Vol. 4 / Fall 2013

On November 18, 1940, Marshal Pètain, Chef de l’État Français, spoke to his people following the country’s devastating defeat against Nazi Germany saying, “It is through work, respect for tradition, order, and family that we will rise again.” ((quoted in Miranda Pollard, Reign of Virtue: Mobilizing Gender in Vichy France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988): 41.)) The swift Nazi victory left France with such regrets as had not been experienced since the Franco-Prussian defeat of 1870. ((Ibid., 43.)) History appeared to be repeating itself, and Pètain capitalized on this rhetoric to establish a common cause: the obstruction of the heterosexual couple. He purposely ended his speech with “family” to denote its importance to l’État Français, the new fascist state. ((Ibid., 1.)) Much like the discourse surrounding the final days of the Second Empire, Pétain blamed the Third Republic for its own fall because it had the blurring of gender roles, the loss of family values, and most importantly, a diminishing of the population of France. As Pollard describes in her analysis of gender in Vichy, “If 1940 was interpreted as a dramatic repeat of 1870. . .then population, reproduction, sex,and sexuality became vital national-political issues.” ((Ibid., 43.)) If population numbers were the cause of French weakness, Pétain’s power rested in his ability to reclaim the heterosexual couple. In order to elevate such an ideal, Pétain’s government asserted sexual difference in the face of a certain gender ambiguity in 1920s and 1930s France. It was then vital to clearly delineate masculinity from femininity if Pétain were to have any hope in watching l’État Français succeed. ((Ibid., 3.)) Yet, was the promotion of sexual difference the answer to restoring socio-political unity?

Three years after Pétain uttered his founding words, an audience of Parisians and Nazis sat before a dark stage at the Théâtre Héberot. ((Agnes Raymond, Jean Giraudoux: The Theatre of Victory (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1966): 99.)) As lights lit up a rose-colored pane of cathedral glass, a character by the name of the Archangel, sent to warn of the coming apocalypse, walked across the stage and proclaimed, “The evil and infamy rest in the fact that each sex sins apart and on its own account.” ((Jean Giraudox, Sodom and Gomorrah, trans. Herma Briffault (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1961): 437.)) The Archangel calls the cause of the destruction “le mal des empires,” the product of men and women no longer living in harmony. ((Jean Giraudoux, Théâtre (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1959): 4.)) Now all of humanity’s fate rests on the ability of one couple, Lia and Jean, to prove their relationship as true. Throughout the course of the play, however, Giraudoux emphasizes that it is sexual difference which makes a happy marriage impossible. Lia and John cannot reconcile their unique desires and eventually doom the rest of the population. This condemnation of sexual difference ran counter to Pétain’s dictates. I shall argue that Giraudoux articulated the faults of masculinity and femininity in Sodome and Gomorrhe in order to subvert Pétain’s paragon image of sexuality duality, and by doing so, labeled l’État Français as an institution of oppression.

Giraudoux was no stranger to infusing politics into art. Born in 1882, in the wake of the Franco-Prussian defeat, he grew up enthralled by literary and political passions. In 1910 he joined the commercial division of the Quai d’Orsay and in 1914 enlisted in the army as a sargeant in the infantry. ((Raymond, 6.)) Awarded the Legion of Honