders
of all the adult women of the community, not just a girl’s mother.
In regards to the divided responsibility of raising children within the community,
Cobham notes that Brodber’s “fictive scenarios coincide closely with the reality of the extended
family as it exists in New World Black communities, where migration, crowded living
conditions, long working hours for women and relatively high rates of death in childbirth
severely limit the probability that any child grows up in a one-to-one relationship with both its
biological parents” (Cobham 57). Thus, the other- mothering and other- fathering that is common
in Caribbean communities becomes not only a preventative practice for future protection of the
child, but a necessary means for survival, similar to the way that the calculated uses of Standard
American English and Patois offer a certain level of protection.
The organization of Brodber’s novel is structured around a popular game played
throughout the Caribbean, another attempt to protect the information hidden within. 94 Each
section of the novel is titled after one of the phrases of the refrain of the song sung during this
game. The game, as well as the lyrics, reflects a repetition of the beginning and the end of the
song as well as the game. Cobham observes that “they give the reader familiar with the game a
key to the pattern of development in what, to the uninitiated, may seem a confusing, even
structureless work” (48). Just as the novel begins with a section titled “Jane and Louisa Will
Soon Come Home”, it ends with the same lyric.
94
For further exp lanation of how “Jane and Louisa Will Soon Co me Ho me” is played see: Lewin, Olive. "Rock it
Come Over": The Folk Music of Jamaica.
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Just as the lyrics sung during the game imply movement away from home and then back
again, so we see the same process with Nellie. However, one who leaves home and then returns
never returns exactly the same as when they left. Such is the case with Nellie and this popular
Caribbean children’s song. In actuality, “the spiral structure of the folk song that frames the
narrative ensures that each generation; while going back to square one, does so with a new
partner: a new set of values and inhibitions which are based on accretions from the past but
which constantly describe a movement onward to new contexts and possibilities” (Cobham 50).
Nellie has left her family and has been educated. She has kept her promise to herself, her family
and her community to dedicate herself to education instead of fraternizing with men and
becoming prematurely pregnant. After she leaves the protective k umbla of her community and
had many experiences that she otherwise would not have had back home, it is then time for her
to return to her roots. Upon returning to her family, she also brings something new. Nellie is the
representation of hope for the future of this Jamaican society. It is only through understanding
and accepting the identity she shares with her community that Nellie was able to break free from
the once protective, now oppressive, kumbla and take part in her individual identity process.
While collective identity is promoted throughout the novel as the only way for the
protagonist to really know herself, Nellie eventually realizes that this is not necessarily the best
path to the auto- identification needed to save the future of her community. Because she cannot
personally know each member of her family, let alone each member of her community, Nellie
also realizes that while all the members of the community are in some way related, the elders of
the community have purposely omitted or changed some of the facts necessary for Nellie to find
the truth about herself. Greene notes that “the structure of the novel itself, which mirrors the
jumbled crystal fragments of a kaleidoscope — the spy glass through which Nellie hoped to
learn the truth of her world — tells us that Nellie never did learn the answers” and that despite
“having gotten to know the inhabitants of her kumbla, she realizes that what her life is about is
still a[n unfinished] puzzle” with missing pieces (68).
Nellie realizes that “the search for an identity that acknowledges or transcends the
fragmentation and alienation of modern life, a concern with origins, and a questioning of the
psychological needs and cultural myths which drive such searches” cannot be obtained without
either first knowing the truth about her community and their relations or without first leaving the
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protective and simultaneously restrictive kumbla, the kumbla that has shaded her from
knowledge and experience (Cobham 44).
Only a few pages in to Brodber’s novel appears a description of Nellie’s community.
Early on, the reader understands that the inhabitants of this community are a private, selfcontained group who pride themselves on lack of outside influence. The “mountains ring [them]
round and convert [them, banana leaves shelter [them], bouled, chips, porridge, three times a
day. You should see the poor insipid sun trying to penetrate [them]” (Brodber 9-10). This is
obviously a place that has been purposefully cut off from the outside world. However, it is not an
individual decision to remain separated, but that of the kumbla woven by the community: the
“outside infiltrated [their] nest only as its weave allowed” (Brodber 10). Any change brought on
by an individual member would not survive unless it was to be accepted by the community as a
whole.
It is societal changes that initially bring on the need for the kumbla in the first place. Tia
Maria began weaving a kumbla to protect her khaki family because “things could change so why
not?” (Brodber 137). All of society was seemingly changing, so there was no reason for her to
not make her own decision and follow through with protecting her family’s roots and future
wings. Inadvertently, the kumbla woven by Tia Maria and this community “becomes a symbol
for the manifold strategies by which black women throughout the ages have ensured their own
survival and that of the race” (Cobham 49). For example, Tia Maria learned early on in her
marriage to William, a white man, that “there were his people and there were her people and she
knew who had power,” so “she nurtured [a protective kumbla] in each of her children,” creating
a better possibility for their success throughout life (Brodber 138). Tia Maria found it so
important to weave a kumbla for her children that she did not even mind that the kumbla would
prevent her children from resembling her or her roots in any way. In fact, “the more [her
children] turned their backs on her,…the more sure she was that they had found their places in
the established world to which William belonged, a world that was foreign to her, a world that
was safe and successful,” leaving no need for her children to experience the rich past of her
familial lineage, but only that of her husband’s roots.
However, the community presented in this novel cannot survive without depending on
and accepting each other. The resources available to one are available to all. In addition to
functioning as a whole, it seems that individuals who choose to escape the community’s
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protective kumbla cease to exist. This forewarning is made all too clear early on in the novel
when the narrator warns: “Everybody is related here and people can turn your head behind you.
Mind how you talk. Bush have ears” (Brodber 11). One is never alone and one is not given
personal freedoms or identity within the kumbla.
The metaphor is made that the living members of the community are the mouth and the
voice belongs to both the living and deceased members of the community because, after all, the
living members “must walk over [the buried bodies] to get where they are going” (12). In effect,
the only way to the future is through the past. Time is not linear, but repetitive, even cyclical
with only slight changes in every completed loop that is made, just like the game after which the
novel is titled.
In addition to placing such faith in the ancestors that came before them, children are
expected to respect their elders and to take their counsel into account in their daily life decisions.
While each member of the kumbla is frightened for what the future brings, “they’re [all] doing
the same thing…stepping warily and taking their elders’ hands. [They] are families walking
bravely in fear, secure in family fear” and moving into the future the only way they know how:
together (Brodber 14). As an elder of this community, Granny Tucker understands the need for
continued community functioning, for which she is continuously praying. If the community
relationships break down, the community breaks down with them and they are left with the
knowledge of nothing, not even their individual identity.
While the protective kumbla that Brodber depicts in Nellie’s Jamaican community does
maintain protective qualities, it also functions as a restrictive boundary, preventing its inhabitants
from being affected by the outside world and prohibiting members from leaving by creating a
frail structure that cannot be maintained in the outside world after so many years of weakening
protection. As Greene recognizes, “the identity that Nellie is able to construct from the extensive
family that is her kumbla is not strong enough to carry her unscathed into the outside world” or
even to eventually protect her within the kumbla (66). Nellie has been so protected that even the
slightest change or new situation could potentially put her in a psychologically dama ging
situation.
Nellie, as a middle-aged woman, is still questioning the role of the protective kumbla.
One day while studying her body in the mirror, she reflects on how well (or poorly) she kept the
familial lineage, but she cannot even distinguish what that is in anymore (Brodber 80-1). She is
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still upset by the contradictory elements that form her identity. It is clear, however, that the
kumbla has been instigated both by Nellie’s father’s family and via the incessant prayers of
Granny Tucker on her mother’s side (Brodber 145). Generally speaking, the maintenance of the
family’s, as well as the community’s, kumbla is made up of “half- veiled threats, contained in
proverbs and partially understood anecdotes, which create in the child a fear of contaminat ion
and prevent her from interacting socially or sexually with her community once she reaches
puberty” (Cobham 49). Not completely understanding the kumbla in its entirety yet, Nellie
realizes that she is “weighed in the balance and found wanting” because she has “tried to be
good” and has been met with aversion (Brodber 19). Nellie, as well as other children in the
community, blindly follows rules that are set forth without completely understanding them. Over
time, these rules that the children of the kumbla follow prevent them from thinking on their own
and prevent them from functioning properly as adults both inside and outside of the kumbla.
Their only choice is to pass on the same confusing reality to their children and generations to
come.
When Nellie recounts her first sexual encounter, she speaks only of the shame she feels
and concludes that she does not like being a woman; she is unable to properly face herself as a
sexual being and therefore unable to partake in the pleasures of womanhood (Brodber 28-9). 95
Cobham explains that “the price Nellie pays for her own successful kumbla of primness and
academic dedication is sexual frigidity and social alienation” even within the supposedly
protective kumbla (49). But dually noted, “[Nellie’s] education and social status provide her with
the reflective space she needs to begin rewriting her history,” the history of herself, the history of
a Jamaican woman, the history that only she can tell (Cobham 49).
Realizing the inability of keeping Nellie protected in the kumbla, she is pulled out by the
combined efforts of Aunt Alice and Baba, but only because she wants to be. One cannot be
pulled from a kumbla that they are not ready to leave. Nellie describes her own experience of
being pulled out of the kumbla as “weak, thin, tired like a breach baby” (Brodber 130). Nellie
eventually learns that it is “best [to] leave this place [kumbla] altogether” if there is any
possibility of survival and thriving (Brodber 20). However, Brodber continues to indicate that
95
Nellie is conflicted about how she feels about her own sexuality. However, it is important to note that her first
sexual experience was fellat io. In th is sexual act, the wo man is in a subservient role as she pleasures a man. I
consider it possible that Nellie may have reacted differently to her first sexual encounter if the experience were more
self-gratifying, or at least put her in an equal position of power.
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“nurturing a kumbla is like nurturing any vaccine, any culture. Some skins react positively, some
don’t,” explaining in one fell swoop the immensely positive outcomes as well as the psychedestroying pitfalls of the kumbla (Brodber 139).
As stated before, the kumbla of Nellie’s community is similar to the kumbla that has been
protecting and trapping Afro-Caribbean women and preventing them from sharing their personal
stories. Balutansky points out that novels like Brodber’s have begun to demonstrate that
“Caribbean women writers are coming out of their womb- like kumblas” (540). Just like the
perceptions of the kumbla that Brodber presents here as both good and evil, “the strength
invested in Caribbean women is recognized as a source of both good and evil” in the no vels, and
is used as a tool to escape their Caribbean kumbla. In such cases, the kumbla is so deeply
entrenched in the culture of the society, that for Tia Maria (and other Caribbean women),
“survival depends on the annihilation of either herself or her children,” and Tia Maria chooses
the survival of her children (Greene 68).
Nellie has been forewarned of the imminent truth that she faces: there is no way out but
to continue right back to where she started, having – hopefully – gained a new skill or piece of
knowledge that will allow the future generation to be better off than she was. Nellie knows that
her community offers “no street map towards each other. No compass, no scale either. Leaves us
no path, no through way, no gap in our circle” (Brodber 17). Nellie is condemned to participate
in the cyclical pattern of history, in an unending game to the song “Jane and Louisa Will Soon
Come Home” in which no maps are needed, since there is nowhere to go but back to the
beginning. Nellie is left at the same juncture where she started, still unable to grasp and define
her own identity. Nellie feels lost within the kumbla just as she felt lost outside of the kumbla,
but it is not until she reaches full circle that she comes to terms with the gravity of the cyclic
kumbla: “I had seen this thing before hadn’t I? Those circles I was walking, were they natural, or
had I been forced to walk them? Was there a power trying to get me back to this room?”
(Brodber 67). There is no escape, and even if there were, neither path would lead directly to self
discovery. Nellie is condemned to continually repeat this spiral- like process of identification in
which each turn of the circle creates a more profound understanding of herself and, in the longterm, a slow process of change for the inhabitants of the Jamaican kumbla.
In Anna In-Between by Elizabeth Nuñez, it is the race divisions and ethnic differences
that are highly compartmentalized according to one’s region of origin, combined with a mother163
daughter relationship that creates a conflicted identification process for the protagonist. While
the protagonist of this novel does not experience the repressive side effects of a cultural kumbla,
her ethnicity and cultural knowledge prevent her from completely assimilating to either culture
in which she has experience. Ethnicity and identity are dealt with only as a binary for a majority
of the text. However, the exclusionary titles that define the protagonist for the majority of the
text are eventually blurred in order to create a more clear identity than protagonist’s previous
attempts to apply rigid definitions to herself.
Anna In-Between is the story of an editor, Anna Sinclair, who returns home to an
unnamed island in the Caribbean in order to spend a month reconnecting with her parents. Like
many who leave their homeland and return for visits, Anna feels like she does not completely fit
in. However, she feels the same when alone in the States. Approaching forty, her mother
immediately starts questioning Anna about marriage upo n arrival, a topic that Anna refuses to
discuss with her mother because she feels that she does not share the same values and beliefs as
her mother. Shortly after arriving, Anna finds out that her mother has breast cancer and Anna
makes a concerted effort to better her relationship with her mother. At the end of the story, Anna
has made a leap forward in understanding who she is and what her identity is. She also realizes
that her roots run much deeper than she thought, but only through this realization doe s Anna
have the ability to better understand her own identity.
A large majority of this novel deals with racial distinctions, especially those between the
Caribbean and the United States, as well as those between generations of colonized or colonizer
on the island in the Caribbean. The larger question dealt with in this text is whether or not one
can be in-between cultures, or more accurately, whether or not one can identify herself as
possessing values and qualities of more than one racial or ethnic background. The identification
process is demonstrated in this text via familial relationships – most importantly, that of the
mother and daughter. When Anna finds out about her mother’s cancer diagnosis, she is
confronted with the differences between her and her parents’ cultural beliefs, based on the way
her parents’ medical decisions about how to deal with the cancer. The continual scrutiny that
Anna undertakes when questioning herself about her own beliefs leads her to question the beliefs
and goals of the publishing company she works for, Equiano Books, a division of Windsor.
Things are not what Anna originally believed them to be, and neither is she.
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The remaining hierarchical social structures that have persisted since slave times in the
Caribbean still affect daily life in the islands. While the Sinclair’s are not millionaires, they, just
like many other upper middleclass families, have help with home maintenance and cooking.
Anna’s mother, similar to many other women on her island had very few options to operate
outside the home and to compete in a competitive professional environment. In exchange, they
became the directors of their households. Mrs. Sinclair directs Singh, the gardener, and Lydia,
the housekeeper. Anna “cannot deny her mother enjoys her role as mistress, as boss of the
domestic affairs of her home,” as the position brings with it a fair amount of power and prestige
(Nunez 16). Anna feels differently about the social hierarchy that keeps people in their place,
based solely on their skin color and socioeconomic status; there is no option for advancement.
Mrs. Sinclair feels that the working class is incapable of doing what is expected of them in their
job, “but Anna knows that if it seems people in the working class need to be supervised, it is
because they see no future for themselves in the work they are consigned to do” (Nunez 21).
Inadvertently, the woman of the house receives praise and admiration for supervising and
training her staff to perform just as she expects.
Although Anna’s time in the United States has led her to believe that each individ ual
should be afforded to opportunity for advancement, she also understands that there is a benefit to
the hierarchical structure. It is
not that she believes one should be consigned permanently to his place. One
should aspire to, and be given the opportunity to attain, the highest rung on the
ladder to success, but having a place and knowing where others are in relation to
one’s place is to have the comfort that order brings, the reassurance of stability.
Now that she is here, in the Caribbean, no longer in America, she finds there is
something very civil about such notions. There are no surprises, no rude
intrusions. One can depend on certain courtesies, respect and deference granted
and assumed. (Nunez 26-7)
Society, in some ways, functions more smoothly when each individual knows their place and
their highest level of opportunity. Now that Anna is back on the island, she feels that this
hierarchy is much more civil and accommodating, rather than in the United States, where
everyone is given an opportunity to rise to the top, oftentimes under false pretenses.
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Although the help is privy to many parts of their employers’ lives, they are not privy to
everything. For example, Anna’s mother fixes the bed every morning before Lydia enters the
room. Anna believes that “this covering up, this haste to fix the bed, to smooth the bedspread
over the sheets before Lydia comes, has more to do with sex than with her mother’s obsession
with neatness. Lydia cannot be privy to the intimacies of her mistress’s life,” even though they
are so dependent upon her to clean the home, to cook the meals, and to take care of any
additional need her employers may have (Nunez 41). Anna finds this type of privacy to be
completely foreign to her, especially for the amount of time Lydia has been in the home and for
the things she has previously done in the home.
Anna begins to understand this great need for privacy when she realizes that her mother
is sick - the same mother she has never been able to communicate with, the same mother she has
never been able to get along with. However, in this moment of vulnerability, “Anna finds that
she wants to protect her own privacy. She will not give Singh access to her fears. She will not let
him know that she is afraid that not only has something bad happened to her mother, but
something bad is waiting to happen to her” (Nunez 73). Anna reacts to Singh in exactly the same
manner that her mother has related to Lydia and oftentimes with her friends. It is clear to Anna
that not everything is meant to be shared, and the privacy implemented to guard this information
is the only way to maintain the appearance of what is expected of her social class. Privacy
creates a degree of separation between one and the other; privacy creates a position of power
over the other. In Anna’s “parents’ social circles, any weakness is a character flaw” and
specifically “sickness and death are the ultimate evidence of weakness and failure” (Nunez 74).
It is expected that a woman of Anna’s mother’s p lace in society not show these character flaws
because that is a trait of the lower class.
It is common belief among these circles that “the problem with the lower classes…is their
lack of control over their emotions, over their bodies. When their bodies fail, they cry out in
pain. When family and friends die, they wail, they scream. They bleed all over each other”
(Nunez 74). This is clearly not a range of emotion that is acceptable of Anna or her family, based
on their social status, for “self-control is the holy grail of the upper middle class. To lose control
over one’s self is to be humiliated,” and humiliation and destruction of one’s reputation is still
worse than any emotion s/he could be feeling in that moment (Nunez 74). Anna’s experience of
withholding information from Singh in order to protect herself, her mother, and her father,
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legitimately surprises Anna. This “discovery that she is not too much different from her parents
disturbs Anna,” as well as gets her thinking about what else she might have in common with
them, but does not yet realize (Nunez 74-5). Maybe Anna is less removed from the island than
she originally thought. Maybe Anna is less like an American and more like a Caribbean. 96
Maybe Anna is less in-between than she feels.
Anna begins to think about the difference in culture between the United States and the
island in regards to color, social hierarchy, and heritage. Anna notices the complete disregard for
these differences when Singh and his wife offer a gift to Mrs. Sinclair, “thinking no more about
her mother’s color than about the color of another frightened, sick woman, bringing her a gift
because they think it can ease her pain, her fears” because the reality of the island is that “like so
many on the island, she is unable to distinguish which threads, from which ancestors, from which
parts of the world, from which cultures, have woven together to form her physical features”
(Nunez 154). For Singh and his wife, there is no difference. Anna notices the difference in
attitude in the United States. While the United States is considered to be a melting pot of
cultures, “everywhere cities are divided into the distinct patches of an elaborate quilt. From the
center the colors fan out, black turning to shades of brown, café au lait, then white as the colors
reach the suburbs” (Nunez 165). The separation based solely on color in the United States is
enough to cause alarm, however, along with the color separation rides the socio-economic status,
gradually decreasing as the amount of pigmentation in one’s skin increases. Anna is aware that
regardless of United States origin or Caribbean origin, “racism is a poison so insidious it finds its
way through the tiniest slit in the soul and does its damage there even before one is aware”
(Nunez 211). This contradiction in sayings and doings does not end with social observation, but
Anna also notices that she has a very difficult time defining her mother, even more contradictory
than race relations.
Anna observes that her mother hides her chemotherapy related baldness from her friends,
but not from Singh. Anna’s mother believes that, even though Singh is the help, he “understands
illness, the failure of the body, the inevitability of death,” and for this reason is permitted to be
privy to her mother’s failing health (Nunez 321). Anna does not understand how she is to
comprehend this woman who is ever observant of her social status, ever insistent
on demanding acknowledgment of her class superiority, and yet protects her
96
Here, American is defined as specifically referring to the United States.
167
helper from abuse, and yet gives money to the poor, and yet pranced through the
rain forest to help her husband build a shed so he could catch birds with laglee,
and yet is now skipping through the grass, squealing joyfully after her gardener.
(Nunez 323)
What Anna has yet to realize is that it is not necessary to define her mother and to
compartmentalize all the parts that make her whole, much in the same way that she is caught up
in defining herself. Anna must learn to understand that just because one part of her may
contradict another, it does not mean that she is stuck in-between, but rather right where she needs
to be, honoring all parts of her heritage and her new cultural experiences.
Many of the contradictions that Anna is experiencing are those left behind from the
colonizing forces that previously ruled the Caribbean islands. The social and economic
hierarchies set in place during slave times have persisted throughout the ages and still affect
inhabitants today. The social and cultural trauma suffered by the indigenous peoples of the
islands, as well and the slaves who were brought to the region against their will has perpetuated
and the skewed memories and cultural ideals of the past have been passed on to current
generations, with very few changes over time. Nunez points out that “this is the legacy of
colonial rule on the island, the manner of the colonizer toward the colonized mimicked now by
the island’s middle class” (19). Not only does this organization pertain to the indigenous
inhabitants and to generations of ex-slaves, but also to the many immigrants who chose to come
to the area, who chose to leave their lives and cultures behind to assimilate to a new culture that
afforded them greater opportunities than their homelands. However, Anna feels that those who
came to the island on their own accord “were given advantages. The English gave them land,
permitted them to keep their families, their culture, their religions, intact. The Africans were
stripped of everything. Even their bodies were not their own. The Indians were never chattel”
(Nunez 156). This distinction could serve as a mode of reasoning when comparing the
experiences of various cultural and ethnic groups present in the Caribbean. There are many who
have come to the island for refuge and have found peace there, but for Anna, she believes that
“surely the psyche is affected when one is constantly surrounded by water; surely one’s vision is
projected outward” (Nunez 77). For this reason, she has taken it upon herself to experience what
inhabits her outward gaze, to experience the United States and all the differences that it entails.
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Anna’s choice to leave the island of her birth and to relocate in the United States with
hopes of better opportunities and a more satisfying life, however, have left her with a
predicament. Anna is confused about who she is; she is caught in-between two cultures, two
lives. Previously, Anna has attempted to deal with this contradiction in identity by ignoring and
by forgetting where she comes from in an attempt to co mpletely assimilate. It is believed that
the immigrant survives by forgetting. The immigrant erases from her
consciousness the past that is too painful for her to bear. The immigrant
fantasizes. The past the immigrant chooses to remember is the past of an imagined
home where the sea is always turquoise, the sand is always white, the grass is
always green, the sky is always blue, the sun is always golden. In memories the
immigrant has stored, home is always waiting in the brilliant colors of her
remembered youth, in the greens, golds, blues, and whites she has left behind.
There are no dark days in the immigrant’s fantasies, no black skies, no stormy
waters. Only in dreams do dark memories return. (Nunez 306)
Anna understands that until this current trip back to her birthplace, she has made a very nostalgic
memory, if any, of the island and her life there. Although she was very aware of the reasons she
left the island in search of something better in the first place, she is beginning to doubt herself
and her reasons for leaving. Anna understands the island culture and desperately wants to be a
part of it, at least as much as she is a part of the United States culture she has so desperately
desired to assimilate to. Anna is plagued with the following questions: “will she be always on the
outside? Will they, the ones who stayed, the ones who did not emigrate, always be on the inside,
even Singh and Lydia?” (Nunez 323). Anna realizes that she may be less involved in the culture
of her birthplace than those of lesser class and stature, and she seriously doubts that she will ever
be able to return as a full member of society and she doubts whether or not she will ever be able
to figure herself out – where she belongs and who she is.
In this novel, family relationships are at the forefront of daily interactions. Family
interactions also serve as representations of the hierarchical social structure that exists in greater
society within the island. At points, Nunez even goes as far as to relate the rigidity of the family
and social organization to that of the Catholic religion. While describing the relationship and
organization of her family, Anna notices that “her father [sits] at the head of the table, her mother
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at his right. At the right hand of the father” (Nunez 8). This correlation reinforces the reader’s
understanding of the roles of each family member and where the power lies.
One common occurrence in Caribbean relationships is that of adultery and the
expectation that the woman will look the other way and repetitively forgive her partner for
betraying her. Because Anna has spent so much time in the United States, she has become more
accustomed to American culture than that of her homeland. In addition, Anna has spent most of
her adult life away from the island, so the majority of her adult experiences with relationships
and complex life situations have taken place under the influence of a culture other than that of
her parents.
Anna has a very difficult time dealing with her father’s adulterous past and resents her
mother for putting up with his behavior and for forgiving him. While her mother was at home
caring for her, Anna’s father was spending time with and falling in love with another woman.
When Anna’s mother confronted him about his indiscretion, he chose to leave his mistress and
stay with Anna’s mother. This decision has always been good enough for Anna’s mother, but it
has never been good enough for Anna. With the onset of her mother’s illness, Anna is struck
with the realization that while “her father has made his peace with her mother, [sic.] she needs
time, for there is much left for her to resolve,” and there is still much for her to learn from her
mother about relationships, although the two women have very different ideas of the ideal
relationship (Nunez 182).
Although Anna and her mother have decidedly different opinions of the ideal
relationship, Anna is quick to admit that her mother just may know more than her about love and
about making a relationship successful in the long run. Anna’s failed relationship with Tony
lasted no more than two years, while Anna’s parents have been together for many more. While
visiting her parents, Anna, for the first time, begins to notice and take note of her parents’
interactions.
One morning at breakfast, Anna notices that her parents very subtly flirt with each other.
After doing something for her husband, Anna’s mother “smiles coyly as if waiting to be
commended for complying. Her husband looks up at her approvingly” (Nunez 13). Anna has
never before noticed her mother’s need for her father’s approval and affection. She is
increasingly aware that although “her parents may argue, [sic.] they always end up on the same
side” (Nunez 14). While Anna has thus far been privy to her pare nts’ relationship through the
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eyes of a child, she is now more aware of the complexity of their relationship. While Anna has
maintained a preconceived notion of her parents’ relationship, “‘you can never judge a marriage
by what you see on the outside,’ Anna’s father has said to her. ‘Only the husband and wife know
what goes on behind the closed doors of their bedroom.’ And so it must be true,” as Anna now
sees (Nunez 88).
It is through the relationships in one’s environment that one learns to replicate
relationships in their own life. In the case of Anna, she is now becoming aware of the profound
misunderstanding she has had of her parents’ relationship as they struggle and come together in
order to deal with her mother’s cancerous tumor. Anna realizes jus t how much her mother and
father need and depend upon each other when planning for Mrs. Sinclair’s first chemotherapy
appointment. Anna’s mother does not want her to be there. She says “I want only your father to
be with me. This is between the two of us. Between your father and me’” (Nunez 175). This is a
part of their relationship that Anna is not part of. A solid marriage is much like a partner sport,
each team member depending on the other for success. Anna is a witness rather than a
participant. If Anna is not a part of this team, to where or to whom does she belong? Once again,
Anna is caught in-between her parents, her family, and her individual self.
As an adult, Anna has time to ponder the devotion that her mother and father demonstrate
toward the other. While Anna recognizes the importance and the simplicity of their interactions,
she is also jealous of what they have, and what she had failed to accomplish in her own
unsuccessful marriage. When it is clear to Anna’s father that she is jealous of her mother and
intends to compete with her to prove that her cultural assumptions and opinions are more correct
than her mother’s, Anna’s father is quick to point out: “you’re too hard on your mother, Anna”
(Nunez 37). Anna feels that her mother does not allow her father to make any decisions or to be
in control of any aspect of their relationship, and for this she resents her mother.
Cautiously, she attempts to understand their devotion to each other. Anna remembers that
“her parents love each other. Her father can recall the first day he saw her mother” (Nunez 50).
For her father, leaving his mistress was completely his decision. He chose to return to Anna’s
mother and does not regret his decision. He has chosen to be with this woman for the duration of
life, as partners and as friends. This relationship is so intense that Anna has difficulty
understanding the inner-workings of it. Had Anna been aware of these types of interactions as a
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younger woman, and taken them as examples to emulate in her own relationships, she may have
experienced more success in love. However, she has had a skewed, fantastical idea of reality.
Anna first recognizes this on the morning of her mother’s first doctor’s appointment for
her tumor when her mother “smiles, a coquettish expression inappropriate for a woman her age.
So Anna thinks. This is how the morning begins, her father officious, her mother coquettish, she
throwing a bouquet of compliments, and all of them desperately trying to conceal an undeniable
truth that they will soon have to face” (Nunez 115). Where Anna once would not have
recognized the behavior her parents were using to cover up such a serious situation, the evidence
was now glaring her in the face. Once she has become accustomed to the daily interactions of her
parents, she is now aware that something out of the ordinary is taking place. Regardless, there is
still a lack of effective communication between family members. Rather than talking about their
feelings, each is very cautious to not let on the fear that they are experiencing, but rather they put
effort into glossing over the situation in an attempt to avoid admitting the truth.
After the appointment when Mrs. Sinclair’s worst fears are confirmed, her husband
remains devoted to her. John Sinclair “is patient with her. He tells her that she will not be alone.
He will sit next to her through each of her chemotherapy sessions. He will not leave her side.
Anna will come too, he says” (Nunez 130). Although these promises afford Beatrice Sinclair
some level of comfort, she is very uncomfortable with her options. She is aware that the medical
care and resources available to her on the island are not adequate for treating her tumor,
however, she does not want to leave her island to have the proper care necessary in the United
States, even if she would be with her daughter. Her mother is willing to risk her life in order to
maintain her ideals and to remain in the place where she feels most comfortable. While Anna and
her father discuss these options, he maintains loyalty to his wife, saying that he has never “been
able to make [her] mother do anything she does not want to do’” (Nunez 135). Even at the risk of
death, John Sinclair supports his wife’s decisions and desires. Anna understands her father’s
position only from the perspective of feminism, that her father supports his wife. She does not,
however, understand his support and loyalty to her mother despite the guaranteed outcome if she
chooses to stay on the island. Anna does not understand the selflessness of her father’s support,
since she herself always maintained an in-between position between single and truly united in
her own marriage. While she was legally united with Tony, she remained in-between because she
never became one with him as her parents had with each other.
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While Anna’s father is aware of her inability to understand this level of devotion, he
values privacy too much to ask Anna questions about her relationship with Tony, since she
herself has not offered any indication of willingness to share. Regardless, John Sinclair will not
say or do anything to go against his wife. Anna decides that “perhaps this is what husbands must
do. This is what the Bible instructs them to do. 97 They must choose their wives first, above
everyone else, even above their children” (Nunez 188). When it comes to a successful marriage,
there is no room for trying to support and honor each other, rather it requires full support and
honor in a steadfast manner. As Anna begins to understand her parents’ relationship, she also
begins to understand her relationship with herself – who she is and where she comes from.
One element of their relationship that Anna still has difficulty understanding is her
parents’ feelings towards privacy. For as long as Anna can remember, her parents never shared
private information with each other regarding Anna, unless it was clear that it was not a secret.
John Sinclair simply explains to Anna that “your mother and I respect each other’s privacy. That
is the way we have always lived our lives” (Nunez 57). Still, Anna cannot believe that her father
was aware of the cancerous lump on her mother’s breast and did not talk to her about it. Surely,
her father must have been just as scared to see the protruding lump as her mother was. The
Sinclair’s value privacy so much that they treated the lump as nonexistent until told otherwise.
Only in Anna’s noticing and recognizing of the lump did Mrs. Sinclair admit its existence. Only
when Anna told her father did he then admit it as well. Anna is upset that s he did not recognize
that her mother was not feeling well, she is upset that her father has known about the cancer for
about as long as her mother and did not do anything, and Anna is upset that Singh, the gardener,
was more aware of the situation that she herself was.
Anna has been away from the island for a long time and finds herself wondering, “what
price are they both willing to pay for privacy sold so cheaply in the country where she now
lives?” (Nunez 60). Anna strongly believes that her mother sho uld come back to New York with
her to have the treatments that will give her the best chance of survival, while that is not what her
mother wants. Again, Anna is confused about why her parents are making the decisions they
have. Anna ponders, “why does her father give in to her mother? Why does he always submit to
her will, to her plan, not his plan? For surely it was not his plan to wait, to simply stand by
97
Although there is more than one account, Malachi 2:16 states: “‘For I hate divorce!’ says the LORD, the God of
Israel. ‘To divorce your wife is to overwhelm her with cruelty,’ says the LORD o f Heaven's Armies. ‘So guard your
heart; do not be unfaithful to your wife’” Hope for Today Bible. Mal. 2:16.
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silently for a miracle, to find out if six rosaries said in the night would shrink the tumor on his
wife’s breast, make it disappear” (Nunez 70). What Anna does not understand is that her parents
have always trusted and respected each other’s decisions. While John Sinclair clearly does not
want his wife to die, he also does not find it appropriate to push his selfish desire for her to have
the treatments in the United States. Rather, his role is to comfort, support, and love his wife.
Despite the importance that privacy once played in their lives, Anna’s mother and father
are now more concerned with sharing everything they possibly can. Her father states, “Privacy
matters,” although “privacy does not seem to matter to them now. What matters to them now is
intimacy. In front of her, in front of a stranger, her father has talked of sex with his wife. They
will be naked together. They will take showers together, he says,” without remorse or
embarrassment (Nunez 341). It is through this openness of a once cloistered intimacy that Anna
begins to see the bigger picture of her parents’ relationship, and her place in this family. Not only
does the announcement of the confirmation of her mother’s cancerous tumor bring her parents
together, but it also brings Anna closer to both, and her relationship with her mother reaches new
heights.
Although Anna and her mother are reaching new grounds in their relationship, Anna is
not unaware of her somewhat selfish desire for her mother to come to the States for her therapy.
However, “she convinces herself that her reasons are not so selfish as to exclude consideration
on her mother’s welfare. If her mother goes to the States she will get the surgery she needs, and
Anna, on the other hand, will be able to continue her life uninterrupted. She will return to work.
She will be able to meet her deadlines.” (Nunez 286). Anna is still stuck between a selfless
relationship with her mother and a selfish relationship with herself, between her childish desires
and her adult responsibilities, between her Caribbean identity and her United States identity.
One of the major pitfalls of Anna’s relationship with her mother is the lack of profound
communication, inspired by the expectations of a child in a Caribbean home, for “in her parent’s
house, in the home of Caribbean parents, the child says, Good morning, Mummy. Good morning,
Daddy. At night before she goes to bed she says good night to her parents. This is the custom, the
respect that is expected even of grownup children, even of adults nearing forty” (Nunez 10).
While Anna recognizes and respects this hierarchical practice in the Caribbean home, somewhat
similar to the remnants of the hierarchical structure left behind by their colonizers, she is
conflicted by her experience in another culture, a culture in which children are not taught to
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blindly obey their parents and remain within a structured framework of acceptable behavior or
acceptable roles within a relationship.
Anna’s mother is quick to recognize all the changes that Anna has experienced due to her
place of residence and her lack of returns to the island. Anna’s mother even accuses her of not
respecting her origins, her upbringing, and the way her parents live. While Anna feels that her
mother is continuously attacking her for these changes, in one particular instance, Anna feels that
“her mother almost pushed her down that crevice that threatens to swallow her no matter how
firmly she has planted her feet on either side of the yawning gap, each foot on solid ground, one
in America, the other in the island of her birth” and in the same breath, “her father steadies her”
by telling her: “you are the same” (Nunez 34). Anna misunderstands her mother’s choices in life
just as much as her mother misunderstands Anna’s choices. Their lack of communication
prevents them from accurately and effectively sharing their ideas and feelings with each other.
Even when Anna is presented with an opportunity to become close to her mother, to talk to her,
to share in her mother’s fear regarding her diagnosis of cancer, Anna finds herself avoiding
conversation with her mother. Anna “does not want to talk. To talk with her mother is to stir up
old wounds, to be reminded that at thirty-nine she is childless and single, to be reminded that it
was she who chose to leave the island, to turn her back on all that could have been he rs” (Nunez
43). Anna eventually comes to terms with the need to communicate with her mother. She has
returned to the island for this very purpose; “she is here to talk, to reconnect, to be with them,
with her father and her mother” (Nunez 43). Although it seems as though her mother is
chastising her for her choices, her mother is concerned that Anna has nothing short of a good
life, but due to Anna’s in-between nature, she is sensitive to her mother’s desires for a greater
integration of Caribbean ideals in her daily life.
As a child, Anna “and her mother said the rosary together. They knelt at the side of the
bed and each took turns leading the prayer,” however, as an adult, Anna’s mother needs
something more from her in the face of death (Nunez 180). Immediately following Mrs.
Sinclair’s cancer diagnosis, Anna accompanies her mother to the restroom, where her mother, for
a second time openly shares her feelings with Anna. Just as soon as “the bathroom door close[s]
behind her than her face crumples, her knees buckle. Anna grasps her shoulders and steadies her”
(Nunez 118). Anna is caught off guard, but nonetheless attempts to calm her mother, but they do
not talk of the situation, her mother says nothing of her feelings and Anna does the same.
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Despite the seemingly increasing intimacy within the relationship between Anna and her
mother, Anna still finds herself overreacting to her mother’s seemingly attacking commentary.
Anna notices that Lydia does not react negatively to similar comments from her mother, and
takes note of this. Anna does not understand how “if Lydia could dismiss her mother’s actions as
foolishness, why can’t she? Why can’t she find it in her heart to make peace with her mother?”
(Nunez 201). Again, Anna is given another opportunity to stay alone with her mother and bond,
when her mother requests her presence over that of her husband’s. Anna realizes that “she is
uncertain of her mother’s motive for asking her to stay with her in the room, but this is a chance
to be alone with her, a chance for closure” (Nunez 201). Anna knows that her mother is sick and
she continually is attempting to bridge the gap of her in-betweenness that keeps her and her
mother apart. This opportunity bears fruit in the form of a compliment that Anna’s mother pays
her upon waking. Anna had fallen asleep in the chair next to her mother’s bed and her mother
claims, “you look just like her [Anna’s grandmother]. You are as beautiful as she was…I should
have told you that a long time ago” (Nunez 203-4). It seems as though both women are
attempting to reach a greater relation, yet not exactly sure how to go about it after so many years
of emotional separation.
Mrs. Sinclair admits later on that it is mostly her fault that Anna and she do not have a
deep relationship. Her mother explains: “‘I made it impossible for you to talk to me. I always
make it impossible for you to talk to me.’ Her mother’s voice breaks and the brick wall around
Anna’s heart totters. ‘I learned well from my mother. I learned not to show my feelings for my
own daughter’” (Nunez 316). And later, her mother says, “you cannot imagine how many times I
have wanted to tell you how much I love you” (Nunez 318). This lack of female communication
is something that has been passed down through family lineage, learned through social cues.
Leading as far back as the needs of the female slaves to care for their family while avoiding any
display of emotion or affection, the women of this island have learned that a demonstration of
this sort emulates a profound weakness. Anna’s mother has been taught and has taught her own
daughter that showing emotion leaves you open and vulnerable, whereas lack of emotion shows
strength.
Anna’s mother breaks this time honored tradition in her family by asking Anna, “Do you
know what I pray for?” and by answering her own question by responding, “I pray every night
that my child will come back to me” (Nunez 319). Anna is surprised, and yet again, feels caught
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in the middle. She never knew her mother felt that way, but rather, from her mother’s comments
and complaints, assumed that her mother was disapproving of her and her life.
Again, Anna tries to understand. She
wants to be more understanding. She wants to be forgiving. Her mother belongs
to other times, to times before a world war deflated England’s dreams of Empire,
when, still puffed up with its victories in its colonies, England trained its colonial
subjects to serve the Mother Country. Then the kings and queens of England were
the models to be emulated; kings and queens who did not hug and kiss their
children, at least not in public. (Nunez 320)
While Anna realizes this difference between her and her mother, it is not easy for her to dismiss.
In addition to the lack of communication that Anna and her mother have had throughout
their relationship to this point, Anna and her mother have never had much physical affection.
Oftentimes it is her father that prods Anna into spending time with her mother and to talk to her
mother. One early morning, Anna had planned on reading and catching up on some of her editing
work, but her father indicates that “she should be with her mother. Should was the word her
father used” (Nunez 40). Anna and her mother seemingly dance back and forth, never knowing if
the other feels the same and whether or not they should put themselves out without a
confirmation of an affirmative response. Even in moments when each feel a pull to be closer to
each other, their immediate reaction is to stay a safe distance away. In one particular instance
where Anna feels that she should move closer or touch her mother, she “remains where she is, a
safe distance away from her mother. She does not move. In their household, they do not expose
their bodies, not to each other. Husbands and wives may have to bare their naked bodies to each
other, but not mothers and daughters” (Nunez 45). Because Anna was taught that mothers and
daughters do not share this type of intimate relationship, she believes that the only loving, caring,
touching relationship that her mother has should only be the one shared with her husband.
This desire to become closer to her mother does not subside, as her mother indicates that
she has something important to share with her, something that she has not yet been able to share
with her husband. It seems as though her mother was waiting for her upcoming arrival to share
her secret. However,
nothing has prepared Anna for what her mother wants to show her. Nothing has prepared
her for the lump pushing out beneath the skin on her mother’s left breast or for the thin
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trail of partially dried blood beneath it. Anna gasps. Instinctively, with no time to think
she throws her arms around her mother’s neck and buries her head in the well of her
shoulders. (Nunez 46)
Instinctively, almost as a scared child would do, Anna hugs her mother, but once she realizes
what she has done, she shies away.
In another instance, when Anna is more controlled, her mother needs her and Anna
responds quite differently. While “the trembling has increased on her mother’s lips. No tears
flow, but tremors course down the sides of her face. Her hands are shaking. Anna takes them and
cups them between her own,” and when Anna does attempt to embrace her crying mother, she
only stretches her arms across her mother’s shoulders and presses her fingers into her flesh. It is
the extent of an embrace she allows herself” (Nunez 119). Anna is aware of the unspoken rule of
no physical contact or emotional displays that plagued her childhood, but is gradually allowing
herself and her mother to break these rules and reinvent and redefine their relationship.
The final element that affects Anna’s relationship with her mother is another
misunderstanding between the two women. For much of Anna’s life, she has felt that her mother
is competing with her, and disapproving of the woman she has become. Anna is aware that she
“is in her mother’s house and she knows that as long as one’s parents are alive, one is still a
child, their child. If one returns to the house where they raised you, where you were a child, a
dependent, you show respect, you obey their rules, no matter if you are nearing forty, no matter
if you have a big job” (Nunez 10). At home, her mother is always the boss, always in charge.
Anna’s mother makes a comment regarding Anna’s weight and her father rescues “her
from her mother’s criticism. Her mother’s comment about her waistline was not benign” (Nunez
15). Her mother is concerned with the ideal female figure in the islands, and Anna does not seem
healthy to her mother. Although this was a comment regarding Anna’s health, Anna feels that it
was an attack on her physical appearance, an ideal important in the United States. There, many
women place physical appearance before health, while the opposite is ideal on the island.
In another instance, Anna’s mother remarks, “you don’t live here,” and “you don’t know”
how it really is (Nunez 21). Anna’s mother’s “words sting her to the core. She may not live here,
but her roots are here. She was born here; she spent the first eighteen years of her life here; this is
her country too,” and again Anna is in-between what she once knew and what she now knows
(Nunez 21). In addition, Anna feels that her mother’s “raised eyebrows are the only indication
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she gives that she is keeping score of the many ways Anna has changed, of how different she has
become from the people who live on the island” (Nunez 82). Anna cannot help but feel like an
outcast here on the island and back in the States; she does not belong to either.
While Anna and her mother have a great difficulty in getting along, Anna always feels
that her mother misunderstands her and her mother always feels that Anna misunderstands her.
One day during Anna’s visit on the island, her mother tells her,
‘you always misunderstand me, Anna. I thought last night, last night when we
laughed…’ They laughed, but nothing has changed. She wants more. She wants a
daughter who is an editor at Windsor, a daughter who is married to a successful
man. She cannot boast to her friends about a daughter who is divorced, a
daughter who is an editor of a small publishing imprint for writers of color.
(Nunez 311)
Even though her mother is telling her point blank that she has misunderstood her comments and
desires for something different, better, for Anna, Anna herself still does not understand that her
mother’s comments are anything but malintended.
Beatrice has had a poor experience with medicine and her own mother’s battle with
breast cancer. As a result, Beatrice was so scared to report her finding to her husband or to her
doctor, but rather turning to prayer and religion to carry her through. Many nights she stayed
awake lighting candles and saying the rosary alone in the bathroom, to no avail. Although she
wants to live, “she believes there is eternal joy and happiness waiting for her on the other side”
(Nunez 39). She believes in the power of prayer and intends to continue to call on a being she
believes to be greater than herself for help and support. Because prayer was Beatrice’s original
plan for dealing with the cancer, she tells Anna that “‘It’s time we faced this,’…as if she had
planned this all along. As if the plan was first prayers in the darkness of her bathroom, and when
prayers did not yield the results she hoped for, then time to get the aid of her husband, time for
both of them to confront what they already know” (Nunez 67). Once Beatrice was able to admit
her bodily failure to her husband and daughter, only then did she agree to see a doctor.
Anna is very upset with her mother for not going to the doctor sooner and does not
understand her fear, even though she is aware of what happened with her grandmother, who had
also been diagnosed with breast cancer and later died. At that time, “the prevailing wisdom
among the women was that the tumor was a hungry beast eating away the flesh of its victims. If
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they fed the beast, if they satiated its ravenous appetite, it would eat the food they gave it instead
of the woman’s breast. So they put slabs of raw meat on the tumor on Anna’s grandmother’s
breast. The tumor preferred human flesh; it kept on eating” (Nunez 48). Anna understands the
great advances that have been made in medical care and in cancer treatment. She is even aware
that many with cancer survive to live many years afterward, although her mother does not
believe that receiving medical care in the United States is the best option for her, regardless of
the fact that the hospitals on the island are not equipped to deal with her illness.
While Anna feels that her father is “giving her a death sentence,” her father responds that
to her by saying that, “you live in America. We live here. We don’t think everything in America
is good. She doesn’t think everything in America will necessarily be the best for her” (Nunez
68). Her father is completely aware of the lack of medical care available to his wife on the island,
yet he continues to support any decision that Beatrice makes, believing her to be more
knowledgeable of what her body and spirit needs than any other individual. The United States
cannot offer Beatrice the spiritual satisfaction and comfort that the island can.
In addition, Beatrice has always felt differently about medical care than Anna has. Anna,
like many individuals in the United States, attend annual checkups at her physicians’ and
dentists’ offices. Her mother once told her that by seeing so many doctors, Anna was “courting
illness” (Nunez 80). This is only one of many examples of cultural and generational differences
between the two women. For Beatrice, prayer rather than visiting a doctor was an attempt to keep
“her from bleeding over everyone she knows: her husband, her friends, Lydia, Singh” (Nunez
85). Prayer is a private attempt at keeping intimate matters at bay and out of the minds of those
who surround her.
Whereas Beatrice believes that prayer and her surroundings will be enough support for
her to heal, Anna does not understand why her mother cannot accept the facts, that “her mother
has a choice. Money has given her the luxury of choice. She need not take the risk of surgery in a
hospital where the equipment the doctor needs is not available. They have the money for her to
go to America” (Nunez 135). Despite the consequences, her mother has decided to have her
surgery and treatment on the island due to the media representations she has seen of the United
States. Beatrice knows that there will be a cultural difference and that, for her, the divide is too
great to withstand. Anna begs her father to convince her mother to come to the States for
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treatment, where she is confident her mother will survive, but Anna herself is unsure of whether
or not she can convince her mother herself, for she knows that what her mother believes is true.
Anna understands the way that American culture works better than most. As a female
editor of marginal texts in a small branch of a larger, well-known publishing house, Anna sees
firsthand the lengths to which one will go to make a profit. Oftentimes, these texts can exploit
the marginal populations they were originally designed to represent in a good light. The reality is
that Anna’s boss explained to her that it was a logical business move to launch the smaller
branch that published texts about and by marginal populations. She explained that “profit. That’s
what I am talking about, Anna. We smell money in an untapped market” (Nunez 157). However,
Anna understood well that the untapped market was the market of people of color, African
Americans in particular, but also the newly arrived immigrants from so-called underdeveloped
countries; “a market that would be well served by an editor who was an immigrant herself and
could ultimately best serve the publishing house by earning a large profit” (Nunez 157).
But, are these texts being produced as representations of culture or as creators of culture?
Anna’s father questions her about the lack of male writers who have been publishing in recent
years, a fact that Anna cannot deny. However, Anna retorts that “women buy books,” adding,
“and women want to know about women’s lives,” but her father cannot seem to understand why
there may be any difference in the stories that men write about women’s lives and the stories that
women write about women’s lives. His final conclusion is that “it’s all about that women’s
movement. From what I can gather from the news in America, women have taken over” (Nunez
89). For him, it is inconceivable that there could be any difference and blames the publishing
debacle on a political movement whereas Anna is firm in declaring that she is “interested in good
writing, whether it’s written by a man or woman” (Nunez 89). Although Anna makes her point
with her father, she cannot help but reminisce about the novels she read growing up, none of
which were written by women similar to her, and she is left questioning her role in Equiano
Books and the market itself. Despite the point that Anna makes with her father, she is beginning
to understand that she does play a part in the further exploits of a marginalized population, with
the desired effect of greater profits for the company.
While a child, Anna delved into mystery novels by Enid Blyton and “as an adult she
found herself in the heroines of Austen’s novels. Shakespeare, Blake, Keats, Wordsworth, all
spoke to her. It did not matter that they were English. But her boss at Windsor seems to think
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that the reverse is not possible, that white readers cannot find themselves in the lives of black
characters,” and for this reason, Anna has been chosen to pick the voices that best represent
marginal characters as well as those that earn a profit (Nunez 330). Anna understands that she
has a job as an editor of this branch of the publishing company because dominant society either
cannot or will not put themselves into the role of characters marginalized by society. Anna
believes that “they refuse to find themselves in black characters. To see the commonalities we
share as human beings is to bring down the wall that separates us, that has brought considerable
financial profit to many, that has allowed many to delude themselves with notions of their
superiority” (Nunez 330). Anna understands the unfortunate social hierarchy in which she lives.
Anna has learned a lot about her parents and herself on this trip back home. What she has
come to understand about herself can be summed up in the words of Walcott, “either I’m
nobody, or I’m a nation” and “geography, Anna believes, is a big part of destiny” (Nunez 77).
One can easily get lost in the process of identity if she does not maintain connections to roots and
new experiences alike. Anna does not have to remain in-between, but rather she can embrace
both cultures as parts that make the whole, rather than choosing. At first, when Anna begins to
realize that she is a contradiction in and of herself, she realizes that
she is all of these: African, Amerindian, Asian, European. She is Caribbean and
not Caribbean, for she has lived many years in America. She is American and not
American, for she has lived many years on her island. She is critical of her
mother’s strictures, but her response to Singh troubles her. She worries that in
spite of the years she has lived in New York, in spite of the years she has not
lived on the island, she has not changed as much as she thinks. (Nunez 77)
The structures of one’s roots are most comfortable and most likely to direct one’s future. While
the story that Anna is living, the story of being caught in-between one culture and another “is
her father’s story but it is her story too, for in the end she was left without a country, without a
place she could call home,” much in the same way that many Caribbean individuals feel about
the loss of their ethnic culture in the name of colonization (Nunez 103).
Anna is what some might consider “roast breadfruit…black on the outside and white on
the inside” (Nunez 112). The breadfruit is an analogy used for Caribbean individuals who are
weak – often applied to Caribbean male characters – and who scatter at the first sign of
difficulty, much like the breadfruit does when it falls off the tree. The female Caribbean is
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sometimes referred to as the chestnut, strong and maintains its form when it hits the ground. In
this case, the term roast breadfruit refers more to skin color differences. Although she is referred
to as dark on the outside, having a dark or African phenotype, she is white on the inside,
meaning she adheres to ideals of the upper middle or upper class. Since skin color oftentimes
correlates to socioeconomic status in the Caribbean, the lighter one’s skin color, the more likely
she will pertain to a higher socioeconomic group.
Anna has had a change of heart for the island and she feels that “here, where she is now,
where she was born, where she once belonged, where she longs to belong again” is where she
will one day return to (Nunez 165). Anna learns “that the individual may not count more than the
community, but without the individual there is no community” (Nunez 181). Everyone counts
equal, because without each individual person, the community cannot exist. However, Anna
knows that there is much of this place that she has forgotten and “much she can no longer claim
as hers,” although she is willing to relearn it (Nunez 226). Anna concludes that she does not want
to lose her roots or deny her heritage. Perhaps in deciding to return to the island, Anna is more
American than Caribbean because “she will assert her right to pursue her own happiness” (Nunez
272). But, despite her assertive Americanness, she chooses to use this ability to bring her back to
her beginnings because “she does not fear death or growing old without a companion. But she
fears death in a country where she has no roots. She fears dying there, growing old there, alone,
without a companion” or a root to ground her (Nunez 283). Anna has thought many times of
returning to the island, for “which immigrant does not dream of returning to the place of her
birth, to retire there, to settle down there after a lifetime of work? But if her mother dies and her
father dies, who will be there on the island to receive her? Who will be there to attest, to prove
that she once belonged, could belong again?” (Nunez 283). Without her parents to attest to her
belonging to the island, originating from the island, Anna has no reason to return and has no
more connection to the island than she does to the United States.
In a chance encounter, Anna’s parents invite the son of a family friend, Dr. Paul Bishop,
to their home to visit and discuss medical procedures with Beatrice. Once Anna and Paul begin
to converse, she learns that he has also moved to the United States for work and is experiencing
many of the same feelings of in-betweenness as she feels. He tells her, “I didn’t realize how
much. I miss the people. I miss not having to explain myself to people who don’t share my
background,” and Anna empathizes with him, having felt the same herself (Nunez 347). This
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conversation sparks a relationship between the two, and Paul then invites Anna to go on a date
with him. Anna is excited, despite her mother having set up this meeting and Anna “finds herse lf
thinking that perhaps her mother knows more about life and about what her daughter needs than
she has given her credit for” (Nunez 347). In this moment, all the miscommunications between
Anna and her mother become glaringly obvious to Anna. She finally understands that her mother
has only been pushing her to return to the island because her mother knew without being told
how Anna felt in the United States and how she felt trapped between two cultures. Anna realizes
that all of her mother’s comments were made with good intentions and with the intention of
getting her daughter back. It might seem that Beatrice’s prayers have been answered.
In both Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home and Anna In-Between, Erna Brodber and
Elizabeth Nunez offer two similar but different representations of the female identification
process in the Anglophone Caribbean. While throughout the Caribbean, the mother-daughter
relationship is a binding factor in a female’s search for identity, specific elements of Jamaican
identity are portrayed in Brodber’s novel. While Nunez never indicates the exact island location
of her novel, it is clear that it represents the identity struggles of a woman of Caribbean heritage.
Certain mother-daughter relations and female expectations represented in the two novels are
exemplary of the gender and relationship elements that factor into identity formation.
Both Nellie and Anna deal with female relationships and expectations of femaleness in
different ways. We have seen that Nellie is trapped in the cultural kumbla that is supposed to
protect her, but rather serves as an ambivalent force in identity formation. For Nellie, the
presence and role of women in a matriarchal society creates a complex reality in which the
women themselves contribute to their further repressed state within Jamaican society. In Nellie’s
case, she can only progress in her search for identity by breaking with cultural norms and
expectations and, in turn, with her own mother.
However, Anna’s experience is significantly differe nt in that she must grow closer to her
mother and her cultural roots in order to progress in her identity process. Referring back to the
steps that Homi Bhabha has indicated for postcolonial identification, Anna has progressed
through the two necessary steps of existence in relation to an Other, and projecting herself into
the space of the Other. She has returned to her island of birth and, although feeling like an
outsider, has begun to regain her place in the culture and society in which she desires to identify
a space for herself.
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Brodber’s account and critique of Jamaican society is strongly based in historical events
and changes within the island itself. The island had already passed hands from the Spanish to the
English and finally ended up a British possession before finally gaining independence in 1938.
For Jamaica, colonial rule remains fresh in recent memory as well as the effects of recent
independence, such as poverty, racism, and lack of access to resources for all but the elite.
While cultural, religious, ethnic, and social hybridity have contributed to a conflicted inbetween approach to identity formation in the Anglophone Caribbean, I have shown here that, as
demonstrated in the experiences of Nellie and Anna, that island-specific, personal, and cultural
experiences play a dominating role in identity formation.
185
CHAP TER FOUR
ROOTS: LANGUAGE, MEMORY, AND IDENTITY
FORMATION IN THE HISPANOPHONE CARIBBEAN
I carry
mis raices
my roots
las cargo
with me
siempre
all the time
conmigo
rolled up
enrolladas
I use them
me sirven
as my pillow
almohada
-Francisco Alarcón. “Raices/Roots”
The memo ry is a mysterious - and powerful - thing.
It forgets what we want most to remember,
and retains what we often wish to forget.
We take fro m it what we need.
-Mary Helen Ponce. “Note fro m the Author”
The analyses in this chapter will further explain the importance of language and an
individual’s place of origin in the formation of identity. Edouard Glissant defines national
language as “the one in which a people produces,” which proves to create a conflict in identity
when an individual is removed – by choice or by exile – from the culture of her origin (102). 98
However, the content of one’s discourse plays an equal part in connecting her to her culture of
choice. Specifically, due to the lack of chronology in Caribbean literature, the continual presence
of the topic of natural landscape describing the female character’s place of origin represents an
attempt to link the past and present through using the landscape as a basis for this change.
Glissant indicates that a Caribbean individual instinctively rejects the conflicted nature of lived
experience in relation to the normed account of history told by the colonizer. Because
postcolonial culture is written from the interstices of majority/minority space, there is a need to
understand and develop a collective identity before understanding and developing an individua l
identity. 99
98
99
Glissant, Edouard. Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays.
Bhabha, Ho mi. The Location of Culture.
186
In order to accomplish this feat, Juan Flores attests to the importance of language as a
tool to maintain an emotional connection with one’s origins despite immersion in a new culture.
Thus, because physical geography is not the most important factor in national (collective)
identity, an individual can maintain a strong identification with her origins through her choice in
language. 100 Stuart Hall reaffirms that identity (both collective and individual) is based in time
and place and that Caribbean identity is a representation of hybridity that allows people to
represent an ever-changing heterogeneous conglomeration of individuals. 101
The two novels discussed in this chapter, Dreaming in Cuban by Christina García and
Casi una mujer by Esmeralda Santiago, offer exemplary representations of the role that language
and location play in a female’s identification process. Moreover, the specific language choice
made by a displaced female oftentimes plays the most important part in the individual
identification process because of the cultural worldview connected to the language. Many critics,
such as Homi Bhabha, Benedict Anderson, and Edouard Glissant have indicated that culture and
language are so strongly linked that one cannot be separated from the other. It is a common
complexity of identity formation in the hybrid, post-colonial Caribbean. The protagonists in
these two novels wrestle with the linguistic (and cultural) markers that position them either in the
space of social norms, or in a marginalized exterior. This complexity of language (and cultural)
choice is not foreign to the authors of these novels, as they chose to write their novels in one
language or another. While the factors for writing in English or Spanish may not be entirely
based on identity for these authors, it is an important factor to note when understanding the locus
of enunciation in Caribbean literature.
While the language choice for the protagonists in the two novels discussed in this chapter
is between Spanish and English, it is important to discuss the absence of choice of a Spanish
Creole in the Caribbean. In both the Anglophone and Francophone language traditions in the
Caribbean, there is at least one creole that exists alongside the dominant English or French
languages. However, in the Spanish Caribbean, research points to the non-formation of a Spanish
Creole language in the Caribbean. John M. Lipski indicates that Papiamentu, present in Curaçao
and Aruba, is the only highly debated Spanish Creole, representing the combination of Spanish
100
101
Duany. "The Rough Edges of Puerto Rican Identit ies: Race, Gender, and Transnationalism”
Hall, Stuart. “Negotiating Caribbean Identities ”; Hall, Stuart. “Cu ltural Identity and Diaspora”
187
and Portuguese (Lipski 543). While many linguists 102 theorize that sociological factors prevented
the formation of Spanish Creoles in the Caribbean, John H. McWhorter claims that there are
three significant historical events that effectively prevented the prolonged production and
maintenance of a Spanish Creole in the Caribbean:
1) Spain had small agricultural plantations in which slaves and masters regularly
interacted before the installation of large sugar plantations. Because slaves were alre ady
accustomed to Spanish and had ample time to learn the language, incoming slaves also
learned Spanish, rather than developing a pidgin of the Spanish language, 2) Spain took
over many areas that were previously ruled by Portugal. Since there already existed a
Portuguese pidgin, Spanish became the common language, and 3) Spain chose not to
establish trade settlements in West Africa, lessening the need for the development of a
pidgin language in which to sustain prolonged communication across languages. (213)
In addition to these three factors, McWhorter claims that the Spainards’ strong development to
settle in the Caribbean, as well as their delayed exploitative practices in the Caribbean, led to the
importance of the promotion of Spanish as the dominant language. 103 It can then be concluded
that the lack of interest of the British and French colonists to develop Caribbean land, as well as
the non-presence of plantation owners, led to a more lax representation of an enforced dominant
language in the Anglophone and Francophone Caribbean than in the Hispanophone Caribbean.
While racialized, genered individuals in the Hispanophone Caribbean are exempt from an
additional language choice, the choice between communication and publication in either Spanish
or English still remains an important and defining factor in identity formation.
García’s novel, Dreaming in Cuban, presents the reader with an invitation to experience
the power of female relationships and identity formation. 104 Throughout this story, two women
of the del Pino family are given the chance to transcend earthly restraints that allow them to
experience life on a different plane. Dreaming in Cuban is a novel delineating the role played by
lo real maravilloso, memory and this magical meeting of women to record and tell their own
history – the most real historical telling of history that has ever occurred for the del Pino family
102
For a more detailed argu ment on Spanish Creoles, see additional works by John M. Lipski and John H.
McWhorter.
103
Spain imp lemented less explo itative practices in the Caribbean by comparison until the 19 th Century. Previously,
Spain was concerned with discovering and min ing precious metals in Mexico, religious conversion, and small-scale
agriculture (McWhorter 238).
104
Although this text appears in the Hispanophone chapter, all citations will be taken fro m the English version of the
text, as English is the language in which the novel was originally written.
188
as well as for Cuba in whole. It is through this truthful telling of history that allows for collective
and individual identity formation. 105
Dreaming in Cuban is the story of three generations of women of the del Pino family.
The women represented in this story serve as the history-tellers, the link to the past and the
future. When Abuela Celia’s father passes away as well as her daughter Felicia, Celia’s other
daughter is summoned back to Cuba from New York City where she has relocated and created a
life with her husband and daughter Pilar. While Lourdes despises Cuba, Pilar has experienced a
nostalgic longing for the island and her grandmother since she left at age two. The novel weaves
through the seemingly otherworldly experiences that intermingle with politics and spiritual
experiences, leading a very indirect path to historical truth, as well as collective and individual
identity.
The aforementioned elements of this novel are all factors of the identity process. The
following factors will be discussed as influential elements in the process of identity formation:
1) Religion, rituals, and other-worldly interactions and experiences, 2) Mother-daughter
relationships, 3) Grandmother-Granddaughter relationships, 4) Romantic relationships, 5)
Trauma, 6) Memory and nostalgia, 7) Historical truth, 8) Isolation, 9) Collective memory and its
role in female identification, 10) Female identification of Celia, Felicia, Lourdes, and Pilar.
Religion, rituals, and other-worldly interactions and experiences are prominent
throughout the novel. Each of these elements plays an important role in identity formation, as the
identity that a woman forms cannot be an identity that fits only with the exact time and place in
which she exists, but it must also fit with her past and with the other-world dimensions with
which she interacts. In this novel, the representations of other-worldly interactions range from
105
In the Pro logue to his 1949 novel El reino de este mundo, Alejo Carpentier defines lo maravillo, or that which is
marvelous, as “reuniéndose objetos que para nada suelen encontrarse: la vieja y embustera historia del encuentro
fortuito del paraguas y de la máquina de coser sobre una mesa de disección / [the old, fraudulent story of the
fortuitous encounter of the umbrella and the sewing machine on an operating table” (“Prologue”)],” for example
(Carpentier 6). The marvelous can only begin to exist when “comien za a serlo de manera inequiívoca cuando surge
de una inesperada alteración de la realidad …una amplificación de las escalas y categorías de la realidad, perdcibidas
con particular intensidad” and that “presupone una fe / [unequivocal way when it arises fro m an unexpected
alteration of reality …an amplification of the scale and categories of reality, perceived with particular intensity”
(“Pro logue”)]” (Carpentier 7-8). Carpentier makes it clear that lo real maravilloso is not just a juxtaposition of
reality and mag ical, but it presumes that those who are experiencing the situation have faith that what is occurring is
more than a surrealistic phenomenon, but that it is the most real of all realit ies one might experience. As Carpentier
believes lo real maravilloso to be directly related to culture and literature of the Americas, he asserts the question:
“¿Pero qué es la historia de A mérica toda sino una crónica de lo real-maravilloso? / [What, after all, is the history of
all the Americas but a chronicle of the marvelous real?” (“Prologue”)]” (Carpentier 12). Thus, the true history of the
Americas is one that cannot be separated from lo real maravilloso roots that it has. For further reading, see:
Foreman, Gabrielle P.”Past-On Stories”; Allende, Isabel. The House o f the Spirits.
189
general suspicion and telling of stories to full belief. Santería 106 is a common thread throughout
Garcías novel and serves as an encrucijada mágica 107 where two worlds overlap.
Celia never fully believed in Santería rituals and beliefs, but she does find herself
engaged in taking suspicion to heart. For example, after a flood inundates their home, Celia
reprimands her young daughter, Felicia, for bringing some of the washed up seashells into the
home because “they bring bad luck” (García 11). Felicia and her sister, Lourdes, also attempted
to frighten each other by telling stories of the suspicions surrounding the religion they did not
understand. However, there are some instances that require a closer look because, while nothing
was ever proved, there has always been great suspicion surrounding the otherworldly abilities of
Celia’s granddaughter, Pilar.
While still in Cuba, Lourdes had difficulty maintaining nursemaids to care for Pilar. Each
time a new nursemaid arrived, a tragedy occurred: “one girl left with a broken leg after slipping
on a bar of soap Pilar dropped while the nanny was bathing her in the sink. Another woman, an
elderly mulatta, claimed that her hair was falling out from the menacing stares the baby gave
her” (García 24). The women insisted that “the child is bewitched” (García 24), but Lourdes
fired her nonetheless, after finding her daughter smeared in blood and leaves. Pilar, though less
than two years of age, recalls these incidents so clearly that she is aware that “they called [her]
brujita, little witch. [She] stared at them, tried to make them go away. [She] remember[ed]
thinking, Okay, I’ll start with their hair, make it fall out strand by strand. They always left
106
Santería is a religion co mprised of both La Regla Lucumm, the religion of Yorubans – who were taken through
the slave trade from their o rig ins in southwest Nigeria and transplanted throughout the Caribbean – and Ro man
Catholicism. In general, slaves were required to convert to Roman Catholicis m, but many slaves who were either
unable or unwilling to give up their religious beliefs worshiped Catholic saints designated to represent an Orisha
(Yoruban diety) in order to es cape persecution for failure to convert. This type of required conversion is not
uncommon throughout the Caribbean in areas conquered by Spain, as the original intention of many of the
expeditions to and conquests of this region were in the name of religio n.
Previously, the indigenous peoples inhabiting the areas were required to convert to Christianity. While
some willingly obliged, many more developed ingenious ways of tricking their converters into believing that they
had converted while they continued to worship their gods through Christian representations. Many more, when
faced with conversion, were not able to so easily transform the belief systems, customs , and culture that formed their
society’s ideology. Much in the same way that the indigenous people were forced into changing their way of life
and beliefs, so were the slaves brought to the island years later. The place where Ro man Catholicism and La Regla
Lucumm overlap is known as Santería. According to Christina García in a 2007 interview, “this syncretism between
the Yoruban relig ion and Catholicis m is a cornerstone of the island’s culture” (“Q & A” 12). For further read ing,
see: Brandon, George. Santería from Africa to the New World: The Dead Sell Memories; Simpson, George
Eaton. Black Religions in the New World; Asante, Molefi K. “Santeria”. Encyclopedia of African Religion.
107
In the Santería relig ion, there are certain planes that overlap. This area where the time -space continuum overlaps
is the site where the divine and human p lanes intersect. This interstice is referred to as the encrucijada mág ica.
190
wearing kerchiefs to cover their bald patches” (García 28). Thus, from a very young age, Pilar
was endowed with certain powers. It is these same powers that Pilar will later use to
communicate telepathically or through dreams with her grandmother. Even though “Celia was
not a believer, she was wary of powers she didn’t understand” (García 76), and respected them as
such. It is Celia’s personal belief “that both good and evil may be borne in the same seed. [And],
although Celia dabbles in Santería’s harmless superstitions, she cannot bring herself to trust the
clandestine rites of the African magic” because she has seen its powers (García 91).
Celia’s daughter, Felicia, as a young adult is intrigued with the powers of Santería, and
becomes engaged with them, as one of her friend’s, Herminia’s, father is a santero. He used to
say that there are forces in the universe that can transform our lives if only we’d surrender
ourselves. Felicia surrendered, and found her fulfillment”; however, Celia was still very skeptical
of the powers that Santería holds and she feared for her daughter (García 186). Celia’s religious
beliefs, while not the same as her daughter’s, are very similar to her granddaughter Pilar’s
beliefs. Although Pilar is “not religious” she gets “the feeling that it’s the simplest rituals, the
ones that are integrated with the earth and its seasons, that are the most profound. It makes more
sense to [her] than the more abstract forms of worship” (García 199). It is, in fact, a simple ritual
with herbs and candles that lead her to the belief that she must return to Cuba. On the ninth day
of the ritual, she “call[s][her] mother and tell[s] her [they]’re going to Cuba” (García 203). This
ritual prompts her to make decisions that eventually lead her to the truth.
Throughout Celia’s life, her husband, Jorge, attempts to rid her of her memories of a past
lover by stripping her of access to music, placing her in a mental institution, and preventing
spiritual crossing-over to other worlds and other times by keeping her in a melancholic state.
What Jorge cannot take from her, however, are her dreams and telepathic communication with
her granddaughter Pilar. The purpose of these letters that Celia writes to her Spanish lover,
Gustavo, then, is to transcend the boundaries of the plane of life in which she currently lives and
use the only language she knows how to at this point in time to guard her family’s history –
telepathy. Through these letters and through dreaming, the two women can communicate
because “true communication transcends the linguistic, for Celia communicates telepathically
with Pilar, and Pilar dreams in Cuban – a nonexistent or, perhaps, lost and irretrievable
language” (Herrera 88). The ability of these two women to communicate through non- linguistic
means points to the lo real maravilloso that Carpentier believes “flows freely from a reality
191
strictly followed in all its details” (Carpentier 11). Celia exemplifies this element of lo real
maravilloso in the comprehensive letters to Gustavo in which she details not only her personal
life, but her personal life intertwined with historically accountable names, dates, and places
related to occurrences in Cuba. For example, Pilar and her grandmother share the same birthday,
Pilar being born on “11 January, 1959 – only days after Castro entered Havana with his
triumphant guerrilla troops” (Herrera 72). There is also overt mention of the Cuban Missile
Crisis and the storming of the Peruvian Embassy. This effect produces within the reader an
inability to distinguish reality from marvelous, assuming the reader has a presupposed faith in
the ability of this type of telepathic communication to occur between Celia and Pilar.
Despite the ability of these two women to communicate on another plane, in distinctive
manners, each tends to distort the image of normal patriarchal discourse and perspective.
Preserving “a cultural and personal past which has been maintained, in part, through oral
tradition,” is what García achieves by taking away masculine dominated linguistic discourse and
allowing these two women to communicate through telepathy and dreams (Herrera79). For
example, Pilar paints Celia in a much more interpretive manner than in the expected realistic
vision of what she is. However, Celia also plays into this manner of recording history by
requesting the clothing she is wearing or how she looks in the finished product. Interestingly
enough, this inability to relate an acceptable history according to patriarchal standards is a trait
that runs through the three main female characters in the novel.
This type of marred account of history can be seen early in the novel when Celia’s
husband, Jorge, passes away. Although he chose to leave the island years before and move to
New York City, the relationship has maintained some level of telepathic communication. The del
Pino family members each deal with his death in a specific way. Celia does not seem surprised
and she does not mourn his loss, for she feels that she had lost him long ago when he left the
island; she is accustomed to his absence. The death of Jorge is the first glimpse the reader has of
the real- magical, telepathic, and other-world conversations that are expressed and how the del
Pino’s relationships are maintained via these means. The strongest other-worldly relations that
are represented in this novel are the relationship between Lourdes and Jorge, and the relationship
between Celia and Pilar.
When Jorge “greets his daughter forty days after she buried him with his Panama hat, his
cigars, and a bouquet of violets in a cemetery on the border of Brooklyn and Queens,” Lourdes
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converses with him, but immediately doubts that the conversation took place, until she is greeted
by him again (García 64). Lourdes’ father tells her “that we can see and understand everything
just as well alive as dead, only when we’re alive we don’t have the time, or the peace of mind, or
the inclination to see and understand what we could. We’re too busy rushing to our graves”
(García 194). After leaving Lourdes with this message, he does not return to her until her sister,
Felicia, dies and to tell her that she must return to Cuba. This message from her father coincides
with the message Pilar receives while taking her ritualistic baths. Both Lourdes and Pilar arrive
at the same conclusion: they must return to Cuba.
Both Lourdes and Pilar feel a strong connection to Cuba, but for very different reasons.
Lourdes has spent the majority of her life trying to separate from her Cuban roots, while Pilar has
spent the majority of her life trying to maintain and foster her connections to Cuba, and
specifically, to her Abuela Celia. While Pilar and Celia never converse via telephone and only
infrequently via written correspondence, they maintain a very close connection. Although
“Abuela Celia and [Pilar] write to each other sometimes,”…she mostly “hear[s] her speaking to
[her] at night just before[she] fall[s] asleep. She tells [her] stories about her life and what the sea
was like that day. She seems to know everything that’s happened to [Pilar] and tells [her] not to
mind [her] mother too much. Abuela Celia says she wants to see [Pilar] again. She tells [her] she
loves [her]” (García 28-9). This telepathic communication between Celia and Pilar is what
maintains the family connection and allows the family to thrive and continue to maintain its
history despite physical contact. This same type of overlap of two worlds is reminiscent of the
Santería religion itself.
Within the Santería religion exists an overlap. This area of overlap has to do with the
coming together of two worlds – that of humans and that of the Orishas. This overlap of time
and space is where human believers can be mounted by Orishas. To be mounted by an Orisha is
also referred to as possession, where the spirit of the Orisha takes over the body of the possessed
individual. This overlap of the time-space continuum of both worlds is referred to as the
encrucijada mágica, the magical crossroads at which time and space do not exist. This idea was
represented frequently by believers of Santería and was presented in the plus sign that was often
drawn in the dirt and garnished with sacrificial offerings and offerings of food, drink, and plants.
Belief in and trust of the encrucijada mágica is necessary for a Santería possession, just
as it is necessary for a clear reading of Dreaming in Cuban by Cuban-born Gristina García. In
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her novel, there is a close relation to the Santería religion, dreams, and the telepathic
communication that happens between granddaughter Pilar and her grandmother Celia, who both
fulfill main roles in this novel. At the encrucijada mágica is where religion, dream, and
telepathy meet and can take hold in human settings.
Pilar encounters an encrucijada mágica when she finds herself one day with the santero
who names her “a daughter of Changó,” tells her that she “must finish what [she] be gan,” and
offers her “a gift from our father Changó” (García 200). 108 It is evident in this scene that Pilar
and Celia have similar religious beliefs; both for the most part reject Santería, but are aware of
the possibilities it opens up for them. This ability to maintain vulnerable and open to
otherworldly happenings is the single most important characteristic necessary for Pilar and Celia
to be able to communicate through non-traditional means. Through these non-traditional
communications, Pilar will comply with her grandmother’s desire to “finish what [she] began”
and guard her family’s history (García 200).
As García notes in the text of the novel, guarding and telling the family history
sometimes comes at the price of losing oneself, as “the family is hostile to the individual,” and
leaves little space for personal development (García 134). In order to understand a family and its
history, it is imperative to study each of the relationships involved.
Beginning with the cornerstone of the del Pino family, Celia, the reader learns that she
has almost no recollection of her parents. When she was very young, her mother put her on a
train to go live with her Tía Alicia, and that is one of her only recollections. Later, as an adult,
Celia runs into her father, but only recognizes him in relation to Tía Alicia. She is unable to
mourn the death of her own father “until Tía Alicia died, just before [she] married” (García 99).
As for Celia’s mother, she remembers that once on the “daybreak train to Havana, [she] ca lled to
her from the window but she didn’t turn around…on the way to Havana, [Celia] forgot her” and
“only the birth of [her] son makes [her] remember” this past (García 100). It is her present that
oftentimes reminds her of the past, although the relationships she upholds with her children,
Felicia, Lourdes, and Ivanito, are anything but ideal.
Celia does not have a positive relationship with her daughter, Felicia. Felicia is
consistently attacked for her choices and her attempts within the identification process. When
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Changó is an Orisha of the Yorùbá relig ion. Changó is the god of fire, lightning, and thunder. It is believed by
many that the worship of this Orisha will bring fo llo wers to a heightened state of self-control through his combined
powers of Obatala (logic) and Aganyu (drive to reach a desired goal).
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Felicia meets the man who will later become her husband, Hugo Villaverde, and decides to wed
him, her father refuses to accept the relationship: “Felicia had not seen her father since he had
smashed a chair over her ex- husband Hugo’s back” (García 12). In that same instance, Jorge del
Pino warned Felicia that “If you leave with that sonofabitch, don’t ever come back,” and that was
her final decision (García 12). Despite the poor terms on which she left her father, Felicia is
surprised when her father dies and does not come to visit her and to say goodbye, although he
does just this for Celia and Lourdes. Felicia’s response to her mother’s telling her of her father’s
passing and his visit represents the act of a dead spirit’s visiting the living world as completely
acceptable and within normal experience: “You mean he was in the neighborhood and didn’t
even stop by?’ She is pacing now, pushing a fist into her palm” (García 9). As for Felicia’s
relationship with her mother, she is met with the same disregard for Felicia’s beliefs and desires.
Celia does not agree with Felicia’s conversion into a santera, or the way she raises her children,
but she does support her. Celia believes that Felicia should join the revolution, and she will
accept nothing less of her.
Felicia herself has two daughters, Milagro and Luz, and a son, Ivanito. As a mother, she
favors one child over the other and oftentimes goes into long periods of depression that prevent
her from properly caring for her children. Her husband, Hugo, cheats on her and gives her a
Sexually Transmitted Infection (STI) that he caught from another woman. This STI threatens the
life of her third child, who is born while she is suffering from this infection.
Felicia’s first two children are twin daughters, Milagro and Luz. These daughters are old
enough to remember the fights between their father and mother and they are old enough to
remember that their mother threw scalding oil on their father in an attempt to kill him. Because
the girls are old enough to remember these incidents and are old enough to remember that their
father used to bring them gifts upon returning home from business trips, they have little respect
for their mother. The girls have such little respect for their mother that they call Felicia “notMamá” (García 121). The two girls believe that it is their duty to protect their younger brother,
Ivanito, “but he doesn’t want to be protected. He is her gullible rag doll” (García 121). Ivanito
and Felicia have a different relationship than Felicia has with Milagro and Luz. Once the girls
are a little older, they receive a postcard from their father and meet him. They continue meeting
with him because he can offer them something their mother cannot. In their father, the girls
“found the language [they]’d been searching for, a language more eloquent than the cheap bead
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necklaces of words [their] mother offered” (García 124). For Milagro and Luz, having a
relationship with their father was a more integral part of their identity formation process and
understanding of their roots than what their mother could offer.
Ivanito understands his mother in a way that his sisters, Milagro and Luz, cannot.
Oftentimes, Ivanito and Felicia talk in colors. When Felicia says, “Let’s speak in green,” the two
of them “talk about everything that makes them feel green” and they continue to do the same
with other colors such as blue, red, and yellow (García 84). Ivanito and Felicia view the world
differently than others.
Felicia and her son, Ivanito, have a special connection. While Felicia is in her depressive
state, Ivanito never leaves her side and considers proper steps to health, such as leaving the home
and eating something other than coconut ice cream to be betrayals of his mother and, in turn,
refuses to go against her wishes. When Celia comes to their home with nutritious food, “Ivanito
rarely touches the croquettes or the port tamales she brings” because “he doesn’t want to betray
his mother,” for he is aware that she is in need of his support at this time (García 87). It is for this
reason that he feels very guilty about visiting his father, but Milagro and Luz feel that what
Ivanito “doesn’t realize yet is that nothing Mamá does has anything to do with him, or with
Abuela Celia, or with any of us” (García 126). However, Abuela Celia feels that Ivanito’s
growing “resemblance [to Hugo] is affecting Felicia” and that nothing good can come of her
staying cloistered “in that shuttered house, dancing in the dark with her only son” (García 89).
Felicia passes away before Ivanito truly comes to understand whether or not his mother’s
motives for her behavior have anything to do with him or not; however, he remains supportive of
her until the end.
Celia’s relationship with her other daughter, Lourdes, is also not ideal, but still different
than the relationship Celia maintains with Felicia. When Celia gets pregnant with Jorge, her
greatest desire is to have a male child, because males have greater power to survive in the world,
whereas females are destined to a more difficult life. Having a male child also symbolized
freedom for Celia, as she decided to leave Jorge to seek out her Spanish lover, Gustavo, if it were
a male, because he would not need her to survive the world. However, “if she had a girl, Celia
decided, she would stay. She would not abandon a daughter to this life, but train her to read the
columns of blood and numbers in men’s eyes, to understand the morphology of survival. Her
daughter, too, would outlast the hard flames” (García 42). Celia’s plan to lea ve Jorge never
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conspired because Celia birthed a female, her first daughter, Lourdes. Celia’s disdain for the
daughter she bore was conveyed to her husband when “she held their child by one leg, handed
her to Jorge, and said, ‘I will not remember her name’” (García 42-3). Celia’s ability to pursue
her passionate, obsessive love for Gustavo was crushed by her daughter and, for this, Jorge put
Celia into a mental institution where he demanded to have her memories of Gustavo erased.
Although Lourdes and her mother continually butt heads, Lourdes has always had a good
relationship with her father. Lourdes feels that she “is herself only with her father. Even after his
death, they understand each other perfectly, as they always have” (García 131). However,
Lourdes cannot forget the words her mother spoke when she handed him over to her father.
When Jorge returns one last time from the world of the dead to speak with Lourdes, he comes
with the intention of explaining to Lourdes that in addition to her mother’s initial reaction to the
birth of a girl, Jorge perpetuated and fueled the bad feelings between the two females. He has
come with the intention to tell Lourdes “a few last things. About [him]self. About [her] mother.
So [she]’ll understand,” and his final intent is to convince Lourdes that her mother really loved
her (García 195).
The same difficulties that Lourdes had and still has with her own mother are repeated in
the relationship she has with her daughter, Pilar. Lourdes summons her father’s advice on the
matter, saying she does not “know what to do anymore” because “no matter what [she] do[es],
Pilar hates [her]” (García 74). Her father, however, explains to Lourdes: “Pilar doesn’t hate you,
hija. She just hasn’t learned to love you yet,” perhaps teaching Lourdes not only a lesson about
her daughter, but a lesson about her mother, too (García 74).
Lourdes and Pilar have a strained relationship, much in the same that Lourdes and Celia
have a strained relationship. Pilar and Celia are very similar, so it s hould come as no surprise that
there is tension within both relationships with Lourdes. Lourdes has very little respect for her
daughter, and even competes with her and invades her privacy to remind Pilar that she is always
in control. On one occasion, Lourdes and Pilar took a flamenco class in order to engage in
mother-daughter activities, but Pilar received a lot of praise from the teacher. Lourdes’ jealousy
was such that they never returned (García 59).
Lourdes understands her relationship with her daughter differently. For Lourdes, she is
aware that “Pilar was only ten years old and already mocking everything” and it is her
“indifference that is most maddening” to Lourdes (García 128). Lourdes is so untrusting of her
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daughter that she reads her diary and tells Pilar that “it’s her responsibility to know [Pilar’s]
private thoughts” rather than attempting to converse about them with her (García 26). She even
goes as far as to use her dead father to scare Pilar into not having sex with her boyfriend by
telling her that Abuelo spies on her (García 136).
The one thing that Pilar has in common with her mother is that if she does not “like
someone, [she] show[s] it. It’s the one thing [she] [has] in common with [her] mother” (García
135). For this reason, both Lourdes and Pilar have difficulty understanding how it is that Pilar is
Lourdes’ daughter, rather than Celia’s. In addition, neither can understand how Lourdes is
Celia’s daughter. Pilar feels that Celia’s genes, thoughts, and beliefs have skipped a generation.
Celia’s relationship with her son, Javier, is very limited in comparison to her two
daughters. Celia maintains a very loose relationship with her son, Javier. Javier and Jorge never
got along, and for this reason Javier left. While away, he met a Czechoslovakian woman who he
made his wife and they bore a baby girl. Celia is largely concerned that she will not be able to
speak to her granddaughter in Spanish or teach her the things she has learned. Javier wrote a
letter to Celia a few years after Jorge died, explaining “that he spoke Spanish to his little girl so
she’d be able to talk with her grandmother someday,” calming Celia’s fears (García 118).
When Javier returns to Cuba after a personal devastation, Celia “wonders why it is so
difficult to be happy” and because of her own ruinous passion, “o f her three children, Celia
sympathizes most with her son” (García 157). Celia knows that if she cannot save her son, she
will never be able to save anyone else that she loves, including herself.
In addition to mother-daughter relationships, it is important to understand the relationship
that the granddaughters have with their grandmother, the matriarch of the family. Celia and Pilar
have a special relationship. Although Pilar left the island at the age of two, she and her
grandmother have kept up with each other’s lives through telepathic communication and dream
sequences. While Celia and Pilar primarily communicate in this form, they do also share written
communication between Brooklyn and Cuba. Pilar feels a strong pull towards her Cuban heritage
and maintains contacts with her roots, which greatly pleases Celia, although she cannot help but
feel that it is not enough. According to Celia:
Pilar, her first grandchild, writes to her from Brooklyn in a Spanish that is no
longer hers. She speaks the hard-edged lexicon of bygone tourists itchy to throw
dice on green felt or asphalt. Pilar’s eyes, Celia fears, are no longer used to the
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compacted light of the tropics, where a morning hour can fill a month of days in
the north, which receives only careless sheddings from the sun. She imagines her
granddaughter pale, gliding through paleness, malnourished and cold without the
food of scarlets and greens. (García 7)
Despite Pilar’s attempts at maintaining the integrity of her family lineage, it just does not seem
enough to Celia, who views the world differently. Despite Celia’s somewhat disconnected
feeling with her granddaughter, she revels in the conversations she has with Pilar, most of which
are otherworldly conversations. For example, “Pilar keeps a diary in the lining of her winter coat,
hidden from her mother’s scouring eyes. In it, Pilar records everything. This pleases Celia. She
closes her eyes and speaks to her granddaughter, imagines her words as slivers of light piercing
the murky night” (García 7). It seems that the maintained communication between the two
women is a driving force in Celia’s life.
Nonetheless, it is not just Celia who feels the importance of this relationship. Pilar shares
the following: “I feel much more connected to Abuela Celia than to Mom, even though I haven’t
seen my grandmother in seventeen years…even in silence, she gives me the confidence to do
what I believe is right, to trust my own perceptions” (García 176). Thus, the relationship between
the two women is the cornerstone of the carrying on of not only the family history, but that of
specifically the female lineage of the del Pino family. The relationship that Pilar has with her
grandmother is the stronghold that pushes her to learn herself and affords her the confidence to
be herself.
In addition to familial relationships, romantic relationships play an important role in
identification. Celia admits to one true love in her life – her obsession with a one-time Spanish
lover who never returned to her after their single carnal experience together. Celia feels that
Gustavo was very different than many other men with whom she had the opportunity of getting
to know, namely, very different than her husband, Jorge. Celia wrote to Gustavo in a letter that
she never sent: “you were different, mi amor. You expected much more of me. That is why I
loved you” (García 206). The amorous passion that Celia felt for Gustavo plagued her and her
marriage for the duration of her lifetime because the love she shared with Jorge was not and
never could be as passionate and spontaneous as a one-night affair. Celia tells Gustavo, again
through a letter she will never send, that “after you left me I took to my bed, Gustavo. I stayed
there for months playing back every minute of our time together, watching it like I watched the
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movies, trying to make sense of the days we buried squandering love. Jorge saved me, but for
what I don’t know” (García 100).
Celia has idealized the relationship she had with Gustavo to the point that it damaged her
relationship with Jorge and has left a ripple effect on her children. Celia never even gave Jorge
the chance to prove himself and his love to her because she felt like her life had already ended
when Gustavo left. Although Celia comes to the realization that she should not be writing, and
therefore engaging in a false relationship, to Gustavo, it has already damaged her. At one point,
Celia writes to Gustavo: “I still love you, Gustavo, but it’s a habitual love, a wound in the knee
that predicts rain. Memory is a skilled seducer. I write to you because I must” (García 97).
Represented here is the hold that a memory or nostalgia can have over the human mind. Celia
knows that her obsession with Gustavo is unnatural and without recompense, yet she cannot stop.
After the birth of their first child, Lourdes, Jorge came to the realization that his wife
would never love him the way that she loved Gustavo. Haunted by this realization and by Celia’s
reaction to their daughter, Gustavo retaliated by putting Celia in a mental institution and by
going on frequent business trips. Institutionalization greatly affected Celia and drove her to
engage in secret behavior while her husband was away. Her feelings were best channeled
through the piano and her choice in music, Debussy.
Celia was fully aware of the pain she was causing her husband and his desire for her
affections, but she was too entranced when it came to Gustavo to consider Jorge’s feelings. Jorge
was greatly affected by Celia’s inability to love him in the same way. Sometimes, Jor ge would “
have nightmares and box the air with his fists. ‘Come here, you good- for-nothing Spaniard!’ he’d
shout. ‘Come and fight like a man!’ But then he’d settle down, muttering a few curses” (García
33). It seems as if Jorge was always struggling with or against the ghost of Gustavo, when his
real battle was with his wife. To some degree he understood this.
Because Jorge was so emotionally damaged by the lackluster feelings his wife shared
with him, Jorge consciously left Celia with his mother and sister when he went on a long
business trip. While he was at home, he impregnated Celia with their first child and left her to
fend for herself. He knew that his mother and sister would be hard on her, but that was his
desired situation. Jorge lashed out at Celia and prevented her from having a strong, healthy
relationship with their daughter in the following years and for the rest of her life as punishment
for Celia’s inability to love him.
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In one instance, when Jorge was gravely hurt, Celia showed loving feelings for him and
realized the err of her ways. She explains the experience to Gustavo in a letter: “his [Jorge’s]
eyes apologized for having disturbed me. Can you imagine? I discovered I loved him at that
moment. Not a passion like ours, Gustavo, but love just the same. I think he understands this and
is at peace” (García 54). It has taken Celia the majority of her life to recognize that she has
feelings for this man and that she does care deeply for him. The reality, however, is that she still
places her love for Gustavo and their relationship on a pedestal of idealistic proportions, while
she all but ignores the true love at her fingertips.
Celia’s daughter, Felicia, also has problems with her husband. However, Felicia’s
relationship with her husband, Hugo, is significantly different than her parents’ relationship and
the conflicts that arise from it. Felicia and Hugo met one evening when Felicia went out to a
casino with another man in the capacity of his escort. She refuses to have sex with the man she
escorted, but rather she goes directly to a hotel with Hugo, almost immediately after meeting
him. Their relationship as lovers is short- lived, but they are forever connected because that
evening, twin girls were conceived. Although he has to leave shortly after for business, he
eventually returns to her at a much later date. At this point, their relationship had already gone
sour and Felicia had no desire to be with her husband.
Felicia’s hate for her husband grew to an astronomical amount and she “reme mbers the
moment she decided to murder her husband. It was 1966, a hot August day, and she was
pregnant with Ivanito [their third child]. The nausea had persisted for weeks. Her sex, too, was
infected with syphilis and the diseases Hugo brought back from Morocco and other women,” and
Felicia was fed up with her husband’s behavior and the way he treated her (García 82). Later that
day, “as she was frying plantains in a heavy skillet, the nausea suddenly stopped. It gave her a
clarity she could not ignore…‘you will never return here,’ Felicia said and released the flames
onto his face,” scalding him with boiling oil (García 82). This is a defining moment in Felicia’s
relationship with her daughters, as they were old enough to recall this experience for the rest of
their lives. This is also a defining moment in Felicia’s relationship with her then unborn son
because Felicia finally took charge of herself and her body, and felt very protective of the son
she would bear and care for, while simultaneously surviving syphilis together.
Although not involved in a relationship with any of the del Pino women, Fidel Castro, El
Líder, is very present as an object of sexual desire in Celia’s life, and momentarily in Felicia’s.
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Throughout the novel, El Líder is represented as an object of sexual desire. Both Celia and
Felicia have romantic feelings for this man that they never met, however, his political prowess is
attractive to the two women. The representation of the feelings that these women have for El
Líder show a more profound division within the family. Upon the beginning of the Revolution in
the early 1960s in Cuba, Jorge leaves the island. With no current romantic interest, Celia focuses
her attention to the Revolution and its leader, offering her the fulfillment and attention she
desires. She feels even more involved with the Revolution after Jorge dies. At that moment,
“Celia makes a decision. Ten years or twenty, whatever she has left, she will devote to El Líder,
give herself to his revolution. Now that Jorge is dead, she will volunteer for every project –
vaccination campaigns, tutoring, the microbrigades” (García 44). Celia perceives this revolution,
and El Líder, to be her greatest reason to continue living.
On the other hand, Felicia only has one instance of desire for El Líder. Felicia feels that
“El Líder is just a common tyrant. No better, no worse than any other in the world. In fact,
Felicia can’t help feeling that there is something unnatural in her mother’s attraction to him,
something sexual” (García 110). Although Felicia suspects her mother of having a sexual desire
for him and is baffled by the prospect of this being true, Felicia succumbs to her own feelings for
El Líder and pleasures herself to the thought of him.
Neither women have a real relationship with El Líder, but the representation of their
interest in him serves the purpose of representing a divisive factor in the del Pino family. Celia,
Felicia, and Ivanito have a strong support for El Líder, and Celia’s and Felicia’s support involves
sexual overtones. However, Lourdes and Jorge feel very strongly against El Líder and the
Revolution. In this novel, politics and perceived political issues surface as the reason for many
conflicts in the del Pino family, and sometimes as the glue that holds the family together.
Memory and nostalgia also play a large role in the identity process of the characters in
this novel, especially that of Celia and Pilar. In García’s novel, she uses the past as an allegorical
explanation and understanding of the present. While both Celia and Pilar only gain their
profound comprehension of Cuba through memory, Celia serves as the figure that remains in the
past and leaves all memory unchanged whereas Pilar is in constant preparation for the future
memories that her experiential family history will undergo.
For Pilar, memory and nostalgia not only keep her connected to Cuba and her
grandmother – for Pilar they are one in the same, but her idealized memories of Cuba also leave
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her with an melancholic attitude and a feeling of lacking, as if something were missing. Pilar
reflects on her childhood and the things she would do to remind herself of Cuba, “but then
[she]’d feel sad looking up at the bare branches and thinking about Abuela Celia. [She]
wonder[s] how [her] life would have been if [she]’d stayed with her” (García 32). Pilar has spent
much of her life fantasizing about how different, read better, her life would be if she could just
return to Cuba and her grandmother, but Pilar is anything but ready for the reality she encounters
when she returns to the island with her mother after Felicia passes away. Some might say that her
experience is traumatic.
Referring to the Trauma theory presented by Cathy Caruth in Chapter 2 of this dissertation, it
is impossible for a trauma victim to experience a traumatic event and fully understand it in the
moment that it takes place. For Pilar, it is necessary to maintain strong memories to her traumatic
departure from Cuba in order to repeat them over and over in her mind until she come s to a
profound understanding of the event. These memories that Pilar has of Cuba are nostalgic and
idealized, but in order to benefit from the experience, she must maintain the memory in order to
continually apply it in different ways to her present life. Although it is clear that Pilar maintains a
strong link to her past through memories, the other women in the novel take different approaches
to their traumatic experiences. For example, Celia is similar to Pilar in that she deals with the
trauma of a lost lover, a distanced granddaughter, and political revolution by recording her
history and guarding her memories. Lourdes, however, is very different in that she deals with the
trauma of rape, fleeing her homeland, and the loss of her language by rejecting her memories and
refusing to allow them space in her current day life.
One trauma that binds each of these women together, as they are all confronted with it at
some point, is the daily trauma of living in a system that treats women as non-equals to their
male counterparts. Caruth indicates that “to admit that these everyday assaults on integrity and
personal safety are sources of psychic trauma, to acknowledge the absence of safety in the daily
lives of women and other nondominant groups, admits to what is deeply wrong in many sacred
social institutions and challenges the benign mask behind which everyday oppression operates”
(Caruth 105). While there is an all- encompasing social trauma that García’s women experience,
their individual traumas (exile, rape, etc.) happen quickly and leave no time for an effective
reaction, while the collective trauma (patriarchal structure, revolution, etc.) breaks the bonds and
trust between members of the community. These experiences leave each of the del Pino women
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feeling isolated from a collective whole. Celia deals with the isolation of her children leaving her
by swimming in the sea, Lourdes deals with her frustrated communication by excessively eating
and having sex, and Pilar deals with the loss of her language by replacing it with visual art.
Dominick LaCapra supports the claim that each trauma victim deals with the experience
in a unique way. However, LaCapra might explain Pilar’s nostalgia for a place she had only
expereinced for two years as a child by indicating that the absence of her birthplace,
grandmother, and Spanish in her daily life has caused the absence of these elements to be
perceived by Pilar as loss. The reality is that these are things that have never been present in her
adult life, but have been idealized memories of the past. When these experiences of absence are
represented as narrative accounts, they : “tend not to include events in any significant way and
seem to be abstract, evacuated, or disembodied. In them ‘nothing’ happens, which makes them
devoid of interest from a conventional perspective” (LaCapra, “Trauma” 701). The nonchronological and intertextual qualities of the text formatting as well as contextual elements such
as telepathy, dreams, and other-worldly encounters contribute to the abstract nature of this novel.
In addition, the same family history events repeat throughout the story, each time from a
different viewpiont. It can be said that nothing – or very little – actually happens in the novel
because of the repetition.
According to Dominck LaCapra’s theories, a trauma victim con only continue to heal by
accepting the absence and filling the void with an effective deterrant to nostalgizing their version
of an idealized past that never actually existed. In the case of Pilar, it is clear that her memory of
the past, of her first two years in Cuba has been idealized because upon her return to Cuba as an
adolescent, she immediately notices things she had not given thought to before. For example, she
notices that the food is very unhealthy and that there is no hot running water in the home. Abuela
Celia also has a similar realization while taking a train ride through the countryside: “I’d
forgotten the poverty of the countryside. From the trains, everything is visible: the bare feet, the
crooked backs, the bad teeth” (García 54). Although Pilar’s idealized past never existed as she
remembers it, she also has to deal with loss – the loss of her langauge. Again, LaCapra indicates
that the most effective way to work through a loss is to replace the gap with something new. For
Pilar, the loss of Spanish can only be replaced with an outlet of expression that is not langauge
based because, for her, there is already too much confusion and emotion involved in Spanish and
English. Her chosen method of communication is visual art, painting.
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On the other hand, Lourdes rejects her langauge and had no nostalgic feelings for Cuba.
On the contrary to Pilar and Celia, although “[Lourdes] ponders the transmigrations from the
southern latitudes, the millions moving north” wondering “what happens to their languages? The
warm burial grounds they leave behind? What of their passions lying stiff and untranslated in
their breasts?,” she still feels no attraction to Spanish or her Cuban heritage (García 73). The
truth is that “Lourdes considers herself lucky. Immigration has redefined her, and she is grateful.
Unlike her husband, she welcomes her adopted language, its possibilities for reinvention”
(García 73). Just as Pilar has replaced her language conflict with painting, Lourdes has replaced
her Spanish for English, and her Cuban heritage for U.S. culture.
Although the del Pino women’s history – the history of Cuba – has been well documented,
their personal histories have not been documented or shared. The sharing, or witnessing, of a
trauma is necessary for survival. An acceptance and recognition of the event that a witness can
provide for the victim is necessary for the healing process. According to Dori Laub’s theories
outlined in Chapter 2 of this dissertation, the “discovery of knowledge – its evolution, and its
very happening” are what are important to the trauma victim’s healing (“An Event” 62). What
happens when a trauma victim does not share their story, but rather keep it in, can result in many
destructive behaviors. Lourdes represents an example of what one destructive behavior might be
when her father dies without having taken the opportunity to discuss some important issues about
the past. The morning of her father’s death, Sister Federica calls to inform Lourdes, who then is
taken by a busy, whirlwind day at the bakery and as the customers die down,
for the first time since Sister Federica called, Lourdes sits down with a watery cup of
coffee and her sticky buns to figure things out. She remembers how after her father
arrived in New York her appetite for sex and baked goods increased dramatically. The
more she took her father to the hospital for cobalt treatments, the more she reached for
the pecan sticky buns, and for Rufino. (García 20)
While Lourdes and her father have the opportunity to discuss the important topics they very
much need to via other-worldly conversations after her father’s death, it is the ignoring of these
problems while her father is still alive that causes Lourdes to spiral out of control upon learning
of her father’s death.
For Laub, there are three levels of witnessing: witnessing oneself within an experience,
witnessing the testimonies of others, and witnessing the process of witnessing itself (Laub and
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Feldman, “Testimony” 75). In this novel, there are many examples of each of the first two levels
of witnessing, but it is only Pilar and Celia who reach the third and most profound level of
witnessing through the writing of their family and individual histories in their diary and letters,
respectively.
The historical aspect of this novel plays a large role in the development of the fema le
characters in the novel as well as the development of the degree of geographic and emotional
separation between Cuba and New York. While there are many references in this novel to the
historical and political happenings, the facts, dates, and names seem to get lost in the overlying
telling of the del Pino family history. Thus, the telling of a personal history takes precedence
over the telling of the widely accepted factual historical account. The del Pino story is told from
many different angles, each with different truths. No one account is more truthful than another,
yet they are all represented as valuable, truthful experiences.
While Pilar is on a bus ride to Miami, she chats with the woman, Minnie, sitting next to
her about what exactly we read in history books and wonders who gets to decide which topics
and the level of the level of their profundity appear in the history book. While telling Minne
about her family she asks her the question, “why don’t we read about this in history books?,”
because for Pilar is seems that history is “always one damn battle after another. We only know
about Charlemagne and Napoléon because they fought their way into posterity”(García 28). This
raises the question of integrity in history and story-telling. Pilar does not agree with the general
history that she reads in books. For her and the entire del Pino family, history is much more than
names and dates, but it is about feelings and the daily life that accompanies them, not just the
significant moments. For this reason, Pilar does not understand, “who chooses what we should
know or what’s important? I have to decide these things for myself. Most of what I’ve learned
that’s important I’ve learned on my own, or from my grandmother” (García 28). Pilar finds the
most importance in the history of her family.
As for Pilar’s mother, Lourdes, her “views are strictly black-and-white” (García 26). She
does not take into account any gray areas or questions of doubt. With her, everything is a binary,
but as Pilar notes, “it’s how she survives,” and how she deals with her past when she was
someone that she is not anymore (García 26). For Lourdes’ sister, Felicia, history is nothing but
the representation of change, for the worse. Felicia tells her son that “mirrors are for misery,
nothing more…they record decay” (García 87). While this may be true, Felicia fails to tell her
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son that history cannot be what one wants it to be, but it must be what it is. Regardless, there is a
fair amount of accusation of changing or recreating history in this novel.
Felicia also tells her son that “imagination, like memory, can transform lies to truths”
(García 88). This seems to be the case with Felicia as she becomes more psychologically and
emotionally unstable. Ivanito learns through his sisters some of the truths about his father, but for
him the truth is the lies or embellished truths his mother told him, and his sisters soon realize that
his beliefs cannot be tampered with. Pilar has a similar experience with her own mother when
she realizes that Lourdes “systematically rewrites history to suit her views of the world. The
reshaping of events happens in a dozen ways every day, contesting reality. It’s not a matter of
premeditated deception. Mom truly believes that her version of events is correct, down to details
that I know, for a fact, are wrong” (García 176). Pilar, unlike Ivanito, has always been skeptical
of her mother’s account of reality.
While the majority will generally choose a history textbook as reference to the past, Celia
has chosen to record her history and that of her family in unsent letters to her ex- lover. On the
day that Pilar is born, Celia writes her last letter to Gustavo indicating that the letters are no
longer necessary, since it is Pilar that will become the guardian of the family history. While Pilar
travels easily among real and magical worlds, so is the boundary between living and dead
blurred. These movements from one reality to another parallel the differences among the United
States’ manner of thought, with that of Cuba. In addition, this is similar to the differences in
accepted forms of history (those based in Western thought ideology) as opposed to those that are
not perceived as valid (any non-Western thought ideology).
Once Pilar returns to her grandmother in Cuba, Celia can then insure that she has chosen
the right person to record the family history. Celia is very understanding of the changes that both
Pilar and her country are undergoing; neither Pilar nor the upcoming generations in Cuba will
ever feel the same that Celia does for her country. Despite these changes, Celia finds Pilar to be
the most adequate historian because, in a strange turn of events, her removal from the country
has allowed her to maintain a somewhat idealistic perception of Cuba. It is her in-between status
(in all meanings of the term) that makes it possible for her to see the reality. Celia also notes that
Pilar records everything, even the marginal events that would not surface in a traditional
historical account. This marginal aspect, however, is of utmost importance to both Pilar and
Celia, as their relationship in large part takes place in the margins.
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For Celia, the memories that retain one’s experiential realities are anything but concrete
or historically accurate according to accepted Western accounts of history. As a matter of fact,
for her, memory is something that is “slate gray, the color of undeveloped film,” something that
remains in its pristine unaltered state. More importantly, the only person an undeveloped roll of
film would have meaning for is the person or people who were there in the moment that
happened to be captured on film, much in the same way that Pilar’s recording of family history
will only pertain to those who are there to experience it with her.
Both Celia and Pilar serve as the main storytellers despite the varied perspectives the
novel presents. A woman as main storyteller breaks from the accepted male-dominated
discourse that governs historical storytelling. In addition, certain elements such a s the cyclical
time and telepathic communication between Celia and Pilar combined with lo real maravilloso is
Garcías attempt to break preconceived notions of acceptable historical accounts – that there is
not just one definitive account of history or one acceptable personal and cultural identity. 109
According to Walter Benjamin, in the case of Garcías novel,
“the storyteller takes what [she] tells from experience – [her] own or that reported
by others. And [she] in turn makes it the experience of those who are
listening to [the] tale….In every case the storyteller is a [wo]man who has counsel
for [her] reader….Today having counsel is beginning to have an old- fashioned
ring…because the communicability of experience is decreasing” (Foreman 369).
García uses history, ontology, and lo real maravilloso not only to break these preconceived
notions of what is acceptable, but also to break this hegemonic train of Western thinking and
recondition readers to other possibilities, while reassessing its value. History, whether it includes
109
Another good example of lo real maravilloso for future study would be Celia’s death. Many read this occurrence
as suicide, as the novel is left open-ended for the reader to decide what happens as she walks into the ocean. As
Celia walks into the ocean, García makes reference to the duende, referring to the spirit or soul that a performer
must have in face to face presentations in order for the true meaning of the art to be portrayed. The orig inal word
duende, however, refers to a spirit or goblin. Due to the nature of death in Dreaming in Cuban as well as the
possibilit ies that death brings to further telepathic communication and happenings that are lo real maravilloso, it
necessary as well to further analy ze the poem at the end of the text. One might regard this selection, “Paisaje” by
Spanish poet Federico García Lorca (who is often related to the duende), as Celia’s attempt to approach locus
amoenus through death. In the event that García is suggesting that Celia finds locus amoenus (a space of utmost
safety and comfort. It is often compared to Eden) through death and her constant existence within the encrucijada
mágica, this study would have a large impact on a reading of this text as lo real maravilloso. To counter the duende
reference, further studies might be done on Celia’s death as more real than marvelous, citing the death of Swissborn Argentine poet Alfonsina Storni (1892-1938), who not only committed suicide in this manner, but inspired
composers Ariel Ramírez and Félix Luna to write the song “Alfonsina y el Mar” about this event. For further
reading on the duende, see: Lorca, Federico García. "Theory and Play of the Duende"; Lorca, Federico García.
“Paisaje”
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factual evidence such as the overabundance of names and dates that appear in acceptable
Western histories or not, leaves ample space for possibility. Dreaming in Cuban appears to
contend that history lies in a collective female memory and by positing women as the site for
magical happenings, memory, and historical storytelling, García has revalued Latin American
history and has posed experiential herstory as the only true form of history. Thus, through
Garcías novel, the true history has been recorded and told through women who have been able to
transcend the earthly plane of life as well as deconstruct previously male-dominated discourse
through the encrucijada mágica.
Pilar, from time to time, has trouble remembering her family’s history. Pau-Llosa
suggests that “the exile knows his place, and that place is the imagination” (qtd. in Payant
163).110 The special bond between grandmother and granddaughter is part of the family’s
experiential history. However, Pilar is confronted with confusion from time to time when
recording history because of her consistently in-between nature:
Most days Cuba is kind of dead to me. But every once in a while a wave of
longing will hit me and it’s all I can do not to hijack a plane to Havana or something….every day Cuba fades a little more inside me, my grandmother fades a
little more inside me. And there’s only my imagination where our history should
be (García 138).
Thus the del Pino’s family history has been converted from memory – an invalid form of
historical evidence in the Western world – to imagination, which is perceived as even less valid
than memory as a form of historical evidence. Memory generally serves to record the jovial
events, while the imagination embellishes beyond recognition. More importantly, this manner of
recording history – storytelling – is closely related with the matriarchal discourse of oral
tradition.
Another interesting point in regards to the importance of Celia passing on the duty of
family historian to Pilar, is that each of the women are intimately aware of “how the past
permeates the present” (Payant 173). Pilar is aware that every moment of her life has taken place
somewhere in-between Brooklyn and Cuba, while Celia is aware even at the beginning of the
novel that she could remember her future, since “the beginning already implies an end, and that
at the end we understand only the vague dimensions of our ignorance” (García 32)
110
Pau-Llosa, Ricardo. “Identity and Variations: Cuban Visual Th inking in Exile since 1959”
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Due to the physical separation between Celia and Pilar in addition to the growing
emotional and extra sensorial bond between the two, Pilar has taken on painting as a means of
both suppressing and expressing these emotions. Pilar, as a teenage girl growing into
womanhood senses this loss between her and her grandmother and uses her painting to overcome
the “psychic or emotional isolation” that has occurred between her and her grandmother; this
sense of isolation can also be applied to the physical and cultural distance that Pilar is feeling
between Brooklyn and Cuba, as well as the distance she feels between a meticulously defined
identity and her current fragmented state. Coming between Celia and Pilar is a multitude of
fragmenting elements: physical distance, political beliefs, loss of memory, loss of language, and
a generation gap filled by Lourdes, who happens to be the polar opposite of Celia and Pilar in
regards to the question of cultural identity. Pilar uses painting as a form of communication that
can be expressed without taking the side of her U.S. American identity or that of her Cuban
identity; painting is a form of rejecting both. Saez claims that “Pilar continually classifies art as
a space for recording, contestation, and translation” (4). However, over time, she finds herself
Dreaming in Cuban more often. That is, she cannot break her strong cultural ties with Cuba or
her grandmother, because they exist on a non-earthly plane. Pilar seems to find her place when
she is really no place at all – when she is somewhere between here and there, communicating
with her grandmother.
On the other hand, Celia uses letter-writing to overcome the broken-hearted distance she
experiences when her lover, Gustavo, leaves her to return to his wife in Spain. Celia never
seems to recover from this loss and experiences some of the similar confusion that her
granddaughter feels later in life when trying to capture some of the missing parts that form her
identity. Due to Celia’s great loss, she finds it necessary to chronicle her history in letters that
she never actually sends to her lover. Her current husband Jorge, jealous of her inability to feel
the same passion for him as she does for Gustavo, puts her into an asylum where she does for a
period of time become mad. Jorge has victimized Celia by taking away her freedom; the
freedom to remember Gustavo, the freedom to communicate with others, and the freedom to
express herself musically. Jorge has never been sexually unfaithful to Celia, but we later find out
that he commits “an even greater betrayal: he himself had mandated not only her confinement
but shock therapy in an effort to make her ‘forget’ her Spanish lover. Upon her release from the
sanitarium, Jorge buys Celia a piano but forbids her from playing the ‘restless’ and passionate
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music of DeBussy” (Herrera 76). 111 While never committing adultery, Jorge has committed an
even more painful betrayal.
Nevertheless, it is this inherent ability for telepathic communication that sets Pilar apart
from any other entity that might have otherwise been chosen to guard and recount the family
history. This decision is one that Celia must make in vane though because she knows now that
she has chosen not a Cuban granddaughter but a Cuban-American granddaughter to behold this
delicate information. It is Pilar’s exposure to another culture that makes her understand and
admire her Cuban heritage much more than if she were to have spent her formative years
growing up in Cuba. In addition, by Celia’s selection of Cuban-American Pilar rather than her
other Cuban granddaughters to “remember everything,” Celia understands that the fate of her
family’s history must rely on the point of reference of an outsider who also understands the
inside, much in the same way that the history of Cuba relies on its perception and relations in the
global atmosphere (Herrera 80). Alluding to the future of Cuba and even more probable alluding
to the future of her family’s guarded treasures, Celia admits to Pilar and acknowledges that she
understands the gradual loss her people and culture will suffer: “ay, mi cielo, what do all the
years and separation mean except a more significant betrayal” (García 240). And for the first
time, Pilar cannot understand the words, masked in pain, that flow from her grandmothers lips.
Pilar is caught in the time honored battle of wanting both roots and wings, yet her idealistic Cuba
does not exist as it once had in her mind. In order for Pilar to be the o ne who guards her family’s
history, she must learn that reality is a point of perception.
Thus far we have seen the roles of 1) Religion, rituals, and other-worldly interactions and
experiences, 2) Mother-daughter relationships, 3) Grandmother-Granddaughter relationships,
4) Romantic relationships, 5) Trauma, 6) Memory and nostalgia, and 7) Historical truth, and how
they pertain to the identification process of the women in this novel. One final element of
identity formation that will be discussed here is nature. Specifically, island culture creates an
isolating separation from the rest of the world geographically, and in Dreaming in Cuban, it
creates a physical separation between Celia and her granddaughter Pilar. However, this physical
separation has brought the two closer together through other-worldly communication. This otherworldly communication and connection that the cosmos has created has allowed Pilar to
111
Claude Debussy (1862-1918) was a French composer who is known for co mposing and performing dissonant
pieces that reflected the tumultuous experiences of his own life.
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maintain contact with her grandmother. The continued relationship and the shared history, the
collective memory, has played a significant role in Pilar’s identity formation.
Throughout much of Celia’s life, she has felt an overwhelming feeling of solitude. She
feels lonely after her Spanish lover leaves her, she feels lonely when her children leave her, and
she feels lonely when Lourdes takes her granddaughter from her. Celia demonstrates her feelings
in a letter to Gustavo in which she laments on the repeating and easily predicted island life,
asking “don’t you see how they’re [politicians and p riests] carving up the world, Gustavo? How
they’re stealing our geography? Our fates? The arbitrary is no longer in our hands. To survive is
an act of hope” (García 99). This letter indicates a feeling of hopelessness and inability for
change or movement, but later in life she explains to Pilar that for her “the sea was a great
comfort…but it made my children restless” (García 240). Pilar is aware of the pain that her
grandmother feels and further in the conversation, when Celia questions Pilar, “Ay, mi cielo,
what do all the years and the separation mean except a more significant betrayal?,” Pilar cannot
answer. Pilar understands her grandmother, but she feels that “Cuba is a peculiar exile…an
island-colony. We can reach it by a thirty- minute charter flight from Miami, yet never reach it
all” (García 219). Pilar has returned to Cuba with the hopes of resolving her feelings of inbetweeness and belonging. Pilar is sure that “even though [she’s] been living in Brooklyn all
[her] life, it doesn’t feel like home to [her]. [She’s] not sure Cuba is, but [she] want[s] to find
out. If [she] could only see Abuela Celia again, [she]’d know where [she] belonged” (García 58).
Pilar is at the brink of learning where she herself believes she belongs when she departs for
Cuba. Pilar finally reaches an understanding: “I’m afraid to lose all this, to lose Abuela Celia
again. But sooner or later I’d have to return to New York. I know now it’s where I belong – not
instead of here, but more than here”(García 236). Pilar has come to understand that she does not
have to choose if she is Cuban or not, but rather, where she will physically be located.
Another aspect of Pilar’s life situation that is completely in line with her grandmother is
her culturally in-between identity. While Celia has never left the island, she is strongly torn
between two men throughout her life; Gustavo tugs at her heart strings and causes her to long to
leave the island and travel to Spain, while Jorge keeps her grounded in Cuba. Pilar has the
ability to move easily back and forth among cultural identities, physical locations, and
psychological mindsets. The place in-between is the only location where clarity reigns. This
movement between real and supposed magic realms allows for the transcendence of a ny need she
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might have to define either the real or magic. This lack of definition, rather, offers an equally
definitive identity.
The “obscure areas of lived reality” that these women have experienced and will
experience diverge, yet “the collective memory which it aims to preserve combines the painted
symbol with the verbal, and the oral with music and dance” (Herrera 86). The artistic endeavors
that these women engage in are not only for their apparent healing and coping capabilities, but
more importantly for their transcendental abilities that allow these two women of differing
generational and cultural identities, to communicate, to understand, and to create meaning of the
experiential histories that create their most truthful truth. Pilar writes in her diary: “I resent the
hell out of politicians and the generals who force events on us that structure our lives,” and thus
prevent individuals from constructing their own truths (García 138). Pilar is a driving force in
questioning and challenging the hegemonic norm. In order to break this previously maledominated structure, female literature must deconstruct the hegemonic gender- imbalanced form
that is currently in place.
This novel represents many aspects of the identity process. We have seen 1) Religion,
rituals, and other-worldly interactions and experiences, 2) Mother-daughter relationships, 3)
Grandmother-Granddaughter relationships, 4) Romantic relationships, 5) Trauma, 6) Memory
and nostalgia, 7) Historical truth, 8) Isolation, and 9) Collective memory as elements that are
main factors of identity formation for the characters in this novel. In the end, this novel
represents that it is only through knowing your roots, properly sifting through the truths and nontruths of your family history, and properly dealing with your life experiences, can one begin the
process of identification. In this novel, Pilar and Celia have the strongest relationship and the
strongest memories – and therefore, the strongest connections to the past – that permit them the
strongest sense of identity.
In Casi una mujer by Esmeralda Santiago, it is also the language and cultural environment
that creates a conflicted identification process for the protagonist. While the protagonist of this
novel, Negi, had no choice in the decision to leave her birthplace, Puerto Rico, for New York,
she does have a choice in her language usage and the level at which she maintains or breaks
contact with her cultural heritage. It is this string of choices that dictate her identity process,
which ultimately leads to fluidity, rather than stagnancy, in identification.
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José Vasconcelos said in his well-known Raza Cósmica that all identities were going to
disappear and in its place would re-appear a new identity that he considered the fifth and last
race; however, this fixed vision allows no space for change. Identity and race must exist as fluid
entities, much like the theory of the revolving door. This theory refers to the physical
displacement between one’s mother land and the United States, b ut the representations of
identity in Casi una mujer by Santiago allude to a tendency to easily switch between a Puerto
Rican and U.S. identity similar to the ebb and flow of the sea, without physically abandoning
either place.
The revolving door of which many critics speak is often considered to be an encrucijada
mágica between various planes of identity. The theoretical space of the revolving door offer the
the only psychological space necessary for individuals to engage in ide ntity formation decisionmaking. However, many times those that enter this space never leave the point in which all
identifying elements are mixed. Here, I argue that the self- identification process for many
migrating (whether temporarily or permanently) P uerto Rican women is similar to the difficult
and painful task of leaping off a carousel in motion. Their positive and idealized memories take
hold of the mind and permit neither a complete acculturation nor deculturation, such that these
female immigrants “bring their own cultural conceptions of their identity” (Vasquez 439).
Oftentimes, these preconceived conceptions of identity “do not coincide with the ideological
constructions of the receiving societies” (Vasquez 439). This new ideology leaves them right in
the middle of transition, caught in the middle of the identification process. I propose that the
encrucijada mágica between multiple identities – the ideologically new identity of the United
States, the mixed identity that is used to survive in the new environment and the identity that can
only be remembered through memories of the place of origin – is the only space where the
Puerto Rican protagonist represented by Santiago can feel safe while participating in the process
of identification. In addition, as the author herself is a Puerto Rican woman who migrated to the
United States, I propose that her encrucijada mágica can be found in this same revolving door,
and is demonstrated through her representational writing.
The Puerto Rican diaspora in the United States has seen various fluxes and influxes
throughout the last decade. These same people “who frequently cross geopolitical frontiers also
move along the edges of cultural borders, such as those created by language, citizenship, race,
ethnicity, and gender ideology (Duany 210). That which makes this circular movement so
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prominent in previous decades is the presence of greater access to transportation and means of
communication. However, in order to talk about the borders and limitations of a nation it is first
necessary to define border according to popular Puerto Rican opinion. 112 The majority of critics
say that a national border does not maintain as limited a definition as it has in the past. Today,
critics such as F.J. Turner say that the border is alive and claims that it is located “not nowhere,”
(Flores 202-3). If the national border is not located anywhere, then it must be located
everywhere. The border, then, is not geopolitical, linguistic or even racial. Jorge Duany refers to
these erasable lines and the people who live beyond as “on the edge” (“Rough” 178). For him,
this site “has become a productive site for the analysis of the multiple intersections of critical
variables, such as gender, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, nationalism, and trasnationalism”
(178). If the identity of a person depends on all the variables mentioned by Duany, identity
studies then must also deal with the same variables.
Duany continues with a distinction between the “rough edges,” those which pertain to race,
ethnicity, gender, sexuality or the diaspora while the “hard cores” are those that pertain to
language, religion – in the case of Puerto Rico, the Catholic Church – canonical literature and
other cultural customs originated on the island (“Rough” 178). This preoccupation can be seen
amongst the centralized towns and the marginalized outskirts of the same towns in Casi una
mujer when Negi attends Performing Arts, a white-dominated school dedicated to teaching
performing arts, and learns that the city where her family lives, Brooklyn, is not part of New
York proper, but “un distrito exterior” in the words of the city’s mayor (Santiago 114). 113 In
addition, many times the diaspora itself makes it difficult to delineate where one culture ends and
another begins. There are many instances throughout the novel when the protagonist laments that
the adults in her life tell Negi to do what they say and not what they themselves do. The lack of
an adult who can serve as a model through their actions causes her much confusion. In the
fittingly titled third chapter “martes, ni te cases ni te embarques ni de tu familia te apartes,” Negi
realizes that there are some white behaviors that she should emulate, but all the while “seguirí[a]
siendo cien por ciento puertorriqueñ[a]” (Santiago 27). 114 For a young adolescent women such as
Negi in a new place “el problema era que se hacía difícil saber dónde terminaba lo
112
For further reading on border studies, see: Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza;
Blades, Rubén. Chicago Sunday Times
113
“an outer borough” (Almost 111)
114
“[she was] to remain 100 percent Puerto Rican” (Al most 25)
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puertorriqueño y empezaba lo americanizado” (Santiago 27). 115 Determining the correct behavior
is a difficult feat for an adult woman, and even more so for a casi mujer. The title of this section
suggests that although a family can cross geopolitical, linguistic and cultural borders, family
relations and memories of one’s place of origin maintain a tight emotional and psycholo gical, if
not physical, grasp.
Moreover, stronger than geopolitical limitations are the limitations of emotional, cultural and
familial distance. After Negi spends some time in her new school for the Whites, as her mother
says, her career as an actress gives her the opportunity to take notice of the changes that have
taken place within herself and that her family no longer understands her. After presenting a
drama in which Negi should have played the role of the Virgin, a woman with very different
traits than those portrayed by Negi’s role, Negi feels trapped between her new life as a student
and actress on one side and her family life with strong ties to the island on the other. On opening
night, the same students who had criticized Negi changed because “esta noche a todo el mundo
le encantó el trabajo de los demás”116 and Negi simultaneously recounts the distance she
experiences with her family: “Según [mis compañeros y yo] fuimos abrazándonos, besándonos y
felicitándonos, mi familia se retiró. No fue una gran distancia; dos o tres pies a lo sumo, pero era
como un continente” (Santiago 145). 117 For Negi, this experience causes a great impact. For the
first time she is realizing that differences have arisen between her and her family that had not
been there before.
This acknowledgement and feeling of distance between Negi and her family render her
immobile, even to the point that she feels that “inmóvil, me mantuve a mitad de camino entre
ambos, incapaz de escoger, deseando que la fiesta no se alejara ni una pulgada de mí; y que mi
familia también se mantuviera firmamente donde estaba. Al final, quedé sola entre los dos”
(Santiago 146). 118 It is important to note that Negi did not feel as though she were part of either
group, but that she felt alone. What Negi now needs in this moment of her life when she reaches
the border, the area of “not nowhere” that Turner discusses, is a map, a guide to direct her to her
final destination. In regards to identity studies, if Negi were in this space between two possible
115
“the problem was that it was hard to tell where Puerto Rican ended and American ized began” (Almost 25)
“this night everyone loved everybody’s work” (Al most 144)
117
“as we [my classmates and I] hugged, kissed cheeks, and applauded ourselves, my family backed away. The
distance was not much, a few feet at most, but it was a continent” (Almost 145)
118
“immob ile, I stood halfway between both, unable to choose, hoping the party wouldn’t move one inch away fro m
me and that my family would stay solidly where they were. In the end, I stood alone between both” (Almost 145)
116
216
definitions, it could be said that the protagonist could be studied from the point of being trapped
in the middle.
Now that Negi has rooted herself between two cultures, two lands, two identities, she
assumes the same role as the two worlds to which she belongs. Negi’s mixed emotions and her
inability to feel comfortable in neither place causes one to think of the fact “that Puerto Rico is
absent from the map of Latin America and appears only marginally on the map of the United
States” and this fact “forces all of us to reconsider the meaning of identity” (Flores 10). The
absence of Puerto Rico on the map is a reflection of the little importance that is given to the
Puerto Rican existence in the United States, just as in the Caribbean. Since the map serves as an
important tool in traveling, it is worthwhile to make the connection to its importance in directing
travelers from Puerto Rico to the mainland.
Once having arrived, there is no further need for the map in regards to trips amongst
mainland cities, but then the idea surfaces that the map serves as a guide through life. While the
protagonist works at Fisher Scientific she takes the opportunity to speak with various clients via
telephone and she listens to all the clues about life that each client unknowingly offers her
throughout conversation. Negi takes these clues as advice and for her “cada vida era un mensaje
que [ella] tenía que decodificar, claves para lo que [se] esperaba. Ni un plano, sino más bien un
mapa de donde tendría que escoger un camino” such that Negi treated them as a treasure map,
that if only she could decipher them, she would be able to discover the most appropriate path for
her life (Santiago 196). 119 However, in reality, the only guide that she needed was herself.
While the novel progresses Negi begins to question herself, specifically about her decisions
about how to act in certain situations without losing herself completely. After avoiding her
family for awhile, she realizes that she did not want to be with them and that she could not
understand them anymore when she chose to spend her day off at home. She could not reconcile
the person she was with her family and the person she was outside of the house and at school
until one day she decides that she wants only to listen to her own voice: “a nsiaba poder ahuecar
la mano cerca de mi boca, como hacen los cantantes, y escucharme a mí misma. Escuchar una
voz, la mía, aunque estuviera llena de miedo e incertidumbre. Aunque me llevara a donde no
119
“each life was a message I had to decode, clues for what lay ahead. Not a b lue-print, but a road map fro m which
to choose a path” (Almost 196)
217
debía ir” (Santiago 210). 120 Seemingly, Negi needed instruction, any instruction, even though it
might not be the best for her and her position. Later in the novel, the consequence of this path
results in her having to decide to move to Miami with her boyfriend Ulvi, or stay with her
mother and family in New York. She had arrived at a point of confusion in which the liberty of
making a decision “nublaba [sus] pensamientos hasta que no [supo] dónde estaba, a dónde iba ni
por qué” (Santiago 309). 121 The importance of these words lies in the unknowing nature of why
she chose certain actions and not others. One must take into account the possible paths for a casi
mujer in her position.
Negi never finished with her bachelor’s degree nor had the skill of typing despite working as
a secretary. Her destiny is not clear, whether she should move to Miami and have children and
become a mother or if she should move to Miami as Ulvi’s girlfriend and nothing more or,
finally, if she should stay with her mother and family. In each case, each situation parallels a
specific level of assimilation with or against the dominant culture. Moving to Miami and having
children, becoming a mother, is representative of becoming completely comfortable in the new,
dominant culture, while moving to Miami as Ulvi’s girlfriend without set plans fo r the future is
representative of being trapped between the two cultures and finally, staying with her mother and
family in New York is representative of not being able to break ties with the past and with her
roots, and she may never be able to do so.
Despite the good education that Negi received in Performing Arts, she misses the most
important connections needed to enter the dominant culture through education. Flores suggests
that this situation is nothing more than the “conditions of hostility, disadvantage and exclusion
that confront the Puerto Rican in day-to-day reality” and that “corresponding to the absence of
economic and political opportunity is the lack of cultural access and direction of any kind: the
doors to the prevailing culture are closed” (186). Without higher education Negi never has a
chance at surviving the circumstances of her new world. Even though she continues searching
for her perfect path, she will never find it because she is trapped in the vicious cycle that Flores
recounts: those that do not have an advanced education will not find a good job and those that do
not find a good job never achieve the economic and political opportunities of the predominant
120
“I longed to cup my hand to my mouth, the way singers did, and listen to myself. To hear one voice, my own,
even if it was filled with fear and uncertainty. Even if it were to lead me where I ought not to go” (Almost 210)
121
“muddled my thoughts so that I didn’t know where I was, where I was going, or why” (Almost 311)
218
culture. The result is that there is no available path for Negi in the dominant culture; the doors of
opportunity have closed on her.
While Negi is searching for the most appropriate door to pass through, she is at the same time
passing through two more important steps as a member of the 1.5 generation – adolescence and
acculturation – and is experiencing something completely different from what her mother and
aunt have experienced as women. 122 According to Rumbaut, “psychologically speaking, the
refugee’s experience combines elements of premature death and rebirth, a peculiar process in
which he is both conscious protagonist and conscious spectator” (Rumbaut 396). While Negi is
becoming a young woman, she is simultaneously becoming more aware of her surroundings and
what is expected of her – as a female, as a Puerto Rican, and as a U.S. American. She herself
must decide what elements of her former life must be put to death so that she can experience
rebirth in her new life. While all adolescents must progress through a similar process of growth
as they enter into adulthood, the experience for Negi and others who abandon their homeland –
for whatever reason – are confronted with a seemingly unending sting of decisions about who
they were and who they want to be. This string of decisions leads to a final representation and
acceptance of the desired elements of identity. However, the process of identity is not as simple
as picking and choosing certain elements to retain and certain elements to dispel, but according
to Rumbaut,
the decision to choose – or reluctantly accept – exile entails an inner agony between those
forces that bind and those that expel a person from his land. After the initial decision is
acted on, the dilemmas that accompany it persist for years. First and foremost one must
survive, which channels the decisions and experiences of the refugee along available
122
The term 1.5 generation was coined by Rubén Rumbaut in 1976. According to Ru mbaut, the 1.5 generation is
made up of individuals that were born abroad but were brought to the United States at an early age. In h is 1976
articles tit led “The Family in Exile: Cuban Expatriates in the United States”, Ru mbaut specifically defines the 1.5
generation as individuals who “arrived between the ages of 6 and 1 0” whereas the 1.25 generation is used to define
individuals who “arrived between the ages of 11 and 15” (65). This theory of Rubén Ru mbaut explained and
popularized in the introduction to Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-American Way by Gustavo Pérez Firmat. The
conclusion is made by Ru mbaut through the telling of the story of Janus, the Roman god of beginnings: “Janus was
always depicted at the gate of the cities and had two faces, which enabled him to see in opposite directions
simu ltaneously. This image illustrates the plight of the refugee. The face that looks back sees displacement,
separation, uprooting, loss, nostalgia, and, in a certain sense, even death, because some things die inside us when we
are forced to abandon our homeland without the possibility of returning at will. The face that looks forward sees
new horizons, unknown environments, strangers with unfamiliar customs and languages, real and imag inary perils, a
vigorous challenge to survive, adapt, and grow, and even the opportunity of construc ting a new identity in sudden
anonymity” (Ru mbaut 396). For fu rther reading, see: Ru mbaut, Rubén D. and Ru mbaut, Rubén G. “The Family in
Exile: Cuban Expatriates in the United States ”
219
structures of opportunity. Then comes the agonizing arrangement of priorities, the careful
selection among narrow options” (Rumbaut 396).
This process of deciding what and how much of the homeland is what Rumbaut and other critics
describe as the experience of the 1.5 generation. 123 The whole of Santiago’s novel chronicles the
experiences that Negi, a member of the 1.5 generation, undergoes on her path to identity.
As part of this process, Negi must take into account the old with the new, and Rumbaut
recommends that “although it is true enough that the 1.5 generation is ‘marginal’ to both its
native and its adopted cultures, the inverse may be equally accurate: only the 1.5 generation is
marginal to neither culture” in addition to the fact that this space between the two cultures
‘implies an equilibrium’” (Pérez Firmat 4,6). As a consequence, this equilibrium and the ability
to flow between two cultures are at the same time miraculous and binding. Upon arriving on the
mainland, those of the 1.5 generation feel overwhelmed with worry and then are filled with the
enchantment of the illusions of the island of origin in contrast with the reality of the mainland
(Flores 187). Meanwhile, many immigrants elect to acquire “dual home bases” which allow them
to be able to maintain “strong psychological attachments to the Island even when living abroad
for long periods of time” (“Rough” 215). These two home bases allow them to exist in separate
worlds without mixing the characteristics of each. One of the strongest separations that can be
constructed through the use of dual home bases is that of the separation of languages.
One way of making one’s origin valid while simultaneously living in a new place is through
representation of the mother tongue. While Santiago chooses to write her novel in Spanish, Negi
continues learning throughout the argument of the novel, which traits are Spanish and which are
English. But, even more important than being able to distinguish between the two is the question,
who is she? And what does she represent in choosing to use one language over the other? Negi
had to learn English very well in her program while attending Performing Arts and even more so,
how to pronounce the words because this language is not only the dominant language but it was
also the language that would open other doors of opportunity for her; doors of success, of
experience and those that would gain her power in this Anglophone environment. Because of the
touching experience she has in the welfare office while translating for her mother, Negi swears
that “tenía que aprender el inglés suficiente para nunca más volver a quedar atrapada entre dos
123
For further reading, see: Pérez Firmat, Gustavo. Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-American Way; Portes,
Alejandro and Rubén G. Ru mbaut. Immigrant America: A Portrait; Portes, Alejandro and Rubén G. Ru mbaut.
Ethnicities: Children of Immigrants in America
220
idiomas” (Santiago 23). 124 To begin, she started studying the English pronunciations that were
part of her homework for Performing Arts while concurrently ignoring her younger siblings’
questioning: “¿Tú no quieres sonar puertorriqueña?” (Santiago 88). 125 For a casi mujer, an
adolescent of the 1.5 generation in the midst of change, biological as well as cultural, Negi
maintains a balance between the two worlds.
In addition to giving her power, the use of one’s native language reinforces identity, or at
least reinforces ties with their origin – more specifically their native tongue, family, food, nature
or the countless other possibilities of memories and connections with the past. These questions
about when and where a specific language could be used depends on a lot of factors, but always
results in the same for someone of the 1.5 generation - she will remain immobile between the
two possibilities, the two identities, the possible paths behind the two revolving doors. For many,
the decision is too difficult and the possibilities so horrifying that they get trapped between their
past and their present. Some leave the space of the revolving door while others remain stuck in
this space of confusion for so much time that their futures become endangered, and as a result
they will have to fight against this confusion forever. Until a woman of the 1.5 generation is
willing to make a decision regarding her future, her path will continue to engage her in a tug of
war between her past and her present.
The definition of a member of the 1.5 generation just like those of the generation 1 and
generation 2 are not always defined by themselves, but rather by outsiders. From a young age,
Negi learned that even though she would eventually have to decide her own identity, outsiders
would continue to impose their opinions on her. When she has the opportunity to meet a girl in
her neighborhood, the girls converse and Negi learns from her that in the United States she is no
longer considered Puerto Rican, but grouped with all other Spanish-speakers as Hispanic. Negi’s
new friend defines Hispanic as something that “tiene que ver co n que uno sea de un país
hispánico” and Negi is no clearer on the subject after this definition (Santiago 7). 126 From this
point begins Negi’s consciousness that she “siempre había sido puertorriqueña y no se [le] había
124
“I had to learn Eng lish well enough never again to be caught between languages” (Almost 21)
“You don’t want to sound Puerto Rican?” (Al most 85)
126
“it has to do with being fro m a Spanish country” (Almost 5)
125
221
ocurrido nunca que en Brooklyn [se] convertiría en otra cosa”; Negi questions herself (Santiago
7).127
For the remainder of the novel, Negi never shares her complete being with anyone after
beginning the process of transculturation. She is always hiding something from her friend and
family, or both. She “negaba a aventurar[se] en lo más profundo de [su] ser, a revelar [sus]
sentimientos, a examinar [sus] verdaderas emociones públicamente” because if she did, “todo el
mundo se enteraría de que era ilegítima” and that in that moment it still seemed that she was
acting a part in the new culture instead of actually taking part in the new culture (Santiago 76). 128
This decision to make some changes and not others is what Flores refers to when saying that
Puerto Ricans “do not aspire to enter an already given America but to participate in the
construction of a new hegemony dependent upon their cultural practices and discourses” (216).
Then, their process of transformation begins, deciding to pick the most important traits that they
are not willing to change and then replacing the least important traits with something completely
new.
These are the women that choose to find themselves in the space of the revolving door, just
like Negi, and take the lead between the two cultures in conflict. Although it may be necessary to
assimilate at a certain level, it is evident that they also need to:
find a means by which to maintain their nature consistently through generations.
The solution to this problem is offered by cultural memory, a collective concept
for all knowledge that directs behavior and experience in the interactive
framework of a society and one that obtains through generations in repeated
societal practice and initiation (Assmann 126).
This “cultural memory” takes place in Negi’s family as representative of the experience of
the 1.5 generation. At home, Mami and Tata reiterate the importance of some of the “rough
edges” that Duany mentions. To exemplify, one day Mami begins to cry because her son is
repeating the English that he heard on the television. On another occasion, Negi performs the
role of the Virgin and Mami’s reaction becomes the title of that chapter: “Tiene que ser pecado
faltarle el respeto así a la Virgen”. Finally, Mami always insists that Negi does not leave the
127
“[she] had always been Puerto Rican, and it hadn’t occurred to [her] that in Brooklyn [she]’d become someone
else” (Almost 5)
128
“[she] refused to venture into [her] deepest self, to reveal [her] feelings, to examine [her] true emotions publicly.
If [she] did, everyone would know [she] was illegit imate” (Almost 74)
222
house unless she first marries, just like it is done on the island. Interestingly, Mami, Tata y Don
Julio – those that should be filling the position of role model for Negi and her siblings – do not
represent themselves in the image of perfection that they propose to the children. Despite hoping
that the children grow in their image of the perfect Puerto Rican, their memories of the island
have already been falsely petrified en their memories forever, a symptom of generation 1.
This completely false representation of the Puerto Rican culture creates problems for the
communication between generation 1 and Negi, of the 1.5 generation, because both groups have
different experiences and occupy different roles within their own social groups. Hans Mol
explains that “the objective manifestations of cultural memory are defined thro ugh a kind of
identificatory determination in a positive (‘We are this’) or in a negative (‘That’s our opposite’)
sense,” making it almost impossible to find shared ideas between Negi and Mami in regards to
the expectations that they have for each other (qtd. in Assmann 130). 129 Now that Negi is taking
classes at Performing Arts, she has a completely different set of rules to follow in addition to
those of her family and those of society.
As soon as Negi recognizes and manages the difficult position she is in, she realizes the fact
that even though she has the opportunity to experience a lot of new experiences in her new
country, her experience is not that of her mother’s, yet it is her mother who will always be
supportive of her and her siblings. Negi decides for herself the elements she needs in order to
complete her identity in the best possible way. For her, an indisputable element is her mother
because within her memory and her spirit lies Negi’s ties with the past, with her personal story.
Although Santiago does not specify at the end of the novel if Negi decides to move to Miami
with Ulvi or to remain in Brooklyn with her family, Negi admits that her “decisión ya estaba
tomada” 130 just like “sabía Ulvi cuando preguntó,”131 alluding to the fact that the ties already
were in place between Negi and her mother, between Negi and her past, between Negi and the
ability to choose her own escape from the space of the continuously revolving door where she
defines herself as a combination of generation 1 and generatio n 2 (Santiago 310).
Now that Negi is comfortable with her ties to the past, she must find her links to the future.
In contrast with the closed doors of opportunity that Negi has found in the past, when she did not
yet possess the necessary tools to take advantage of the proposed opportunities at the time they
129
Mol, Hans. Identity and the Sacred
“[she]’d already made [her] choice” (Almost 311)
131
“just as Ulvi knew when he asked” (Almost 311)
130
223
arose, now she is faced with the metaphorical revolving door that will not only offer her new
opportunities, but can also serve as her salvation if she has learned how to use the extraordinary
space within the revolving door. That being said, for those women who participate in the going
and coming between the mainland and their island of origin, this door represents another option
exemplifying the age old expression that “if one door closes, another will open.” This other
option for Puerto Ricans that live in the United States is the revolving door. What is understood
as the function of the revolving door is the possibility of various points of entrance and various
(although distinct) points of exit. Jorge Duany mentions that this circulatory motion – both literal
and metaphorical - “does not entail major losses in human capital for most Puerto Ricans but
rather often constitutes an occupational, educational and linguistic gain” (“Rough” 211). In
Negi’s case, it seems to be the case that this theory maintains an element of truth because, due to
her new experiences, she has had access to a good education, although not traditional, she has
had theater experiences that she would not have had if it were no t for the instruction that she
received in the uses and pronunciations of English that allow her to relate to her good friend,
Shoshana, as well as the many men and/or boyfriends that she engaged with.
Then, if the door leading to identification with the dominant culture has already closed for
Negi, she had no other option but to enter the revolving door yet again and get out at a different
stop while identifying herself in another way. This “circular migration [whether across
geopolitical borders or cultural borders] implies a broader definition of cultural identity for
Puerto Ricans in the United States and in Puerto Rico itself” (“Nation” 213). Since Negi’s
identity is based in time, space and circumstance, the revolving door is the only space in which
her identity can reach its most pure form. The revolving door serves as the “hard core” of the
identity to which Duany refers, while all the possible exits serve as “rough edges”, and will
change depending on the three elements of time, space, and circumstance. Due to the seemingly
magical characteristics of the interior space of a revolving door, I propose that we treat it as an
encrucijada mágica.
This encrucijada or crossing in which the woman can encounter her true being, offers yet
another opportunity for a woman. Hintz admits that while “women carry great responsibility for
the future of mankind,…mankind’s legacy to them does not always include a revered place in the
social hierarchy” (1). The written word is one way in which a woman can search out her identity
while at the same time achieve a position of power. The search for identity that Negi is
224
experiencing throughout the novel suffers a double oppression – being Puerto Rican and being a
woman. Accordig to Hintz, “patriarchy defines a woman and then oppresses her; thus to Kristeva
woman exists only in a negative fashion within a patriarchal society because she is always
struggling against it” (39). 132 Negi subverts the traditional systems through her theatrical
performances; in those moments in which Negi is completely conscientious of her identity and
her circumstance and in despite of this chooses to behave in a different way. 133 For Negi, this site
of performance where time, space and circumstance cross is her personal encrucijada mágica –
the revolving door that appeared when she closed the last door of opportunity with the dominant
culture. In the same way that the act of writing her own story serves as a magical crossing over
for Negi, the author, Santiago herself, is rewriting her own experiences. 134
Throughout history it has been apparent that “for the most part cultural nationalism in Puerto
Rico has not welcomed women – particularly black and mulatto women – in its definition of the
nation, except perhaps as subservient spouses, mothers, and housewives” (“Rough” 183). For
this reason, through her written works, a woman writer has the task of realizing the function of
her own revolving door and of creating a new role for other women of the same circumstance. In
the case of Santiago, she must forge the path for other women through her writings. Cixous
claims that:
To write. An act which will not only ‘realize’ the decensored relation of woman to
her sexuality, to her womanly being, giving her access to her native strength; it will
give her back her goods, her pleasures, her organs, her immense bodily territories
which have been kept under seal; it will tear her away from the superegoized structure
in which she always occupied the place reserved for the guilty…tear her away by
means of this research, this job of analysis and illumination, this emancipation of the
marvelous text of herself that she must urgently learn to speak (qtd. in Hintz 38).
135
The act of learning to be female, or on a scale of greater being, is a magical act in which one
must omit the importance of time and space in order to experiment with the possibilities of the
revolving door. It is through the formation of new identities and through learning which of each
132
For further reading, see: Kristeva, Julia. “Oscillation Between Power and Denial”
For further reading on performance theories, see: Schechner, Richard. Between Theater and Anthropology;
Schechner, Richard. "Foreword: Fundamentals of Performance Studies "; Turner, Victor. The Anthropology of
Performance
134
The author was born in 1948 in Villa Palmeras, Puerto Rico. She came to the United States in 1961 at the age of
thirteen.
135
Cixous, Hélenè. “Laugh of the Medusa”
133
225
of the identities function in each situation, while holding tightly to the elements of the “hard
core” that defines someone of the 1.5 generation and leaving behind the elements of the “rough
edges” that will continuously change and fine tune one’s identity over time.
A woman of the 1.5 generation transgresses the social and personal barriers of identity by
passing through the revolving door that meanwhile affords her the opportunity to take on new
behaviors of the dominant culture while holding tight to the memories of and ties to her past. By
making these geopolitical frontiers erasable, just like their respective cultures that in the past
have trapped those who attempt to pass through in a concurrent state of understanding and
misunderstanding of themselves, Negi can come to a clearer understanding of herself. With a
more fluid definition of what is expected of a casi mujer of the 1.5 generation, Negi (and in turn,
Santiago) serves as a model of how those women who enter the revolving door, as well as those
who get out of the revolving door, can continue to value their personal e xperiences, all the while
questioning themselves and reassigning a new meaning to identity. 136
In both Dreaming in Cuban and Casi una mujer, Christina García and Esmeralda
Santiago offer two similar but different representations of the female identification process in the
Hispanophone Caribbean. While throughout the Caribbean, the mother-daughter relationship and
the memory used in the telling of HERstory serves an important role in telling and recording a
family’s history and in developing an individual female identity within the greater whole,
specific elements of Cuban and Puerto Rican experience have had distinct influences that make
female identity formation distinct for Pilar and Negi. For Pilar, historical and social factors in
Cuba, such as the Cuban Revolution, Santería, and troubled relations with the United States are
important factors in her cosmovision and her path to identity. For Negi, her identity formation
process is affected by the mass migration of Puerto Ricans to New York in the years following
World War II, due to widespread poverty and the desire to pursue the American Dream. While
many of these families planned to return to the island with their earnings, Negi’s family was not
amongst this population.
136
The author mentions in her final notes at the end of the text that this story that she has just told, although
potentially autobiographical, “esto es lo que recuerd[a], co mo lo recuerd[a]” although it is po ssible that her family “a
veces esté en desacuerdo con [su] versión de los hechos” (311-12). [“This is what I remember, as I remember
it …even if they sometimes disagree with my version of events” (Almost 312-3)]. The fact that Santiago has included
a written disclaimer in the text in and of itself makes stronger the argument that memo ry is the element that has the
strongest hold on individuals of the 1.5 generation.
226
Although Pilar and Negi have island specific experiences that affect their identity
process, they also experience the effects of regional factors pertaining to this process. Caribbean
hybridity has allowed for similar, but different, approaches to identity. Specifically, Pilar, Negi,
and a large majority of female Caribbean individuals of mid-twentieth century Hispanophone
Caribbean share influences such as language, and biological and ethnic characteristics. While
there are similar elements that affect the identity process, there are many non-related factors
distinguishing individual identity formation.
While there are national, regional, and universal factors that affect identity formation, I
have shown here that the choices that Pilar and Negi have made on their path to identity have
been strongly influenced by the factors that have directly affected their region, island of birth,
and individual experiences. Specifically, language and memory are non-negotiable elements in
both protagonists’ identification process.
227
CHAP TER FIVE
NEITHER HERE NOR THERE: EXILE, MIGRATION, AND
IDENTITY FORMATION WITHIN AND WITHOUT
THE FRANCOPHONE CARIBBEAN
L’existence est un arbre; son feuillage, ses racines les figures interchangeables
d’une éternelle donne. La chute des feuilles est triste, pourtant elle est souvent quête
des humidités enfouies, annonce des feuilles à venir, envol. Le temps est arrivé d’abandonner
la poussière du pays que tu traînes sous tes sandales.
-Emile Olliver, Les urnes scellées
The pleasure and paradox of my own exile is that I belong wherever I am.
George Lamming, The Pleasures of Exile
The analyses in this chapter will explore exile and migration and how this removal from
one’s place of birth – whether by choice, or not – can affect her process of identification. Juan
Flores indicates that althought there is a certain level of necessity in regards to assimilation to the
new culture, there is an even greater need to emphasize and draw contrast between “la patria”
and the new land. 137 The ability to choose which parts of one’s identity one wants to hold on to
or to emphasize and which elements one can part with in an attempt to assimilate allows for a
wide range of possible outcomes when forming an identity as an exile or immigrant. By making
these choices, it could be assumed that the subject herself is already well- versed in her own
identity at the time of immigration or exile, but, as can be seen in the novels discussed in this
chapter, L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle Pineau and Behind the Mountains by Edwidge Danticat,
that despite the age range of the protagonists, identity is a process that is never fully
completed. 138
Paul Gilroy explains this stradling of cultures and identity as the development of a double
consciousness, 139 originally pertaining to the needs and desires of African slaves who were
137
Flo res, Juan. Divided Borders: Essays on Puerto Rican Identity
Hall, Stuart. “Negotiating Caribbean Identities”
139
Gilroy, Pau l. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. The Term double conscious was first
used by W.E.B. Dubois in 1897 in an article t itled “St riv ings of the Negro People” in The Atlantic. For Dubois,
double consciousness is “a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self
through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
One ever feels his two-ness,--an American, a Negro; two warring souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings”
(Souls 11). Therefore, the A merican Negro was conscious of his identity as well as the perception of the identity
138
228
brought to the Caribbean region as slave laborers to be connected to their African roots while
assimilating to their European counterparts enough to survive. While the African slave trade is
not still in practice, the afteraffects of the trauma it created are still felt. Not only is this
connundrum still felt and experienced in the hybrid nature of Caribbean existence, but it is
further exaggerated when an individual migrates or is exiled and must then assimilate to yet
another culture. In the two novels discussed in this chapter, it is even possible to say that the
protagonists have gained a triple consciousness in their new location of exile/migration.
Furthermore, it is quite possible that the protagonists experience a quadruple consciousness upon
their return to their homeland as an older and changed individual.
For Betty Wilson, “whether she is in the Caribbean, in France, or in Africa, the situation of
the black Antillaise woman is portrayed as one of confinement and frustration. Her life is
depicted as tragically limited and her efforts at resistance doomed to failure,” oftentimes as a
result of relations between France and the Francophone Caribbean (qtd. in Rodríguez 26). The
women portrayed in the novels represented in this study have had to deal with colonial power in
different ways. While it is important to note that “the past has consistently determined the
present relations of these Caribbean islands with the metropole, and these events – invasion,
foreign occupation, imposed forms of government – have marked Caribbean people,” it is also
necessary to point out that in the case of the Francophone Caribbean, relations with France have
been significantly different experiences in Guadeloupe, Martinique, and Haiti (Rodríguez 27).
Martinique and Guadeloupe have remained Départements d’Outer-Mer (DOMs), a relationship
that allows the citizens of these two islands to freely travel between the Caribbean and France. In
addition, “no visas or work permits are needed to enter the country, and job opportunities and
training are available for the working class” (Rodríguez 26). While the majority of
Guadeloupeans and Martinicans can trace their roots back to Africa and not France, they have
been departments of France since 1946, and therefore continue to represent extensions of French
politics, society, language, and culture. 140
The relationship between France and Haiti, however, has been very different than the
relationship France maintains with Guadeloupe and Martinique. Anthea Morrison indicates that
given to him by society. Paul Gilroy has adapted this term to fit identity studies of individuals brought to th e
Americas in the African Slave Trade.
140
Rodríguez, María Cristina. What Wo men Lose: Exile and the Construction of Imaginary Homelands in Novels by
Caribbean Writers
229
Haiti has been plagued with the perception and “status as a migrant underclass” both “within
their own region” as well as worldwide (115). Therefore, a reference to the Francophone
Caribbean necessarily refers to this distinction between relationships, as well. For Haitians,
postcolonization has manifested itself in ways that have affected the nation in very different
ways than it has in Martinique and Guadeloupe. The economic, social, and political unrest have
caused many Haitians to flee, and “at the end of the twentieth century, Haitians continue to flee,
mainly to North America but also to sometimes unfriendly ‘sister’ islands of the Caribbean or to
the Dominican Republic,” searching for a safe space (Morrison 123). Because relations are tense,
“many of these journeys end brutally, either because of disasters at sea or because the
unwelcome migrants are summarily returned to their point of origin” (Morrison 123). It is from
this desperate desire to find a safe space that the common expression “travailler comme un
Haïtien” indicates that racial and economic stratification still has a strong hold on the nation, a
prejudice that further marginalizes Haiti on a regional and global level (Morrison 123).
Although “Haiti officially rejected white France, its leaders and the established mulatto
elite continue to see France as the center of culture and advanced civilization,” a center where
they themselves are not accepted or respected for their Haitian roots (Rodríguez 26). France, the
métropole, retains its status as it “continues to be the place to travel, live, and retire for wealthy
Haitians” and, in addition, “Paris also becomes the meeting place of the francophone Caribbean”
where “while in France, Haitians, Guadeloupeans, and Martinicans assert their nationality,” in a
meeting place of common marginalization and exclusion from the dominant culture (Rodríguez
27).
According to Suk, in reference to the intersticial space created by colonialism, “interstitiality
can be understood as a temporal paradox in which looking to the future necessarily entails a
return” to the past, and to the structures and historical, social, economic, and political events that
lead to the present condition (Suk 4). In the case of the Francophone Caribbean, past events can
be divided into two categories based on the Francophone Caribbean nations’ current standing
with France. Many Francophone Caribbean writers have left the geographical region and have
begun to write Caribbean literature abroad. In Eloge de la créolité, Bernabé, Chamoiseau, and
Confiant indicate that “Antillean literature does not yet exist, because Antillean writers write
with a foreign audience in mind rather than for their own people” (qtd. in Suk 21). This
circumstance, as well as the inclusion of French influences in Creole and Francophone Caribbean
230
literature, indicates a conflicted path to independence, as it appears to be more of a path of
inclusion rather than separation.
According to Belinda Jack, “the term postcolonial has not been prominent in the French
context” and “it is only recently that it has been used in relation to francophone literature” due to
the differences in French relations amongst Francophone Caribbean nations (qtd. in Suk 18). 141
In addition to the status of Martinique and Guadeloupe as departments d’outre-mer and Haiti’s
status of independence, Suk laments that the implication toward an end to colonialism “is
misleading given continuing struggles against economic and cultural neocolonialism” which both
have “special relevance for the Antilles, where a relationship of dependence upon the métropole
persists” in daily functions (19). As a symptom of postcolonial in-betweenness, Stephen Slemon
believes that “post-colonial nation-states [need to] develop new forms of international relations
and self-constitution as they proceed” with the process of “developing new structures for group
identification and collectivity” (qtd. in Murdoch 4). 142 This inbetweenness is a common element
in post-colonial societies, and takes hold in a very specific way in Caribbean literature due to the
high level of hybridity. For example, Bell Hooks points out that “[l]ong before feminist theorists
began to think in terms of race, gender, and class, black women writers had created work that
spoke from this previously unarticulated standpoint” (qtd. in Donadey 203). 143 Postcolonial
theory itself encompasses gender, race, and class issues, although there is a “lack of a focus on
gender issues, which is particularly evident in the work of Homi Bhabha” and Frantz Fanon
(Donadey 203).
However, Bhabha is very clear when he indicates that rather than declaring hybriditiy, this
“‘third space’… enables other positions to emerge. This third space displaces the histories tha t
constitute it, and sets up new structures of authority” allowing for change (qtd. in Murdoch 5). 144
This intersticial space that allows for change and adaptation is especially pertinent to the identity
issues faced by postcolonial individuals and nations. Some of the literary movements in
Francophone Caribbean literature that highlight this “third space” where identity studies arise are
outlined by Suk. Francophone Caribbean identity exists in three phases: “Césaire’s negritude,
141
For further reading on postcolonialism and creolization in the Caribbean, see: Edward Kamau Brathwaite, W ilson
Harris, Derek Walcott, Theodor Adorno, Edward Said, Abdul JanMohamed, Chinua Achebe, Salman Rushdie, Rey
Chow
142
Slemon, Stephen. “Postcolonial Critical Theory”
143
Hooks, Bell. Remembered Rapture
144
Bhabha, Ho mi. “The Third Space”
231
Glissant’s antillanité, and Bernabé, Chamoiseau, and Confiant’s creolité” (Suk 22). In addition
to this pathway to Francophone Caribbean identity, Suk further indicates that “if there can be
said to be an essential component to Antillean identity, it is this coexistence and interming ling of
different influences, European and African among others” (Suk 22). Therefore, Caribbean
identity can be defined by the hybrid nature of its formation.
Although there is an abundance of Caribbean novels written by women and that deal with
idenitity issues, the two novels discussed in this chapter, L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle Pineau and
Behind the Mountains by Edwidge Danticat, offer exemplary representations of the role that
exile and migration play in a female’s identification process. 145 Because identity is an ongoing
process that is constantly in flux, morphing as the circumstances of one’s life changes, I
specifically chose novels that represent women of varying age groups.
Pineau’s novel, L’Exil selon Julia, presents the reader with a representation of three
generations of women from the same family, and how each deals with the changes they undergo
upon leaving their place of birth, relocating to the country of their colonizer, and then returning
to their homeland. L’Exil selon Julia is a novel about exile and all the components that contribute
to identity formation. In this novel, exile, as well as the historical and prejudicial traumas that are
affected or are the effects of exile, point to the importance o f memory and the female lineage.
The family’s history is eventually passed from grandmother to granddaughter through the female
storytelling practices that are commonly shown in Caribbean literary representations. It is only
through the passing of the grandmother’s, Julia’s, knowledge to her granddaughter, Gisèle, that
can be considered a true representation of history when compared to canonical historical
literature. As many representations of the Caribbean female’s identification process, Gisèle can
only begin to understand her search for identity, stability, and a sense of belonging through her
grandmother’s experiences and knowledge.
L’Exil selon Julia is an autobiographical novel about marginalization and a search for
belonging. The effects of exile are shown through the female family lineage, the same females
who serve as the recorders of the family history. Just as many Guadeloupeans migrated to the
French métropole after World War II, the protagonist, Gisèle, and her family also chose to
relocate. Although dual citizens of both France and Guadeloupe, the family was confronted with
145
Amongst others, see exemplary representations of a Francophone Caribbean gendered, racialized identity
process: Danticat, Edwidge. Breath, Eyes, Memory; Schwarz-Bart, Simone. Bridge of Beyond; Celie-Agnant, Marie.
La dot de Sara
232
constant racial prejudice and was relegated to the margins of society, both geographically and
socially upon their arrival in France. Gisèle’s parents grew up in Guadeloupe, but chose to deny
their heritage and Creole language upon moving to France in an effort to assimilate with fewer
problems. Gisèle especially feels as though she does not belong and is searching for stability,
which she finds when her grandmother, the Julia of the title, is exiled to France.
Julia does not want to leave Guadeloupe, but her family feels that it is in her best interest
to kidnap her and take her to France in order to escape her abusive husband. When Julia arrives
in France, it seems to Gisèle that they have nothing in common, but gradually the two women
begin to form a deeper understanding of each other. When Julia returns to Guadeloupe years
later, Gisèle feels a deep longing to return to the Guadeloupe that she knows only through her
grandmothers’ stories. This relationship between Julia and Gisèle as well as the relationship the
two women share with Guadeloupe are defining factors in their identity formation.
In this portion of the chapter, exile and the grandmother- granddaughter relationship will
be studied as defining factors of the identity process. Within exile are many additional factors
that will contribute to identity formation. Among those are whether or not the relocation was by
choice, prejudices and marginalization, ability to assimilate to the new culture, language and
education, indulgence of nostalgic memories of the homeland, and the understanding of home as
a geographical location or by some other terms. In addition to the present exile, it is also
important to note the effects of the past. Specifically, historical trauma in the form of slavery and
colonial rule significantly affect Julia and Gisèle, however it is important to note that each
woman’s exile experience is different, especially because Julia experienced a third type of
trauma with her abusive husband. Julia has a strong understanding of her individual identity
when in Guadeloupe, but becomes lost when in France. Gisèle is very lost in France and finds
stability in her grandmother. For Gisèle, her grandmother is her homeland. Once coming to this
conclusion, Gisèle understands the importance of roots and family relations and takes it upon
herself to write her grandmother’s stories, her family history, her identity.
When dealing with the exile of Julia that is referred to in the title of the work L’Exil selon
Julia, it is first necessary to understand the context in which exile is being used. Amongst types
of exile are political, social, and psychological. In the case of Julia, she did not choose to leave
Guadeloupe, but neither was she expelled from the country due to political or social requisites.
While the title of the novel indicates to the reader that Julia’s account of her experiences is
233
representative of an exile situation, we must first look at various interpretations of exile. 146 For
Chancy, exile is much more complicated than an individual being removed from her homeland,
but rather “to begin to define exile, then, is to acknowledge its irrevocability. That is to say, that
exile brings with it an irreparable fissuring of self from homeland. And yet…it cannot be defined
simply as the expulsion of individuals through overt, political, governmental force from one’s
homeland” (Chancy 3). Chancy indicates that the experience of exile should be considered to
include many more situations including “the threat of governmental/political persecution or state
terrorism; poverty enmeshed through exploitative labor practices that overwork and underpay;
social persecution resulting from one’s dehumanization because of color, ge nder, sexuality, class
standing; the forever lack of choice of one’s profession; the impossibility of imagining moments
of leisure, moments for the nurturance of the soul; the nickering wick of hope extinguished
through despair” and “self- imposed exile, that is, emigration” to a foreign land (Chancy 3). Thus,
Chancy has a wide variety of defining factors that contribute to the understanding of the
experience of exile. However, Chancy is not the only critic to have put forth a definition of exile.
Edward Said has also engaged in the debate on exile. For him, “[exile] is the unhealable
rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home: its
essential sadness can never be surmounted…the achievements of exile are permanently
undermined by the loss of something left behind forever” (Said 173). While Chancy believes that
the separation of individual from her homeland does not necessarily have to be forced to
constitute exile, Said indicates that a forceful separation is necessary for the condition of exile.
However, Said also indicates that the ability to make gains in the new culture and society are
significantly less valuable when an individual has been exiled. Also according to Said, the exile
experiences of our time are occurring on a large scale; it “is indeed the age of the refugee, the
displaced person, mass immigration” (Said 174). While previous cases of exile were on a smaller
scale and were clear cases of political or social exile, an issue of contemporary times is that
removal from one’s homeland – whether by choice or not – has risen both in quantity and
frequency.
In Said’s narrower description of exile, he also indicates that “although it is true that
anyone prevented from returning home is an exile, some distinctions can be made among exiles,
146
For further definitions of exile, see: Hall, Stuart. "Cultural Identity and Diaspora"; Schmitter Heisler, Barbara.
"The Sociology of Immigrat ion"; Kaminsky, A my K. After Exile: Writing the Latin American Diaspora; Rushdie,
Salman. Imaginary Homelands; Cioran, E.M. “Advantages of Exile”; Hugo, Victor. “What Exile Is”
234
refugees, expatriates, and émigrés,” which can be defined in the following ways: “exile
originated in the age-old practice of banishment. Once banished, the exile lives an anomalous
and miserable life, with the stigma of being an outsider. Refugees, on the other hand, are a
creation of the twentieth-century state. The word ‘refugee’ has become a political one,
suggesting large herds of innocent and bewildered people requiring urgent international
assistance, whereas ‘exile’ carries with it, I think, a touch of solitude and spirituality” (Said 181).
Therefore, expatriates then are individuals who “voluntarily live in an alien country, usually for
personal or social reasons…expatriates may share in the solitude and estrangement o f exile, but
they do not suffer under its rigid proscriptions. Émigrés enjoy an ambiguous status. Technically,
an émigré is anyone who emigrates to a new country. Choice in the matter is certainly a
possibility” (Said 181). While there are some unclear situations of individuals who choose to live
as an exile, under the conditions of exile, they have not necessarily been banished, whereas those
who have been banished live in exile out of necessity rather than choice.
In yet another understanding of exile, Brodsky adds that exile can also be a
“metaphysical condition” oftentimes represented an author who is “constantly fighting and
conspiring to restore his significance, his poignant role, his authority” (Katrak 652). Therefore,
for Brodsky, exile is not necessarily just the physical removal from one’s homeland but also the
psychological implications that accompany this relocation. Katrak concludes that “the realities of
expatriation and immigration, of literal and metaphoric exile, of external colonization and
imperialism, along with the internal colonization of mental and psychological state, are played
out in our contemporary world as never before in history” and therefore the need to continually
define and critically evaluate the experiences of dislocated individuals continues to lead to
further definition and a more profound understanding of uprooted or displaced individuals
(Katrak 678).
Chancy indicates that “Afro-Caribbean women in particular survive within the Caribbean
under conditions of sexism that exacerbate racism/colorism, classism, homophobia/heterosexism
in ways that result in social and/or psychological exile” and it is clear that “emigration adds to
this alienation in the form of xenophobia and differing but similar forms of prejudice leveled
against Black women and women of color in predominantly white European societies” (210-11).
Therefore, the marginalization experienced in one’s homeland is exacerbated upon displacement,
leaving the racialized Caribbean woman even further in the outskirts o f the social norm as well
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as rootless in her new location. According to Chandra Talpade Mohanty, this group of displaced
women group together and form “imagined communities of women with divergent histories and
social locations, woven together by the political threads of opposition to forms of domination
that are not only pervasive and but also systemic” (qtd. in Rodríguez xiii). Just because the
woman has escaped the circumstance of her homeland, the systemic marginalization of the
dominant culture, class, and gender continues to prevent her from entering the in-crowd, even if
they have the same citizenship as their counterparts in the métropole.
Rodríguez further explains that when “marginalized female characters who have migrated
to metropolitan centers” successfully integrate into the new culture, the psychological
implications of exile are few, whereas “when and if this project fails, they choose isolation either
through death, madness, the obliteration of their past, or the re-creation of the location of that
past” (Rodríguez xiii- xiv). Even when a displaced woman relocates to an area outside of the
Caribbean, such as New York or Paris, she oftentimes is surrounded by “social tension, where
different usually means inferior, sex object, possession, or exotic woman” and as a result, the
seemingly seamless transition breaks her down until she “become[s] overly assertive and
aggressive so as to survive and progress in a hostile environment” (Rodríguez 25). The
separation from one’s homeland – whether by choice or not – becomes a practice in
psychological strength. A strength that oftentimes must be motivated by the woman herself, both
due to the taboo of mental healthcare as well as lack of immediate access to healthcare in her
new location.
According to Ferlosio, the success of an exiled individual depends heavily on whether or
not she was able to say goodbye to her family and friends because “departure creates the tension
of belief that ‘we will meet again’ and the tension of fear that ‘we will never meet aga in’” (qtd.
in Grinberg 156). The ability to bid farewell offers some sort of closure for the individual,
however “the traveler who leaves without saying goodbye is spurred on by impatience, a state of
uneasiness, and apprehension” that gradually becomes all consuming in their new location,
effectively preventing them from a successful transition (Grinberg 156). Julia was not able to
give her farewell to her husband before being taken from the island, and the resulting impatience,
uneasiness, and apprehension that Grinberg discusses can be observed in her depressed and
sometimes neurotic behaviors while in France. For example, Julia is constantly consumed with
memories of her husband and is constantly making comparisons between Guadeloupe and
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France. Confronted with the difficulty of adjusting to French culture and mode of life, Julia is
concerned by the lifestyle that her grandchildren are growing up with. She makes it her personal
mission to show the children her experiences: “debout aux premières heures, elle se tient en
movement jusqu’à soleil couché. Passer un balai, preparer une soupe, récurer un canari, frotter,
laver, repasser” (67). 147 Because her grandchildren are not familiar with the life Julia is used to,
she takes on the task of modeling these virtues for them.
In addition to the difficulties that an individual faces upon relocation, one cannot
necessarily depend on the support of her family to help her through, since “the tensions of exile
affect family life by creating new conflicts or reactivating old ones” (Grinberg 159). Thus, any
weakened area of the family relationship is expected to deepen upon relocation. This is not the
case with Julia’s family, since there was not much of a relationship between her and her
granddaughter to begin with. Rather, in this case, Julia and Gisèle expereience a strengthened
relationship due to their isolation and nostalgia for their homeland. Although the eventual
outcome of Julia and Gisèle’s relationship is positive, just as Grinberg points out, “even under
the best of circumstances, the exile’s situation – imposed from without, not freely chosen – is
painful and is experienced as a prison term,” which is very similar to the way that Julia’s exile is
described. Even though Julia has the freedom to do what she pleases in France without the fear
of the abusive hand of her husband, France feels like “a prison because [she is] deprived of the
ability to be in the one place [she] wish[es] to be: [her] own country” (Grinberg 160). Even after
Julia and Gisèle begin to form a bond, Julia is always ready to return to Guadeloupe at the first
opportunity.
In Julia’s case, in addition to a strong desire to be with her husband again, she fears dying
in a foreign land. Grinberg explains that
in primitive fantasies, death is conceived as reunion with one’s ancestors. The
metaphor expresses human concern over where one goes to spend the last of one’s
life and represents the desire to return to the land of one’s ancestors, as an
unconscious fantasy of returning to the womb. To die far away from home ‘in a
foreign land’ is considered a double death because it makes the fantasized return
impossible. (161)
147
“up early in the early hours of the morning, she never stops going until the sun has set. Sweeping, preparing soup,
scouring an earthenware pot, polishing, washing, ironing” (Exile 46)
237
Psychologically speaking, “these concerns show up either latently or overtly in the material of
patients who have experienced migration, and more so in cases where the migration itself was an
exile” (Grinberg 161). While Julia was not politically or socially exiled from her homeland, she
did not leave by choice and consistently shows representative signs of psychologic al trauma for
having been forcibly relocated.
Simon Weil indicates that “to be rooted…is perhaps the most important and least
recognized need of the human soul” and without this rootedness or a sense of belonging, an
individual will be forever lost, no matter where she is (qtd. in Said 183). The reason that the
dislocated individual will forever feel lost is because those who have not relocated have
experiences of only one culture, while the dislocated individual has knowledge of at least two
cultures, creating a plurality where any “activity in the new environment inevitably occur[s]
against the memory of these things in another environment” forcing the individual to keep her
homeland in the forefront of her mind and preventing her from adapting to the new culture (Said
186). Wallace Stevens refers to exile as “‘a mind of winter’ in which the pathos of summer and
autumn as much as the potential of spring are nearby but unobtainable” which appears in the
novel as an issue that Julia herself faces when confro nted with the change of seasons that are
significantly different than the always sunny wet and dry seasons she has experienced in
Guadeloupe. Said sums up the psychological complications of exile in explaining that “exile is
never the state of being satisfied, placid, or secure” and this experience is reiterated in Julia’s
experience in France.
While the psychological effects of exile are many and varied, it is clear that one possible
way for individuals to overcome the trauma of displacement is to write their story. In this
circumstance, literary representations “serve to rewrite the past but provide [female AfroCaribbean authors] with renewed options for the future in continued resistance to oppression and
in the reclamation of, or return to, [their] own identities, which, in effect, are themselves [their]
‘homes’ away from home” (Chancy 121). According to Chancy, the process of confronting exile
includes four phases: “alienation, self-definition, recuperation, and return” (Chancy xxi).
However, after passing through the first three phases of exile, a return to the homeland does not
necessarily refer to a physical return, but can also refer to a psychological return to one’s roots.
Therefore, exile allows for a relation to the future and allows the individual to look “forward to a
state of equilibrium wherein alienation from the self and the past will be brought to an end and
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backward to an understanding of where we have come from and how past generations have
sought to prevent the struggles with which we are faced in the present” (Chancy 214). In the case
of Julia and her granddaughter Gisèle, the feelings of displacement that they experience while
living in France is exactly this link that connects them to both the past and the future.
While we have seen that each exile experience is different, there are some similarities
that run throughout exile experiences as a whole. Julia is an older woman who has a very unique
exile experience. Her husband is abusive towards her because of her gender and dark skin color.
Her husband is referred to as le Bourreau, the Torturer, due to his tyrannical raids and attacks on
Julia. Her son, Maréchal, decides that it is best for her to be taken to France to live with family
there. For him, the decision was “oui à l’exil, qui semblait aussi simple que changer de casaque”
(Pineau 14). 148 For him, the decision was easy. For Julia, there was no decision.
As a young girl, Gisèle cannot understand why her grandmother had come to live with
her family in France and why her parents decided to relocate in the first place. She is eleven
years old when her grandmother first arrives and she begins to ask herself questions about her
identity. She wants to know, “leur campagne a-t-elle changé?” and more importantly, “euxmêmes sont- ils encore gens de Guadeloupe?” (Pineau 21). 149 Identity is an individual process
based on both internal and external factors, as well as the identity of the collective. While each
individual must decide which factors most strongly affect her individual identity, Jorge Duany
indicates that there are some external factors that are more common than others in the identity
process. For Duany, there are hard “cores” and “rough edges” that contribute to the overall
formation of identity. 150 As outlined in Chapter 2, “cores” refer to language, religion, the
canonized literature, and other island-centered cultural practices, while “rough edges” refers to
refers to racial, ethnic, gender, sexual, or diasporic locations.
That being said, there remains a strong emotional, psychological attachment bond with
their previous lifestyle and who they were in Guadeloupe. Despite “tous les atours de France:
beauté, liberté, facilité, chemins de réussite, ils laissaient pendre une corde lâche, etre eux et le
pays natal” (Pineau 29). 151 It is some of these “cores” and “rough edges” of the native culture
148
“yes to exile, wh ich seemed as easy as changing blouses” (Exile 6)
“has their country changed?” and more importantly, “are they still Guadeloupeans?” (Exile 11)
150
Duany, Jorge. "The Rough Edges of Puerto Rican Identities: Race, Gender, and Transnationalism."
151
“all the fine things France has to offer: beauty, liberty, ease, paths to success, [it] cannot uproot the love for their
Guadeloupe. Without really wanting to, they let a loose cord hang between them and the land of their birth” (Exile
17)
149
239
that make it so difficult to completely separate oneself from her native culture. Throughout the
novel, Julia appeals to her “cores” in the form of language, religion, canon literature and other
island practices such as food. In addition, she cannot separate herself from her race, ethnicity and
gender, all of which play an integral role in defining herself. While it is observed that the ot her
adults relocated in France “ils l’aimaient, oui, mais d’une manière equivoque, comme un amour
de jeunesse qu’on n’arrive pas à oublier meme s’il n’a pas donné de fruits,” Julia does not feel
this way, even after many years in France (Pineau 29). 152 Julia’s love for Guadeloupe is pure and
unwavering, just like her love for her torturous husband. Although Julia’s family referred to her
exile as “Délivrance” or a chance to escape, she never felt this way (Pineau 31). 153
While the novel accounts for two very different exile experiences, the case of Julia is a
multi- faceted representation of exile, meaning she is not escaping just one thing. Julia has faced
trauma of varying degrees and from three different sources. First, she has lived her whole life in
post slavery Caribbean society, still experiencing the traumatic effects of colonial rule. Second,
she is physically traumatized through repeated beatings from her husband who attacks her for the
same reasons he reportedly married her: dark skin and lack of education. Third, by repeatedly
accessing a “core” of identity, her repeated appeals to God to heal her husband and to turn him
into a loving being have not garnered change in her husband, leaving Julia to continually be let
down and psychologically scarred. This psychological trauma does not end when Julia is exiled,
but rather she continues to maintain strong ties to her religion and continually prays to God on
behalf of her husband, Asdrubal. As always, she asks for “seulement la force de pas mollir avant
de retourner” to Guadeloupe, and to her abusive husband (Pineau 67). 154 While this specific
incident of abuse is not similar to most exile situations, the desire to return to the homeland is a
common occurrence.
Julia does not assimilate well to life in France. She especially does not like to live behind
doors or windows and “elle ne se trouve pas à sa place en Île-de-France, dans l’étroitesse d’un
appartement. Mais c’est ça ou la mort au Pays, nous dit-on à voix basse” (Pineau 8). 155 In
152
“they loved their country, yes, but with an ambivalent love, like a love fro m one’s youth that one cannot manage
to forget even though it bore no fru it” (Exile 17)
153
“Deliverance” (Exile 18)
154
“only the strength not to give up before returning” to Guadeloupe, and to her abusive husband (Exile 46)
155
“she does not feel at ho me in Ile-de-France, in the narrow confines of an apartment. But it’s either that or death
Back Ho me, they tell us in wh ispers” (Exile 8)
240
addition, she is grappling with the loss of her lover, no matter how destructive their relationship
may have been.
Before she had her grand exile across the sea, she first was exiled to Ilet Pérou, “dans une
maison de bois et roches” for three days while awaiting her trip (Pineau 37). 156 During this time
and during her time in France, Julia vacillates between being angry with Asdrubal and
unconditionally loving him. One moment she is upset that he has tricked her into staying with
him and waiting for him to return from war, and the next she is questioning as to why her family
“obligée à laisser son époux devant Dieu” (Pineau 37). 157 Regardless, she always arrives at the
same solution for remedying the situation of leaving Asdrubal and her homeland, and it is that
“elle veut une seule chose, retourner sur sa terre de Guadeloupe…elle ne philosophe pas sur le
pourquoi et le comment de l’attachement à sa terre,” rather she allows herself to feel the
attachment and to follow her heart to where she feels she belongs (Pineau 137). 158 Her nostalgia
for the life she once lived in Guadeloupe and her utopian ideal have idealized Guadeloupe and
her life in Guadeloupe such that she is not able to recognize the negative aspects of this life.
Julia’s negative experience in France is not entirely due to the means in which she
arrived, but rather due to a conglomeration of many negative situations, including her failing
health and the psychological scars from her abusive husband. It is physically difficult for an
older woman to travel to an entirely different climate after spending her entire life in the warm
sun, dealing only with the rainy season or the dry season. In addition, racism is rampant, Julia
does not speak French, and she is not educated according to European standards, and Julia is
grieving her losses. In a private moment, Julia shares her personal thoughts:
Mon Dieu, la froidure entre dans la chair et perce jusqu’aux os. Tous ces Blancslà comprennent pas mon parler. Et cette façon qu’ils ont à me regarder comme si
j’étais une creature sortie de la côte de Lucifer. Faut voir ça pour le croire. À mon
retour en Guadeloupe, je raconterai à Léa que Là-Bas, la France, c’est un pays de
désolation. (Pineau 55) 159
156
“in a house made of wood and stones” (Exile 22)
“[her family] forced her to leave the man who is her husband in the sight of God?” (Exile 23)
158
“she wants only one thing, to go back to her land in Guadeloupe…she does not ponder or question the why and
the how of the attachment to her land” (Exile 102)
159
My God, the cold gets into your flesh and goes to your very bones. All these whites don’t understand my
language. And this way they have of looking at me as if I were a creature who came out of Lucifer’s side. You have
to see it to believe it. When I go back to Guadeloupe, I will tell Léa that Over-there, France, is a country of
desolation (Exile 37)
157
241
It is much harder for an older individual to assimilate, especially when her physical appearance is
always making her easily visible. Julia turns to staying indoors and watching a lot of television,
where she finds a role model in Josephine Baker, who says that she has two loves, her homeland
and Paris, but that she is always caught between “admiration et défiance” (Pineau 104). 160 Julia
understands this feeling.
Julia “connaît rien de ce pays,” leaving her in a very vulnerable position (Pineau 65). 161
In this state, she does not question what she is told to do but rather “elle fa it tout comme on lui
dit: Porter des chaussettes kaki (de l’armée française) et des charentaises marron. Faut pas
prendre froid. Rester à côté du poêle pour se reposer des années de labeur et misère. Boire.
Manger,” and takes each day at a time in order to survive the homesickness and significant
changes that she has undergone at this advanced stage of life (Pineau 65). 162 While the family
believes they are doing everything they can for Julia in order to stave off her homesickness and
melancholy, they have only treated her corporal ailments. The family does not think to “on
donne pas nourriture à son esprit qui ne cesse de tourner les pensées et sombrer dans la peine”
(Pineau 65). 163 Even the doctors have no remedy for homesickness other than medications. Of
course, Julia cannot fathom taking hoards of pills because she only remembers life in
Guadeloupe where there was a particular plant or herb that could heal her much better.
She misses the sun on her skin and the soil in her hands – neither of which can be
replaced with medications. However, the only element of this new life in Paris “qu’elle critique
ouvertement c’est la porte. Cette unique porte pour entrer et sortir de l’appartement. Une seule
porte qu’il faut tenir fermée à clé toute la journée, même par grand soleil” (Pineau 81). 164 In
Guadeloupe, Julia was accustomed to open airways and there was not one single door in her
home. The more compartmentalized the indoor and outdoor areas are, the more Julia closes
herself off. The only time she seems to be able to communicate her emotions and true feelings
are in prayer.
This spiritual nourishment fills her to the point that “quand Man Ya [Julia] a prié tout son
soul, elle n’a ni faim ni soif,” but these daily prayers prove to provide less and less nourishment
160
“admirat ion and mistrust” (Exile 75)
“knows nothing of this country” (Exile 45)
162
“she does everything as she is told: Wear khaki socks (like the French army) and brown furry slippers. You
mustn’t catch cold. Stay beside the stove to rest from years of labor and poverty. Drink. Eat” (Exile 45)
163
“nourish her spirit, which never stops turning over thought and foundering in sorrow” (Exile 45)
164
“that she openly criticizes is the door. That one single door to go in and out of the apartment. One solitary door
that has to be kept locked all day long, even when the sun is shining bright” (Exile 57)
161
242
the longer she is away from Guadeloupe (Pineau 91). 165 For example, Julia uses her prayers to
get her through the first winter in France, “mais quand elle comprend qu’il revient chaque année,
elle vit dans l’espérance du seul été, mélangeant l’ordre de presentation des automne et
printemps” (Pineau 100). 166 Regadless of Julia’s attempts to assimilate, she just ends up feeling
more lost each time she parts with one of her “core” or “rough edge” Guadeloupian values.
Her family does not understand that Julia is having a hard time assimilating and that she
does not feel the same as them about France. Julia’s grandchildren assume that she is not
intelligent because she cannot write and they reject all Guadeloupian customs that she brings to
the home. The children will not even speak to her in Creole, but rather respond to her Creole in
French; this hurts Julia. Later in life, Gisèle wonders “que se passe-t- il dans l’esprit d’une vieille
femme qui se trouve à l’école de ses petits-enfants,” whereas Julia has opposing ideas on
knowledge and intelligence (Pineau 93). 167 While Julia knows that she does not fit the accepted
norm of intelligence by European standards, she wonders “est-ce qu’un jour cette marmaille
saura authentifier les feuilles de l’arbre à pain, celles du corrosolier” because “les enfants qui
poussent là, dans la geôle de ces maisons en dur, perdent assurément le chemin du bon sens, à
rôder qu’ils sont, si loin des essences de la vie” (Pineau 128). 168 As Gisèle will come to
understand later in life, both types of knowledge are valuable, but only her grandmother’s
knowledge can teach her about the family’s roots and who she is.
One of the keys in Gisèle’s pursuit to access her family’s roots is the Creole language that
her grandmother speaks. According to Marx, “[wo]men make their history, but they do not make
it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chose by themselves, but under
circumstances directly found, given and transmitted from the past” (qtd. in Bolland 18). 169 For
Gisèle, her life history can only be made under the guidance of the circumstances given her from
the past. In this case, Gisèle must allow the hybridity and Creole language characteristic of the
Caribbean to influence her present and help her to make decisions for her future. The decision
whether to use the Creole language or French is a common conflict for many Guadeloupeans.
165
“when Man Ya [Julia] has prayed to her heart’s content, she is n either hungry nor thirsty” (Exile 66)
“but, when she understands that it comes back again every year, she lives in the hope of summer alone, confusing
the order of the coming of autumn and spring” (Exile 72)
167
“what goes on in the mind of an old wo man who finds herself in her g randchildren’s school” (Exile 67)
168
“one day will these children be able to identify the leaves of the breadfruit tree, those of the soursop” because
“the children who are growing up there, in the prison of these concrete houses, are surely losing the way to good
sense, wandering about so far fro m the essences of life” (Exile 94)
169
Marx, Karl. “The Eighteenth Bru maire of Louis Bonaparte”
166
243
The term Creole is used throughout the world in many different contexts. In this work,
Creole will be used to refer to the hybrid culture created from mixing in the Caribbean as well as
the many varieties of Creole language spoken in the Caribbean. Virginia Dominguez says, “a
single definition of the term Creole may have been adequate for all of these [worldwide]
societies during the early stages of European expansion, but as the Creole populations of these
colonies (or former colonies) established diverse social, political, and economic positions for
themselves over the years, Creole acquired diverse meanings,” due to diverse representations of
hybridity (qtd. in Bolland 1). 170 Nigel Bolland shares one current understandings of the term
Creole: “something or somebody derived from the Old World but developed in the New”
(Bolland 1). Edward Kamau Braithwaite shares that “the word ‘creole’ is commonly… said to
derive ‘from a combination of two Spanish words criar (to create, to imagine, to establish, to
found, to settle) and colon (a colonist, a founder, a settler) into criollo: a committed settler, one
identified with the area of settlement, one native to the settlement though not ancestrally
indigenous to it” (qtd. in Burton 2). Therefore, in regards to both Creole language and Creole
culture, the emphasis is on the process of transformation due to the mixing of one or more
cultures or languages to produce a distinctly new product. In regards to Creole culture, H. Adlai
Murdoch notes the importance of creolization, as it “becomes a power for reversing the
processes of acculturation (or assimilation), deculturation, discontinuity, and marginalization that
have affected the entire Caribbean” (5). Therefore, creolization prevents a need for complete
acceptance or complete resistance against the dominant lanague.
This mixing of language to create a Creole product has created a diglossic, and in some
areas, polyglossic society. While diglossia previously referred to “one particular type of
standardization where two varieties of a language exist side by side throughout the community,
with each having a definite role to play,” the understanding of a diglossia has evolved (Ferguson
qtd. in Winford 345). According to Fishman, sometimes the term is used to describe bilingual
communities or “any society in which two or more varieties are used under different
circumstances” (Winford 345). 171 More recently, Tabouret-Keller makes light of the use of
diglossia as “synonymous with the inequality of the roles which each of the languages present in
a complex situation could serve, and of the corresponding inequality of values which each of
170
171
Virgina R. White by Definition: Social Classification in Creole Louisiana
Fish man, J.A. Advances in the Sociology of Language
244
them represents” (qtd. in Winford 345-6). Winford speaks to the importance of diglossia as “the
result of the valuation of the resultant functional differentiation,” indicating that the use of each
language in a bilingual society is oftentimes very specific or exists within a continuum of
appropriate circumstances; this is the case we will see with the use of various Creole languages
in the Francophone Caribbean (Winford 347).
According to Gertrud Aub-Buscher, “at least two languages have been in common use in
the islands since the eighteenth century: a form of French (not necessarily that of Paris), and the
French- lexifier Creole which arose as a result of the contact between French colonizers and
African slaves coming from a variety of linguistic backgrounds. French has functioned as the
official language, the language of the elite, of administration and education, while Creole has
been the mother tongue of most, the only language of much of the rural population and known by
all except recent arrivals from France” (1). The specific uses of each of these languages has
relegated Creole to a lower position of respect and legitimacy in the realms of intellectuals
(linguists) as well as users of the language itself. Currently in the Francophone Caribbean, Haiti
is the only nation that “identifies its Creole language as a national language within its
constitution,” yet many believe that the true test of a citizen’s education and greatest determinant
of status in the region is the ability to flawlessly use both Creole a nd French (Carrington 42).
Historically, “the spread of general education from the métropole to the colonies and
from the upper classes to the masses, has determined the norm that education be available in the
official language of a country,” and French has maintained dominance and respect over Creole,
even amongst speakers of the language (Carrington 42). However, in recent decades the
language status quo has begun to change and Creole has begun to appear in many more contexts
than it previously had. The mere inclusion of Creole, as well as the more inclusive use of Creole
throughout the Francophone Caribbean has taken many steps before being incorporated into
areas that were previously reserved for French. According to Aub- Buscher, the “most important
of these steps is the development of a standard orthography, since in the modern text-oriented
world the lack of an established written tradition is a serious handicap in the attempt to raise the
status of a language. The spelling of Creoles has always been an emotive subject: systems
reflecting that of the lexifier language have the advantage of being easy to read for those who are
already literate in that language but perpetuate the illogicalities of its system and get in the way
of seeing Creole as a language in its own right, while a codification of the phonemic system of
245
Creole is deemed to be difficult to read and poses the problem of which phonetic system” (AubBuscher 6-7). One of the main drives to get the Creole language more fully incorporated into
more registers was the church system. Carrington points out that “the churches have always
understood what other educators have failed to grasp, namely that people learn best in their own
languages” (Carrington 42). While the importance of the role of Creo le in improved education
practices remains debated, another factor contributing to a greater desire to create a more
inclusive linguistic environment in the French Caribbean is an increased interest in political
independence for the French Departments.
The role of Creole in school systems has traditionally been used only as a means to
bridge the gap between students who are native speakers of Creole, but are required to be
educated in French. Outside of the formal education system, Creole has broken into other forms
of media in the region. One of the most important factors of inclusion of Creole in written media
is that “writing systems have been developed for all of the Creoles of the region…Haitian has in
fact gone through several official writing systems and has finally stabilized its current system
without further change over the last 15 years” (Carrington 45-6). However, this codification of
Creole has not necessarily made it more accessible or useful since “the writing system of Haitian
may be known among the literate who also use French, but is not available to the vast majority of
the population who do not” in addition to the fact that “the absence of provision for the teaching
of literacy through the Creole languages means that only persons who have been made literate
through the official languages can have access to the vernacular language in writing” (Carrington
46). Thus, a situation is created where the educated have full access to both languages, while
native speakers of Creole must first learn French in order to be fully educated in the written use
of Creole.
Not surprisingly, “the use of Creole languages in radio broadcasts is much more
widespread than it is in print” (Carrington 46). In news broadcasting, French maintains
dominance, although quotes and clips do appear in Creole, if that is the language in which it was
originally written or stated. Radio broadcasting has significantly increased due to more FM
broadcasting stations through the region, creating an intense “competition to fill the several
niches of popular appeal with a resultant increase in the number of programmes, advertisements
and other communications that station operators consider must be broadcast in Creole,” although
“the motive force for the growth of broadcasting is not the language itself but rather the
246
marketing considerations which require that one reach every potential buyer of products in the
society” (Carrington 47). Thus, the market has a strong role in the race to reach consumers.
As of late, “recent discussion has instead centred on the notion of the continuum, a model
which sees not opposition between two languages but a system in which the practice of speakers
varies depending on their own competence, the topic, the context, their interlocutors, and so on,
along a notional line stretching from the basilect, the purest rural Creole, to the acrolect, the
system nearest to the standard language, that is, French” (Aub-Buscher 3). Rather than treating
the language as competitive codes, Creole has begun to gain respect as it is more commonly used
in more circumstances. One important situation in which Creole was not being used in the past,
but is being used now, is education. While, in the past, teachers were prohibited from using
Creole in the classroom, the language is not only accepted in the classroom, but is promoted.
One obstacle does remain for the futher inclusion of Creole in the classroom and that is the lack
of trained teachers who are officially qualified to teach the language. However, Aub Buscher
believes that “with trained teachers officially allowed to teach the language and to use it as a
medium of instruction for subjects related to the local context, the future for Creole seems
bright” (Aub-Buscher 11). By teaching subjects related to the local context, success of Creole in
the classroom can then be extended to other areas of instruction.
Although there is a clear attempt for a mutual respect for all languages on the continuum
between dominant and vernacular, this movement for the inclusion of Creo le, as well as “the
image of the Creole culture and a Creole society emphasises social unity: the new nation as a
creole community” (Bolland 2). Conversely, the attempt for inclusion creates an image of a
simple “‘blending’ process, a mixing of cultures that occurs without reference to structural
contradictions and social conflicts” (Bolland 17). The process of inclusion and the organization
of languages on a continuum necessarily represent “the language situations existing in the
Caribbean [as] mirrors through which the complex cultural history of the region may be
observed” (Marvyn Alleyne qtd.in Bolland 18). Many individuals in the region still believe that a
profound knowledge and flawless use of French is a necessary tool for climbing the social
ladder, and feel it a psychological game when told that French is not necessary, as demonstrated
in the following observation: ‘Sé moun ki ja konnèt pale fwansé ki ka di lézot pa bizouen-I’ (It’s
people who already know French who tell others that they don’t need it” (Bebel- Gisler qtd. in
Aub-Buscher 5). This power-play is a representation of the ambivalent nature of a diglossic
247
society. As a whole, Aub-Buscher notes that “even strong defenders of Creole have never
suggested that French should be eliminated,” as both languages contribute to the richness of the
culture and society (Aub-Buscher 10).
Despite continued integration, “paradoxically, some of the threats to the purity of Creole
derive from its own success” because the language has had to morph to some degree in order to
be used in everyday contexts and registers in which it previously did not exist. These mixed
feelings amongst speakers of the language have caused some to retract language and others to
extend its uses due to the continued success of its integration in spaces previously reserved for
only the dominant language.
In Exil Selon Julia, we see that Julia is not able to speak the dominant language of the
island, but has never had a need to in Guadeloupe. However, upon her arrival in France, she is
immediately marginalized for her linguistic skills, as well as other factors. Julia longs for her
pays natal and wishes her grandchildren would converse with her. Gisèle has a similar
experience upon her return to Guadeloupe. She realizes that although she was raised with the
dominant language and taught to reject everything Creole, she can only connect with her true
identity through Creole culture and language, as represented in her grandmother. Language is
closely related to memory and culture, creating a stronger sense of nostalgia for Julia when she is
removed from her homeland.
As we have seen, Julia is consumed with nostalgia and longing for her homeland upon
her arrival in France. This nostalgia only becomes stronger the longer she is away from
Guadeloupe. As with many exiled individuals, Julia continues “endure ce manque, le pomponner
ou le couver, c’est souffrances assurées et soupirs. C’est habiter Là-Bas, habité par le Pays”
(Pineau 121). 172 As with many who are exiled to a new location, all asp ects of life are consumed
with thinking about home and conjuring ways to bring home closer. Food is a common custom
that is recreated in the new location, and Julia is no exception. She “quête parfums et plaisirs de
bouche auprès de la mémoire” in order to try to “réinventer une mer caraïbe” (Pineau 121). 173
Man Ya also finds great solace in imagining her return to her homeland and “alors, elle attend
tous les jours le demain qui lui portera son billet de retour,” the ticket that will not only take her
172
“enduring this emptiness, wallowing in it or brooding over it, [which] means sure suffering and sighs. It means
liv ing Over-There, preoccupied by Ho me” (Exile 89)
173
“memory, go[es] in search of odors and the joys of tasting” in order to try to “reinvent a Caribbean sea” (Exile
89)
248
physically back to her home, but will also allow her to return to the person she knows she is and
to leave behind the questioning of identity that she has been grappling with throughout her time
in France (Pineau 130). 174
For Julia, her identity is deeply rooted in her homeland. For this reason, her body remains
in France, but her spirit is constantly living between France and Guadeloupe. The family is
aware of Julia’s withdrawn state and Gisèle explains that “l’esprit de Man Ya a coutume de
monter et descendre ainsi entre Guadeloupe et France. Ce n’est pas une affaire pour elle. Même
si son corps est condamné à rester ici- là, ça ne change rien” (Pineau 68). 175 Gisèle is the only
family member who gets to know her grandmother well enough to truly be gin to understand the
Guadeloupean spirit that envelops her. Through understanding her grandmother’s culture and her
heritage, Gisèle then “comprend[s] mieux la mélancolie de Man Ya, sa peur de mourir ici là, sur
une terre muette où les arbres 176 n’ont pas d’oreilles, le ciel et les nuages barrent le soufflé des
anges, où le temps marche en conquérant, sans jamais regarder derière lui, piétinant toutes
choses” (Pineau 117-8). 177 Julia must return to Guadeloupe before she dies, or she risks the death
of her spirit.
Julia believes that her spirit can only live on in the trees of Guadeloupe where her
ancestors lie, and where she hopes her grandchildren will return to. Although Julia wants to
return to Guadeloupe and she wants to keep her offspring close as well, she understands that
each must decide for themselves. She believes that “si un jour, ils s’en viennent à Routhiers, ils
seront pas perdus” (Pineau 118). 178 She has given her children and grandchildren the roots they
were unaware that they desired, but she cannot make them fee l for Guadeloupe what she does.
For Julia, Guadeloupe is her home, and her home is her identity. Therefore, Guadeloupe is her
identity. She describes her return to Guadeloupe as “’la déliverance’…when the day finally
174
“so, she waits every day for the tomorrow that will bring her return ticket” (Exile 96)
“Man Ya’s spirit is used to going back and forth like th is between Guadeloupe and France. For her, it ’s nothing
big. Even if her body is condemned to remain here, that does not change anything” (Exile 47)
176
In Haitian literature, the image of the tree is often used as a metaphor to represent the importance of roots and
connections to the past. With origins in West African tradition, the Caribbean Voo doo relig ion, it is believed that the
loas (divine spirits) and spirits of ancestors past inhabit the branches of the tree. Therefore, the tree is an important
entity when it co mes to keeping connections to the past. In the novel, Julia does not want to die in France because
she must be surrounded by the trees that her ancestors inhabit in order to maintain contact with them and, in turn, her
roots.
177
“understand[s] Man Ya’s melancholy better, her fear of dying here, in a silent land where the trees don’t have
ears, where the sky and the clouds block the breath of the angels, where time marches on, a conqueror, without ever
looking behind him, tramp ling on all things” (Exile 86)
178
“if one day they should come along to Routhiers, they will not be lost. [She has] laid down the path” (Exile 87)
175
249
comes for her to go,” emphasizing the opposing belief system her family once shared when
referring to her exile from Guadeloupe as “la déliverance” (Githire, 85-6).
The second exile that appears in the novel is that of Julia’s granddaughter, Gisèle, the
narrator of the novel. While Gisèle was born in France, she is marginalized because of her skin
color and Creole heritage. Although a significant amount of Guadeloupeans relocated to France
after World War II, and although these individuals were considered partial citizens of France due
to their colonial history, they were not treated as equals. Gisèle’s family lived in the geographical
outskirts of the city as well as living in the margins of society. Suez indicates that “Aziz and
Lavertu emphasize that among those who move to France as children, four out of five never
return to their islands of origin. 179 Caribbean culture is an integral part of the French nation, even
if its presence there is often unwelcome” (Suárez 17). This representation of living in exile while
in one’s birthplace is representative of the author’s own experiences in France. Pineau also
recalls that even though she was “born in France, she went to Africa as a young child; but that
continent is only a vague memory” (King 848). As represented in this autobiographical novel,
Gisèle was rejected in both France and Africa, and only accepted later in life upon her return to
Guadeloupe.
Giséle has an exile experience that is greatly different from her grandmother’s, but Gisèle
herself has been confronted with all the same issues as her grandmother, except for an abusive
husband. Giséle must learn to try to fit in with her French counterparts at school, but she is
continually singled out for her ethnicity, even though she was born in the country and her French
language is perfect. Giséle only develops nostalgia for Guadeloupe, a land she has never visited,
when her grandmother arrives from the Caribbean island. For Giséle, her idea of home is only
developed through her grandmother’s stable grounding. Giséle comes to know her grandmother
as home, and therefore as the base of her identity.
Giséle again deals with many of the same issues of assimilation, language choice, and
identity upon her arrival in Guadeloupe, but this time the process is very different. Giséle has a
strong sense of self and identity through her relationship with her grandmother and her heritage,
so her arrival in Guadeloupe is one of strengthening and stabilizing her understanding of identity,
rather than the unstable experience she had in France.
179
For mo re informat ion, see: Aziz, Jean-Sammy and Jacques Lavertu. “Les projets de mig ration DOM-Métropole”
250
As explained by Stuart Hall, identity is determined by circumstances, in place in time,
allowing for changes from time to time, as either circumstances or personal beliefs and feelings
change. 180 Thus, it would be expected that Gisèle question her identity in some fashion once her
circumstances had been altered by the arrival of her grandmother. Although these changes in the
identity process can function as a safeguard to aid in the assimilation process, it can also leave an
individual feeling unstable, or without roots. Oftentimes in Francophone literature, the metaphor
of a tree is used to represent roots and a stable location, and the leaves to represent changes in
seasons or stages of life. Gisèle reflects on her own identity process and how difficult it was to
understand her own identity process when she felt as though she were not grounded or rooted to
anything specific. She explains that
en un petit moment, tu comprends que tu n’as jamais su quelle personne tu étais,
ce que tu es venue chercher sur cette terre. Tu suspends ta vie aux grosses lianes
que te jettent des arbres. Tu cours, tu vas. Des feuilles mortes crient sous tes
pieds. Tu ramasses des cailloux pour gagner ta maison, ta famille perdue. Est ce
qu’ils t’ont abandonnée? Tu ne said pas. Une rivière t’appelle. Tu veux la
remonter, marcher dans ses eaux tout entravées de roches. Tomber. Te relever. Et
puis, te laisser emporter. 181 (Pineau 58)
Again, the reference to trees throwing lianas in an attempt to rescue a lost individual and return
them to their roots indicates a need to return to one’s heritage and homeland in order to find her
true identity.
Julia’s departure from France has a profound impact on Gisèle. She feels that Julia’s
“absence est une presence aussi tenace que la nostalgie qui nous l’a enlevée” (Pineau 138). 182
Gisèle begins to ponder her heritage and her roots to Guadeloupe. She decides that she too wants
to return to a place that is her own, a place where she is accepted and whe re she can advance her
process of identity, but her triple consciousness has delayed and marred the path. Gisèle has
decided: “Je veux bien retourner dans mon pays. Mais quel pays? Quelle Afrique? L’Afrique du
temps d’armée de papa ne revient plus à ma mémoire qu’en déballages irréels. Je veux
180
For mo re informat ion, see: Chapter 2 of this dissertation.
“in one brief mo ment, you understand that you have never know the person you were, what you came to seek on
this earth. You hang your life on the thick lianas that the threes throw to you. You run, you keep going. Dead leaves
cry out under your feet. You p ick up stones in order to get back to your house, your lost family. Have they
abandoned you? You don’t know. A river is calling you. You want to go back up it, walk in its waters encumbered
with rocks. Fall. Get up again. And then let yourself be carried away ” (Exile 39)
182
“absence is a presence as tenacious as the homesickness that took her away fro m us” (Exile 104)
181
251
m’approprier, pour mon restant de vie, des visions claires et palpable” (Pineau 139-40). 183 And if
not Africa, she debates whether she should try Guadeloupe where she had only visited and lived
vicariously through her grandmother’s stories.
In order to deal with these feelings and thoughts, Gisèle begins to “écrire pour s’inventer
des existences” (Pineau 140). 184 It is at this point that Gisèle begins to write her grandmother’s
stories and her own identity. She imagines what her life in Guadeloupe would be like and how
she could more easily assimilate to life in Guadeloupe and recapture the years she lost there than
staying in France and trying to integrate into the cultural norm. Gisèle spends the remainder of
her time in France writing about and dreaming about her return to Guadeloupe. Once her family
has decided to return and makes the voyage back to the Caribbean, Gisèle feels similar to many
who have immigrated and eventually returned to their homeland: “prendre conscience qu’enfin,
nous sommes rendus à destination, comprendre que nos pieds foulent bien ce sol si longtemps
rêvé, est un exercice mental douloureux et violent” (Pineau 175). 185 The family’s arrival in
Guadeloupe is a chance to start over and, for Gisèle, to recapture years and experiences that had
been lost. As a positive affirmation from Mother Nature, five plagues attack the region, including
a hurricane, representative of destruction of the old, making way for the new.
In the section of the novel titled “Les cinq plaies du retour au pays pas natal”, Gisèle
confirms God’s plan for the region and for her family indicating that the disastrous hurricane
brought upon “par le courroux de Dieu” is “pour dire qu’on peut recommencer à vivre” (Pineau
205).186 Julia is surprised by the return of her offspring, as she was not aware they had decided to
return. Giséle’s mother observes that her children prefer to speak Creole in their new location
and she wonders why she thought the language would never be useful to them a nd chose not to
teach it to them, along with all their Creole customs. Gisèle is finally able to express her true
identity, even after her Man Ya’s death. For Gisèle, her grandmother “n’est jamais partie, jamais
sortie de mon coeur. Elle peut aller et virer à n’importe quell moment dans mon esprit” (Pineau
183
“I would really like to go back to my country. But wh ich country? Which Africa? The Africa o f the time when
Papa was in the army only co mes back to my memory in unreal shreds. I want to appropriate clear and definit ive
visions, for the remainder o f my life” (Exile 104-5)
184
“write to invent existences for [her]self” (Exile 105)
185
“at last we have reached our destination, understanding that indeed our feet are treading this soil, d reamed of for
so long, [it] is a painful and violent mental exercise. We are really in the West Indies. In Martinique. Guadeloupe is
very near” (Exile 132)
186
“The Five Plagues of the Return to the Native Land”, Gisèle confirms God’s plan for the region and for her
family indicating that the disastrous hurricane brought upon “by the wrath of God” is “to tell us that we could start
liv ing again” (Exile 155)
252
219).187 And Gisèle is thankful for the ease in which her grandmother’s spirit can travel through
the roots and trees of Guadeloupe, Gisèle’s home.
Throughout the novel, the adults continually inundate the children with ideas of
Guadeloupe as a terrible place with nothing to offer, so it is surprising to Gisèle that she could
find such fulfillment in her Guadeloupean heritage. As a child she is introduced to the traumatic
collective national memory when told that “le sommeil est plus fort que la mort. Il transporte
dans un monde inconnu qui couve à l’intérieur. Il déterre et ressuscite les temps oubliés, les
vieilles blessures et les peurs sans visage. Il pose en spectateur, motile, saigne, écartèle” (Pineau
50).188 Trauma survivors oftentimes have recurring memories and anxiety due to the experiences
they have had. 189 The way that the adults in the generation of Gisèle’s parents deal with this
trauma is by reminding their children that long ago “[Guadeloupe] was a land of slavery, which
no longer has anything good in it” and are told to avoid asking “de bon pour vous au Pays” but
rather “profitez pour France” and all the good things it has to offer (Pineau 28). 190
In regards to the traumatic memory of slavery, the nation suffers as a whole, but in Julia’s
case, she suffers a second degree of trauma due to her abusive husband. Firstly, she suffers the
aftereffects of colonization, such as poverty, lack of access to education, and racial prejudice.
This trauma is exacerbated by her relationship with Asdrubal, le Bourreau. Julia is aware that her
husband never loved her, but chose her to upset his father because her skin is so dark. Asdrubal
“jamais parlé [d’elle] comme à une personne. Toujours comme à son esclave” (Pineau 106). 191
For Julia, slavery has never ended and neither have the traumas associated with it because she
relives them every day.
Just like slavery had been abolished and reinstated more than once in Guadeloupe, Julia
continues to deal with this cyclical pattern of hope and disappointment. These learned emotions
plague Gisèle as well. For her, “l’idée de l’esclavage habita [ses] nuits” and the nation as a
187
“has never gone away, never left [her] heart. She can co me and go at any mo ment in my spirit” (Exile 166)
“sleep is stronger than death. It transports you to an unknown world brooding within you. It unearths and
reawakens forgotten eras, old wounds, and faceless fears. It makes you a spectator, mutilates you, bleeds you, tears
you apart” (Exile 32-3)
189
LaCapra postulates that “a crucial way of attempting to allay an xiety is to locate a particu lar or specific th ing that
could be feared and thus enable one to find ways of eliminating or mastering that fear” (“Trau ma” 706 -7). A lthough
an attempt at removal of all an xiety can be made, LaCapra is clear that oftentimes the victim must learn to live with
it.
189
For mo re informat ion, see: LaCapra, Do minick. "Trau ma, Absence, Loss"
190
“[Guadeloupe] was a land of slavery, which no longer has anything good in it” and are told to avoid asking
“about the past” but rather to “take advantage of France” (Exile 16)
191
“never spoke to [her] like a person. Always like his slave” (Exile 77)
188
253
whole, as “ils attendaient voir, voulaient pas s’habituer aux rites de la liberté nouvelle, restaient
petrifies dans un genre de méfiance, toujours guettant le retour des temps raides d’esclavage”
(Pineau 114). 192 More so than other Caribbean nations, and in different ways, Guadeloupe and its
people keep the trauma of slavery in the forefront of their minds.
An important element of identity formation for exiled individuals is the prejudices they
experience as a result of their assimilation process and their slowly attained abilities to transgress
the imaginary lines of marginalized society and enter the soc ial norm. Amongst the similarities
of exiled individuals and Gisèle’s experience with dealing with racism are blatant prejudicial
behavior, very few role models who are similar, harassing behavior from figures in power, a
search for inspiration, and acceptance of herself once she is on a path to identity.
As with many exiled individuals, Giséle deals with blatant prejudicial behavior from both
adults and children alike. As many parents would instruct, her manman tells her to not pay
attention to their words and behavior. Giséle finds this difficult because she has few role models
to base herself on. During the 1960s when this novel takes place, Gisèle’s family lived in a
housing project surrounded by whites (Pineau 12). Although, “bien sûr, il se trouvait un, deux
Blancs qui disaient nous aimer bien, affirmaient que nous n’étions pas comme les autres Nègres”
but there were only “un, deux pour tant d’autres que voyaient la peau noire comme une
salissure” (Pineau 80). 193 Even those adults Giséle did not expect to be racist turned out to be just
that.
After repetitive racist remarks from her teacher and classmates, Giséle comes to the
realization that “les grandes personnes portent des masques et que les tapes amicales sur la tête
devancent souvent des coups de règle sur les doigts” (Pineau 60). 194 She was punished for
succeeding and for progressing quicker than her white counterparts. Upon her arrival in class,
while doing a writing exercise, the teacher negatively represents Giséle’s abilities by
announcing: “Les enfants! La Noire a déjà finis a copie! Alors, vous pouvez le faire aussi,”
indicating that it was acceptable for whites to treat blacks in this way (Pineau 60). 195
192
“the idea of slavery occupied [her] n ights” and the nation as a whole, as “they remained paralyzed in a sort of
mistrust, always expecting the return of the hard times of slavery” and the pain and open wounds that would
accompany its reinstatement (Exile 83)
193
“of course, there were one or t wo wh ites who said they liked us well enough, who maintained t hat we were not
like other blacks” but there were only”one or two for so many others who saw black skin as a stain” (Exile 56)
194
“grown-ups wear masks and that friendly taps on the head are often a prelude to raps on the fingers with a ru ler”
(Exile 41)
195
“Ch ildren! The black girl has already finished! So you can do it too” (Exile 41)
254
Although these instances affect Giséle, with the strength she gains through her
relationship with her grandmother, she “[sourit] quand la maîtresse depose son indifference sur
[ses] épaules. [Elle n’a] besoin de son regard pour vivre et grandir” (Pineau 63). 196 Giséle
believes: “même si cette maîtresse ne me voit pas, je veux croire que d’autres me verront,
m’entendront, m’aimeront,” and she also believes that her thoughts and utterances are important
(Pineau 63). 197
In addition to Giséle’s relationship with her grandmother and her mother, she draws
inspiration from the stories of Anne Frank. Giséle is an astute child who understands her
circumstances and that of others in situations similar to that of her own. Anne Frank’s
experiences that cause Giséle to feel that “des fils invisibles [les] relient pour que [les] restions
debout sur la terre” and helps Giséle to deal with the negative experiences she encounters in
France (Pineau 154). 198
Gender and female relationships are important in the telling of exile and the path to self
identity. As with many Caribbean nations, it is the female lineage that preserves family history
and identity. This holds true with the relationships between Julia, Daisy, and Giséle. When Julia
first arrives in France, Giséle has little in common with her. As the two spend more time
together, it “cependant nous apprend à la mieux connaître. Son parler créole nous semble moins
obscure. Ses manières un peu rustres, ses mimiques et ses gestes nous deviennent familiers”
(Pineau 67). 199 Julia begins to share stories with Giséle, prompting a greater bond in their
relationship and strengthening both of their connections to their heritage. One story that
particularly changes Gisèle’s understanding of and connection to her Guadeloupean roots are the
stories “où les vivants et les morts se parlent naturellement pour régler les affaires de chacun”
(Pineau 117). 200 This story, along with careful observation of Julia, teaches Gisèle how to
maintain connections with her ancestral roots while paving the path for the future.
Another connection that Giséle and her grandmother is a bond based in education. While
Julia is not able to write, she does attempt to learn while reminding her grandchildren: “C’est
196
“smile[s] when the teacher lays her indifference on [her] shoulders. [She doesn’t] need her gaze to live and to
grow” (Exile 43)
197
“even if this teacher doesn’t see [her], [she does] believe that others will see [her], will hear [her], will love [her]”
(Exile 43)
198
“invisible threads link [them] together so that [they] can stay on [their] feet on earth” (Exile 115)
199
“teaches us to know her better. Her Creole speech seems less obscure to us. Her ways, a litt le rough, her co mical
expressions and her gestures become familiar to us” (Exile 47)
200
“where the liv ing and the dead speak to each other naturally to settle each individua l’s affairs” (Exile 84-5)
255
travailler qu’il faut, travailler! Aller à l’école pour pas devenir une bête, sans instruction comme
moi, qui connais même pas A” (Pineau 107). 201 While Man Ya does learn enough to at least sign
her name, she is supportive of this type of education, but also wants her grandchildren to learn
the things she has known in Guadeloupe. Gisèle recognizes that her grandmother is very
intelligent and educated, but in a very different way. It is through Gisèle’s education and writing
skills that Julia’s stories will be told.
King notes that “as often in Third World women’s writing, the grandmother’s generation
represents for the child a stability she cannot find in the generation of her parents, whose world
seems an imitation of France” (King 848). While it has historically been the male’s voice and
perception of history that is available in published form, Pineau notes that the ladies “se
découvrent des affinities, parlent marmaille, couture et tricot. Racontent aussi, pour témoigner de
leur appurtenance à ce tourbillion d’aventures,” and in doing so inscribe their place in history
(Pineau 5). 202 It is clear that Gisèle’s mother, Daisy, does not understand the value of this
storytelling process.
While still in France, Gisèle takes up writing as solace when Julia returns to Guadeloupe.
She begins writing the stories her grandmother has told her, which helps her to remember her
grandmother and to strengthen her ties to her past. At a time when Gisèle’s situation at school is
becoming more tense with her teacher, her mother scolds her, “tu passes ton temps à inventer des
histoires, à écrire des romans inutiles et tu caches la réalité au lieu de la mettre au grand jour.
Qu’est-ce que tu as dans la tête, ma fille? La vie, c’est pas des romans,” but her mother does not
know that Gisèle has begun to write her family’s history and pay homage to her grandmother
(Pineau 157). 203
Gisèle has a strong desire to seek out her family’s true history. She went to extremes, as
she tells: “j’ai feuilleté ce qui reste des albums de norte famille. C’était l’âge où je remuais des
questions en quantité. Je voulais des noms sur des visages. Je voulais des dates, des couleurs
apposées sur le noir et blanc des photos. Des humeurs. Des mots pour dire l’impalpable et
201
“You have to work, work! Go to school so you won’t become an idiot, with no education, like me, who doesn’t
even know A” (Exile 78)
202
“[the ladies] d iscover they have things in common, speak about children, sewing, knitting. In order to show that
they too belong to this exciting whirl o f adventures, they tell stories of their lives” (Exile 5)
203
“you spend your time making up stories, writ ing useless novels, and you hide real things instead of bringing them
out into the open. What do you have inside your head, my girl? Life is not a novel” (Exile 117)
256
l’immatériel, l’insignifiant et l’oublié” (Pineau 20). 204 For her family, photographs and memories
of the past were not that important. In her family, “personne ne s’y intéressait” and “si le cyclone
Hugo ne les avait pas emportées, ells seraient toujours là, sous la tôle, à prendre la poussière dans
un galetas” (Pineau 57). 205 It took the combination of education, longing, a search for identity,
and Gisèle’s desire to record her family’s history to spark interest again.
According to Suárez, “writing functions as the ideal weapon against the loss of a history
that is not official” (10). This goal is clear for Gisèle:
Dites- moi l’histoire vraie, je l’écrirai pour ceux qui viennent. Racontez- moi
encore et encore la vie emmêlée des vivants et des morts, je donnerai la vie aux
mots et la mort aux vieilles peurs. Je me ferai papier, encre et porte-plume pour
entrer dans la chair du Pays. 206 (Pineau 168)
By writing her family’s history, Gisèle hopes to put an end to the trauma of slavery and
postcolonial rule. She also hopes to create a new beginning for herself, for her family, for
Guadeloupe and for the Caribbean.
For Giséle, her Guadeloupean identity cannot be separated from her Caribbean identity.
When she “mange des lentilles, [elle] songe aux Antilles. Lentilles, Antilles. Est-ce qu’on peut
dire que la Guadeloupe est une Antille parmi tant d’autres qui forment les Antilles?...chaque
lentille est une terre que flotte sur une mer caraïbe marron,” all similar but different (Pineau
147).207 Gisèle understands the important foundation that Julia has laid for her Caribbean identity
formation having pointed out “les trios sentinelles, passé, present, future, qui tiennent les fils du
temps” and that have woven “un pont de corde solide entre Là-Bas et le Pays” (Pineau 218). 208
Now, Gisèle is relegated to documenting these relations.
204
“leafed through what is left of [their] family albums. It was the age when [she] was turning over lots of questions
in [her] mind. [She] wanted to put names to faces. [She] wanted d ates, [she] wanted to put colors on the black and
white photos. Moods. Words to express the ethereal and the elusive, the insignificant and the forgotten” (Exile 10)
205
“no one was interested in them” and “if Hurricane Hugo had not blown them away they would still be there,
under the zinc roof, gathering dust in a garret” (Exile 39)
206
“Tell me the true story; I will write it for those who are to come. Tell me over and over again about the
intertwined lives of the living and the dead; I will g ive life to the words and put old fears to death. I will make
myself paper, ink, and pen to enter into the flesh of the Country” (Exile 126)
207
“eat[s] lentils, [she] think[s] about the Antilles. Lentils, Antilles. Can you say that Guadeloupe is one island
among so many others that make up the Antilles?...each lentil is a land floating on a brown Caribbean Sea” ( Exile
109-10)
208
“the three sentinels, past, present, future, that hold the threads of time” and that have woven “a solid rope bridge
between Over There and Back Ho me” (Exile 165)
257
While this novel was not meant to be an entirely accurate and factual autobiography for
Pineau, in order for her “to claim her island as her authentic home space, to really understand its
secrets and silences, to write it into a larger international forum, she had to return to the Antilles”
(Suárez 11). In doing so, she has further inscribed her own Antillean identity.
Pineau’s L’Exil selon Julia represents many of the common threads of experience
running through exile. The specific experiences we have seen through the stories of Julia and
Gisèle take root in their special relationship with each other and with their homeland (or, in the
case of Gisèle, the land of her heritage). We have seen that the exile experience can be as unique
as each individual, and we have also seen some common elements of exile, such as prejudice,
marginalization, difficulty assimilating to a new culture, language use and loss, education,
nostalgia and homesickness, and the importance of one’s homeland in developing a stable
collective and individual identity. It is also important to note that in the Caribbean experience,
trauma and colonial rule play an important role in the identity process. We have also seen that
Gisèle finds her path to identity through her grandmother’s stability and strong link to the past
and to her heritage. Once Gisèle was able to identify with her grandmother as part of a greater
collective identity and to record her stories, Gisèle was then capable of determining her
individual identity.
In Behind the Mountains by Edwidge Danticat, exile and its effects take center stage.
Although this novel is intended for a young adult population, the protagonist, Celiane,
experiences the effects of diaspora through the eyes of a woman coming of age. As seen in
L’Exil selon Julia, Celiane also experiences the lingering effects of Haiti’s traumatic history of
slavery and colonization, as well as the traumatic rule of the tyrannical dictator, François
Duvalier 209 who was then succeeded by his son, Jean-Claude Duvalier. 210 Haiti also has a unique
colonization situation because although previously controlled by France, Haiti also suffered
under United States control from 1915-1934.211 Upon exile to the United States the Espérance
209
François Duvalier ruled Haiti fro m 1957-1971. He is referred to in Hait i as Papa Doc. While in power, he
directed the assassination of an estimated 30,000 Haitians who opposed his political stance.
210
Jean-Claude Duvalier succeeded François Duvalier and ruled Haiti fro m 1971-1986. In Haiti, he is referred to as
Bébé Doc. Under h is rule, thousands more Hait ians were assassinated. Many Haitians fled the country during this
time.
211
The United States Marines occupied Haiti during these years in order to maintain peace during political upheaval.
Following the removal of the U.S. Marines fro m Haiti in 1934, Dictator Rafael Tru jillo came to power in the
Do min ican Republic and launched the Parsley Massacre, in which Hait ians liv ing in the Do minican Republic were
massacred.
258
family continues to deal with racial prejudice, the language barrier, and homesickness that lead
to difficult paths to identity.
In Location of Culture, Homi Bhabha discusses the importance of language and culture
on an individual’s identity process. The factors contributing to identity formation can change
from one culture to another, from one time period to another, and from one person to the next. It
is imperative to “focus on those momements or processes that are produced in the articulation of
cultural differences. These ‘inbetween’ spaces provide the terrain for elaborating strategies of
selfhood – singular or communal – that initiate new signs of identity, and innovative sites of
collaboration, and contestation, in the act of defining the idea of society iteself” (Bhabha 2). As
Haitian immigrants in the United States, the Espérance family is located in the interstice of not
only Haitian and United States culture, but also African heritage.
One way for the exiled individual to assimilate to the dominant culture while maintaining
a strong connection to their homeland is to continue to use their native language on a daily basis.
When an islander does migrate to the United States, “the validation of Spanish is an important
initial impetus, even if that means, as in the phrase ‘my isla heritage,’ the inclusion of a Spanish
world in an English- language context” (Flores 188). By representing her heritage, the immigra nt
maintains an emotional connection with the island, despite immersion in a new culture.
According to Juan Flores, language serves an intergral role in maintaining and strengthening a
collective and individual identity.
The effects of exile on identity formation are apparent when the Espérance family must
endure many years of being apart while Papa goes to the United States first with the promise of
building a life and home for the Espérance family, who would later follow. However, it takes
much longer than anticipated for the Espérance family to leave Haiti and be reunited. The
protagonist, Celiane, is a young girl who grows into an adolescent through the novel. Celiane,
her mother, and her brother, Moy, must make the trip first from their rural farm in Beauséjour to
the city of Port-au-Prince, and then to New York City. Throughout the novel, Celiane must
decide how to maintain her identity amidst these changing circumstances.
The most visible element of exile that Celiane must deal with in the first part of her exile
story is the absence of her father. While the family makes every attempt to maintain open the
lines of communication, it is not the same as being present for a face to face conversation.
Celiane, Moy, and Celiane’s mother mail cassette tapes back and forth while recording messages
259
for each other. This practice keeps all the family members up to date as well as keeps them
closer by hearing each other’s voices. Celiane looks forward to receiving new tapes from her
father and she looks forward to sending him tapes, too. Each time “there is so much [she] always
plan to tell Papa, but [she is] always embarrassed to talk in front of Manman and Moy” (Danticat
14). For Celiane, communication is broken by the absence of her father, and so she decides
instead to write him a letter and is ultimately frustrated by the inability to write to her father.
This hiccup in conversation between Celiane and her father causes her to question her
relationship with Papa and whether or not they still know each other. She thinks: “Maybe I don’t
know my own father anymore. Maybe he has changed. Maybe I have changed” (Danticat 16).
This break in communication may or may not have occurred if Celiane’s father had not moved to
New York, but it is obvious to her that their relationship is not what it used to be and for this she
blames his exile. Celiane is confronted with the doubts and fears that many separated families
experience when one member or one part of the family goes to the new location before the rest.
Like many others, for Celiane “it is hard to imagine what he looks like in his everyday life, in the
place where he works, in the house where he lives” and even more painful, “[she is] even more
worried now that [she] will not know what to say to Papa when [she] sees him again” (Danticat
16). For many individuals, these doubts and uncertainty stunt their ability to fully engage in the
self identification process.
Just like many other families of exile, “Papa was supposed to go for only a few months,
but then he stayed,” for an undetermined time (Danticat 21). Because Papa was not a legal
citizen at that time, there was a lot of paperwork to fill out and just as much paperwork and
medical examinations for his family back home to complete before they could be reunited.
Because these processes do not have specific time periods, they can drag on for years, leaving
the family at home wondering if they will ever be able to travel abroad. For Papa, the effect is
loneliness. Even when a family desires to leave their homeland to pursue a better situation, the
process is taxing on all involved. This process uniquely affects Celiane in a way that makes it
difficult for her to determine her own identity.
Even after the family reunites in New York, Celiane continues to have difficulties in
communicating with her father. One day, while riding in the car, Celiane reflects that “he seemed
as far away from me as he had been during those five years we’d been apart. And I felt as unable
to speak to him as I had been when Manman had put the cassette player in front of me and had
260
asked me to say more than a greeting to him” (Danticat 129). As a young adult and as a subject
of exile, Celiane has difficulty rationalizing her fears that she has grown apart from her father.
She thinks, “perhaps Papa was feeling the same about us, just as I was feeling about him, After
five years of fantasies, visions, and dreams, we were all bound to be a little disappointed in one
another” (Danticat 131). After imagining the most idealistic and utopic situation possible, a
practice that helped while separated, Celiane is realizing that her reunion with her father is and
could never be what she had dreamt of for years of separation.
Celiane experienced two exiles before reaching adulthood. First, she had to mo ve from
her rural farm life to the capital city Port-au-Prince, and then to New York City. Celiane notes
that “people never understand why anyone would choose to stay in the mountains when they
could be living in the city,” but Celiane does not understand why anyone would live in a city
when they could be living in the mountains (Danticat 24). Throughout these two stages of
immigration, she is confronted with the conflict of attempting to assimilate with the new culture
or to maintain her current customs. As part of her identity formation process, Celiane realizes
that the opportunities are overwhelming and uses the following proverb to describe her feelings
of life in the city: “Little yams make a big pile” (Danticat 28). With this proverb, she explains
that she feels lost in Port-au-Prince and feels as though she is no longer a unique individual
being, but has rather assimilated so much that she has blended into the masses of people.
In the second leg of exile, Papa’s friend Franck greets the Espérance family upon arrival
and welcomes them to the “Tenth Department,” indicating that although they are far from home,
there is a little bit of home here in New York City (Danticat 86). 212 Again, Celiane notices how
different life is in the city compared to her small village in the mountains, feeling that “it made
the world seem unbalanced” because of the extreme difference in ways of life (Danticat 92-3).
This same problem of assimilation arises again when Celiane’s brother, Moy, spends his time
painting. While it was acceptable to follow one’s heart and passion in Haiti, Celiane notices that
her father has changed because now he says, “it takes more than a happy heart to eat and have a
roof over your head in this country,” but rather, “if anything it takes a lot of unhappiness to do
that” (Danticat 133). Although the novel only documents Celiane’s journey until shortly after
212
Haiti is divided into nine geographical sections referred to as Departments. New Yo rk City is referred to as the
Tenth Department, as many Haitians have relocated to this area.
261
arrival in the United States, the seeds of thought have been planted in Celiane’s mind about
whether to assimilate and how much assimilation she can engage in without losing herself.
The reasons for exile are wide and varied, but in the case of the Espérance family,
political instability and poverty are driving forces in their decision. While Celiane’s Tante Rose
has no desire to leave Haiti because she believes that there “the dead are always watching over
us,” her continued political involvement and desire for positive change are her ways of honoring
her ancestors and family members who have given their lives for the betterment of the nation. On
the contrary, the Espérance family is looking for better opportunities and a less poor-stricken life.
While it is a choice for the family to leave, Celiane experiences many fears and doubts
about the move. These fears are common amongst even exiles that choose to leave their
homeland. Specifically, Celiane worries that the geographical distance that has separated her
from her father for so long will continue to separate her from her family members that remain in
Haiti. Celiane worries “that in another country, my family – I mean my whole family, which
includes Granmè Melina and Granpè Nozial and Tante Rose, too – will grow much further apart
rather than closer together” (Danticat 74). Celiane even feels like she is deserting her friend
Thérèse by her family’s choice to break with the historical, political, and physical trauma so
prominent in Haiti.
Haiti was once a French-owned colony that suffered under the African Slave Trade and
colonial rule. Haiti has been faced with the difficulty of recovering from the crippling reparations
charged to them by France upon declaration of independence, and has continued to sustain
further setbacks, such as the United States’ oppressive prese nce while occupying the nation
between 1915 and 1934. The effects of this socio-economic and socio-political oppression are
still visible in current day society. The tumultuous history of Haiti has, without doubt,
contributed to the political unrest and instability that Danticat references in this novel. While
living in Port-au-Prince, Celiane and her mother are physically harmed by the violence
surrounding the 2000 elections when Jean-Bertrand Aristide was elected for a third term. The
extreme poverty and human rights abuses prior to his election were widespread. This violence is
the determining factor in the Espérance family’s decision for immediate relocation in the United
States.
Celiane and her mother are injured by an exploding bomb on a bus they were riding
through Carrefour in the days before the elections. Even as a young adult on the verge of
262
maturation, Celiane is aware of the political social and political situations in Haiti. Whereas
many adults try to shelter children from these types of conflicts, Celiane is living them and
cannot be sheltered. This bomb attack has affected her to the core, and will remain a defining
factor in her feelings toward Haiti, how she relates to her nation, and how this affects who she
identifies herself to be. Celiane “wish[es] the people who throw the bombs at the buses could see
that not only do they hurt the bodies of people like Manman and [her], they wound our souls,
too” (Danticat 50). But for Celiane, the surface wounds are only the beginning of her problems.
She explains that “some nights I dream that after the bombing I am lost and never found again,
that I forget my name, and am unable to tell anyone who I am. Other nights I dream that it is
Manman who is lost and who forgets her name and is never found. I had these same types of
dreams after Papa left, that he would get to New York and find a new son and daughter and a
new wife and forget about us” (Danticat 64). The traumatic bombing has affected her loss of self
or identity much in the same way her dad’s absence or exile has traumatized her.
Upon arrival in the United States, the family continues to stay in close contact with the
political goings on in their new country. Here, the experience is significantly different. At the
same time Haiti is experiencing political unrest it seems that a continued tradition of acceptance
is upheld under the leadership of the presidents of the United States, at least in regards to
immigration. The farewell speech of President William Jefferson Clinton indicates that “in o ur
hearts and in our laws, we must treat all our people with fairness and dignity…regardless of
when they arrived in our country” and the inaugural address of President George W. Bush states
that “every immigrant, by embracing these ideals makes our country more, not less, American”
(Danticat 119, 120-1). These beliefs and ideals solidify the Espérance family’s decision to
relocate.
As in colonial times, the identification with and participation in popular traditions expose
both race and class distinctions. This is the same experience for Haitian island immigrants
relocating in the United States. While there is some need to assimilate to the dominant culture,
there is an even greater psychological need to emphasize the differences between the homeland
and the new land. Juan Flores believes that the maintanence of an immigrants’ native language is
perhaps the most important custom from the native culture in the process of identification within
new circumstance. This belief, along with Homi Bhaba’s understanding of that environment and
language tradition together are the greatest determinants in identity formation.
263
Even before leaving her country, Celiane is aware of theimportance of language. She says
that while “in Beau Jour, when I used to think about coming to New York, I had imagined that
speaking in another language would make me a different person,” and then upon arrival in New
York City, “here Moy and I were, saying a few words to each other in English, and we were still
the same people we have always been, the same people living in a different language” (Danticat
126). Language itself has not changed identity, but rather strengthened the identity Celiane
desired to hold on to.
In the afterward to the novel, Danticat further implicates the importance of language
selection explaining that “what might seem odd is that even though the primary language of Haiti
is Creole, this diary is written in English. However I would like you to imagine that Celiane
wrote these words in her native tongue and that I am merely her translator” (Danticat 166). With
this commentary, Danticat emphasizes that Celiane has not opted to use English rather than
Creole, as that would allude to an identity different from the one portrayed.
Celiane’s exile experience has just begun to open her to some of the conflicts she will
experience as an immigrant and exile. While still in Haiti, Celiane’s manman tells her that
“people in the city… know where they are going, but they still feel lost, as though they are
looking for themselves” (Danticat 25). Celiane does not fully understand this comment until later
when she is lost in New York City, trying to find her way home from her first day of school. She
narrates her experience: “it was cold and my feet were beginning to feel numb. I felt lik e Galipòt,
looking for his fourth leg. 213 I understand now what Manman meant when she talked about being
lost in the city. I felt as though I was looking both for my new home as well as myself” (Danticat
108). Celiane has been overwhelmed by all of the new possibilities and different culture that
surrounds her. She wants to hold onto herself while finding her new self, creating her new
identity.
Celiane leaves the reader with a hopeful thought regarding her new life and her new path
to identity:
it’s a new year in our new life. As we sat around the kitchen table, each one of us
quietly enjoying our soup, I thought of the different meanings of the day. Of
213
Galipòt is a mythical Medieval creature that sometimes takes on the form of a hu man and sometimes that of a
werewolf. Th is creature is able to teleport by turning into wind and is represented in literature as an in -between
figure and other times as a creature running wild in search of its lost leg. In this text, Galipòt serves as a metaphor
for those who leave the Haitian countryside and are lost in the city. For a definition of Galipòt, see: Targète, Jean
and Raphael G. Urciolo. Haitian Creole – English Dictionary
264
course it is the start of a whole new period, but it is also a great anniversary for us
Haitians – Haitian Independence Day. A hundred and ninety seven years ago, our
ancestors had declared our small island a free nation. (Danticat 100)
Celiane indicates that she is hopeful for her new life and identity formation in New York City,
but she will not lose her connection with the past; Haiti will always be a part of her identity.
In both L’Exil selon Julia and Behind the Mountains, Gisèle Pineau and Edwidge
Danticat offter two very different representations of the female identification process inside and
outside the Francophone Caribbean. While the relocation experience affects racialized
postcolonial hybrid Caribbean females in a similar way, the case of migration from the
Francophone Caribbean offers a distinct experience, especially due to the independent status of
Haiti in comparison to the DOM status of Guadeloupe and Martinique. The representations of
the implications of relocation on racialized gendered individuals are exemplary of women in
different stages of life in these two novels.
Julia, Gisèle, and Celiane deal with relocation in very different ways, possibly a
representation of the bond each maintains with her roots and also possibly due to a difference in
age or colonial status. In the case of these three women, we have seen that Julia has the most
difficult time with assimilation in her new culture. She is also the woman with the strongest
connections to her homeland and her past. While Gisèle attempts assimilation, she ultimately
finds refuge in her grandmother and the roots and stability that she offers. While unclear how
Celiane assimilates to New York, the process of her dislocation represents a strong desire to
return to her homeland and the friends and family left behind. Based on the exile theories of
Said, we can infer that Celiane will face many difficulties when assimilating if she continues to
make comparisons between the two cultures.
Both novels rely heavily on the historical, social, and political circumstances that have
brought the protagonists to arrive in a new location. In the case of Guadeloupe, the extreme
poverty and lack of opportunity coupled with Julia’s abusive husband serve as the basis for
Gisèle’s family is relocation. In the case of the Espérance family, the political unrest as well as
poverty and lack of opportunity in Haiti serve as important factors in their decision to leave the
island in search of a better life in which Celiane and her brother could be given opportunities for
education and careers that they would otherwise not have in Haiti.
265
While dislocation has many common physical, social, and psychological factors, each
dislocation is significantly different depending on the individuals involved, as well as the events
that lead them to flee their homeland. Without doubt, the removal from one’s homeland – by
choice or not – will affect the identity process.
266
CONCLUSIONS
I believe above all that I wanted to build the palace of my memo ry,
because my memo ry is my only ho meland.
-Anselm Kiefer, Anselm Kiefer Interview
For a man who no longer has a homeland,
writing becomes a p lace to live.
-Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections on a Damaged Life
Unlike a drop of water which loses its identity when it joins the ocean,
man does not lose his being in the society in which he lives.
Man’s life is independent. He is born not for the development alone,
but for the development of his self.
-Bh imrao Ramji A mbedkar, "What Path to Salvation?"
Identity marks the conjuncture of our past with the social,
cultural and economic relations we live in now.
Each individual is the synthesis not only of existing relations,
but of the history of these relations. He is a précis of the past.
-Jonathan Rutherford, "A Place Called Ho me: Identity and the Culture Politics of Difference”
The purpose of this dissertation has been to take an analytical pan-Caribbean approach to
literary representations of identity formation issues in the Anglophone, Hispanophone, and
Francophone Caribbean. This study has shown that while there are many similarities amongst
islands in the Caribbean, there are also many different and unique elements that pertain not only
to each language tradition or nation, but also to each individual within each nation. Although
identity formation is a long term process, identity formation in the Caribbean is somewhat
conflicted due to the hybrid, plural historical events, ethnic presences, and social structure
reminiscent of the plantation era.
The body of texts used in this analysis only just begins to represent the volume of
literature that deals with the profound and complicated issues of trauma theory, race, gender, and
identity in the postcolonial Caribbean context. While a Caribbean national literature originally
did not include texts written by women, within the past fifty years, female fictional narratives
have become increasingly popular in the worldwide market and continue to be well-received,
both in the Caribbean and in other nations where oftentimes the author has relocated to and
where she publishes. The Caribbean novel written by women has been introduced into higher
education programs where male-dominated canonical texts previously dominated. While
postcolonial issues have been studied both through a cultural and literary lens, trauma theory has
267
previously been reserved for victims of historical trauma, such as the Holocaust, and personal
trauma, such as rape. By using a theoretical framework previously reserved for the psychology
field in literary analysis that pertains to collective and individual identity formation, new and
different topics pertaining to the complexities developed as a result of postcolonial hybridity can
be further studied as represented in literature. The female as author has also offered a much purer
representation of the female experience and thought process, whereas this type of representation
previously appeared only in male authored texts.
This study grouped texts together based on language tradition, however, there are myriad
possibilities for classifying and grouping nations, such as the date of the abolition of slavery,
religion, geography, size, and many more. The novels in this study were divided by language in
order to break the language barriers that have previously kept these specific novels from cross
analysis. This study is based on the belief that identity is based in the interstice of time and space
and, because of changing time and space, it will change and develop in different directions
throughout an individual’s life. Therefore, this dissertation specifically looked at traumas, race
and ethnicity, language and nationalism, gender and performance, and migration when
considering the factors of the representation of an individual’s identity formation process.
This study has shown that while there are many similarities between nations of differing
linguistic traditions in the Caribbean, there is no one definitive formula for identity formation
within the Caribbean, within Caribbean nations, or amongst Caribbean individuals. This analysis
has also shown that while the identity process is similar to tha t of males, a Caribbean woman’s
triple marginalized status (race, gender, language) presents distinct complexities that have not
been previously studied.
In addition, it is necessary to make mention of the importance of one’s cultural space in
identity formation. The cultural space developed based on one’s geographical location or
psychological state of mind as part of the imagined community that Benedict Anderson makes
reference to significantly affects the choices she makes when immersed in another culture.
Whether a woman chooses to assimilate, or to what degree she chooses to assimilate, has much
to do with Duany’s hard “cores” and “rough edges” of identity.
In Chapter 3, discussing the Anglophone Caribbean novels Jane and Louisa Will Soon
Come Home by Erna Brodber and Anna In-Between by Elizabeth Nunez, some conclusions can
be made regarding the role of the mother-daughter relationship in the identity formation process.
268
In this chapter we can see through the stories of protagonists Nellie and Anna tha t the cultural
surroundings in which they experience identity formation is influential in their decision making
process. These decisions to assimilate or not are heavily influenced by the belief systems in
which one grows and has life experiences. Thus, the gender performatives that one learns while
involved within a specific culture, combined with the relationships she keeps with others of the
same gender will determine her belief system and value as a woman within the given society.
Although these performatives are learned, especially through intimate interactions with her
mother or other mother figures, a woman must decide at a more mature age whether or not she
chooses to replicate the gender performatives she has learned through the model of her mother
and other women in her realm of experience, or if she chooses to break with the performatives
that have been modeled for her.
According to Judith Butler, and as witnessed in the analysis of these novels, both Nellie
and Anna have difficulties breaking with their mothers in order to create an individual identity,
since women are modeled behavior that creates a dependency upon the mother or other motherlike figures. The learned models that these two women experience have made it a complex
process for each to determine her individual identity, as well as to determine her place within the
collective identity. In both cases, the women are able to determine their individual identity
through the process of first discovering the collective identity that they are part of. This feat is
especially difficult because of the existing binaries present in both Nellie’s and Anna’s cultural
experiences. Both women must overcome a marginalization based on gender and race. As
demonstrated in Jane and Louisa Will Soon Come Home, the collective identity can oftentimes
represent a repressive structure under the guise of protection and camaraderie. Therefore,
Caribbean women must negate their marginalized status in order to overcome these binaries and
to create a space in which individual identity formation can occur. This process is already
underway through the writing and publication of the process of identity formation by Caribbean
women. These publications are just as important for the individual as they are for the collective
female.
While Brodber’s novel focuses on the gender binary, Anna In-Between offers a profound
representation of the racial binary that continues to create a marginalized space for AfroCaribbean women. While Anna does not experience the repression of a cultural kumbla, her
experience does represent a common experience for many female Caribbeans that have left their
269
culture to live in another nation and then return to their homeland. The ability to assimilate in
both circumstances creates an internal conflict similar to that of the gender binary. Anna’s
experiences indicate that ethnicity and race, although not learned performatives like gender, can
also create a conflicted path to individual identification. For Anna, and for many Caribbean
women who have left their homeland, only a return to their roots can aid in her identification
process.
In Chapter 4, discussing the Hispanophone Caribbean novels Dreaming in Cuban by
Christina García and Casi una mujer by Esmeralda Santiago, some conclusions can be made
regarding the role of language and place of origin in the identity formation process. Through the
stories of protagonists Pilar and Negi, it is conclusive that language and origin play a significant
role in determining individual identity. Since marginalized publications come from the interstitial
space between majority and minority cultures, it is necessary for the individual to recognize and
accept the dominant culture and determine collective identity before determining her individual
identity. As Juan Flores and Jorge Duany have indicated, it is oftentimes language that becomes
a hard “core” of individual identity within a culture different than that of the homeland. Pilar’s
and Negi’s stories represent this battle over language choice, and the cosmovision that is
associated with it, as an integral factor in determining individual identity.
Both novels in this chapter offer intimate representations of experiences in the interstice,
in-between dominant and marginalized culture, between the dominant and minority languages,
and in the case of Dreaming in Cuban, the encrucijada mágica filling the gap between earth and
other-world planes. For Pilar in New York City, it is the telepathic relationship she has with her
grandmother in Cuba that makes it possible for her to experience both cultures and finally decide
upon an individual identity based on her experiences. While this spiritual experience may not be
common for Caribbean women who have left their place of birth, this experience is
representative of the in-betweenness and desire to experience both cultures that many feel upon
being displaced in a different culture. This transcendence that Pilar experiences is representative
of the ability of Caribbean women to transgress the barriers of marginalization. The collective
memory that Pilar shares with her grandmother creates a more viable connection to the past for
Pilar than any history book ever could. For Pilar, and for many in similar situations, individual
identity can only be obtained once the individual has both roots and wings.
270
In Casi una mujer, Negi experiences similar decisions regarding assimilation and
language choice. For her, the string of decisions required to determine her individual identity are
oftentimes centered around language choice. Negi, just as many displaced females do, makes it a
point to continually switch between the customs and language of her birthplace and the customs
and language of her new culture. This ability to switch back and forth has been represented as a
revolving door, continually going and coming from one culture to the next. This revolving door
experienced by many who have been displaced is also representative of a special place similar to
an encrucijada mágica in which a significant crossing over can occur. In the representative
novels in this chapter, this non-geographical site offers the space for the female protagonists to
retain connections to her past in a safe and secure environment, while simultaneously
determining her level of assimilation and identity within the her culture. Negi uses her theatrical
performances as an encrucijada mágica where she can safely perform different identities under
the guise of acting. Caribbean women authors have used fictional narratives to do the same
through writing. These experiences are common for individuals of the generación 1.5 and are
represented in these novels as possible paths to identity.
In Chapter 5, discussing the Francophone Caribbean novels L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle
Pineau and Behind the Mountains by Edwidge Danticat, some conclusions can be made
regarding the role of exile and migration in the identity formation process. Through the
experiences of protagonists Gisèle and Celiane, it is conclusive that one’s location in relation to
her homeland is a defining factor in her identity formation process. Both Gisèle and Celiane have
experiences that confirm Juan Flores’ theory that displacement creates a greater need to
distinguish oneself from the dominant culture, rather than to assimilate to the dominant culture.
As culture is ever-changing, displaced individuals must continuously reassess their identity and
how they fit into the greater identity of the community. Because many displaced individuals
intend to maintain connections to their past and to their place of birth, even while being
immersed in another culture, many develop a multiplicity of consciousnesses, based on Paul
Gilroy’s understanding of a double consciousness. As with many displaced individuals, their
connections to the homeland (whether physical, emotional, spiritual, etc.) and to their past offer
the grounding and security necessary for individual identity formation.
Of the many factors contributing to Jorge Duany’s hard “cores” and “rough edges” of
identity, it is clear that the Caribbean case is unique in that the identity formation process
271
necessarily includes the factors of historical trauma and marginalization in the global society. As
portrayed in Celiane’s story, Haiti is one such nation that has suffered under various historical
traumas including slavery, dictatorships, and U.S. involvement, as well as has suffered a
marginalized existence in the worldwide market. Each of these events and situations plays a role
in the identity formation process that Celiane undergoes when relocated to New York City.
Celiane’s displacement leaves her at the interstice of Haitian, United States, and African cultures.
Each exile and displacement experience is as unique as each identity formation process.
The identity issues discussed in this dissertation are only a very small part of the identity
formation process as a whole; however, the observations and conclusions made through these
literary analyses contribute to past studies of the Afro-Caribbean identity formation process. In
addition, the pan-Caribbean approach taken in this analysis has continued to bridge the gap
between understanding and communication amongst Caribbean nations due to the language
barrier. The importance of these identity issues in literature is 5- fold: 1) as art is a representation
of life, these literary representations offer an inclusive re-representation of identity formation in
the Caribbean as well as a more whole representation of history with the addition of female
storytelling practices to the traditional names and dates approach in male authored historical
accounts, 2) these texts give voice to a marginalized population that has not, until recently, been
present in the market, 3) the production of these texts have an effect on worldwide understanding
of the identity process, as there are many similarities that hold true throughout the world, 4)
female authored texts have allowed female Caribbeans the opportunity to present their own
testimony – or the testimony of a fictional character – as part of the healing process for
individual and collective trauma. This voice leads to power, and 5) the presence and repetitive
inclusion of these texts in the worldwide market as well as in higher education institutions can
lead to changes in the institutional structures of the Caribbean itself by changing the structures of
feeling that perpetuate phenomenons such as racism, and making identity formation a less
complex endeavor. 214
214
For mo re informat ion, see: Williams, Ray mond. “Structures of Feeling ”: “if the social is always past, in the sense
that it is always formed, we have indeed to find new terms for the undeniable experience of the present: not only the
temporal present, the realizat ion of this and this instant, but the specificity of the present being, the inalienably
physical, with in wh ich we may discern and acknowledge institutions, formations, positions, but not always as fixed
products, defining products” (128).
272
The conclusion of this pan-Caribbean literary analysis is that women are active agents in
the recording and telling of Caribbean history and, in turn, active agents in individual and
collective identity formation processes. Women as sto rytellers have become an important link to
the traditions and practices of their ancestral past, as well as the link to maintaining the presence
of their traditions in present and future processes of identity formation. In addition, Caribbean
women as authors have been the loudest voice in the retelling of historical and personal trauma,
leading to personal and collective recovery over time.
This dissertation is a starting point for further studies in the realm of fiction authored by
Caribbean women and representations of identity formation. In future research, I would like to
examine postcolonial and identity issues represented in a greater quantity of literary
representations of the Anglophone, Hispanophone, and Francophone Caribbean traditions. The
focus would be in the categorization of similarities and differences in literary representations of
postcolonial issues throughout the entire Caribbean region. Also, I will further examine case
studies of trauma victims due to the effects of slavery, such as race and gender discrimination,
amongst others.
In addition, I aim to take my studies on location and to compile an extensive collection of
interviews representing the varied aspects and individual experiences of the women living in the
postcolonial Caribbean. Currently, the Caribbean woman’s experience has been understudied at
length and as unique in relation to the current abundance of studies driven by the male
experience.
A third area that I would like to further research is the literary representatio n of exile and
migration in contemporary fiction written by Caribbean women. In my previous studies I have
noticed trends of thought and decision making within each category and would like to further
examine how postcolonial structures, especially the aftereffects of slavery, affect the decision
making and identity process of these literary characters as representative of a lived reality.
273
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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
Jaclyn Salkauski was born in Middleburg Heights, OH on July 11. She earned a
Bachelor of Arts degree in Spanish Multi-Education from Baldwin-Wallace College in Berea,
OH, in 2004. She then completed a Master of Arts degree in Spanish at Cleveland State
University in Cleveland, OH, in 2006. In 2012, Jaclyn earned her Doctor of Philosophy degree in
Latin American and Caribbean Literatures and Cultures at The Florida State University.
288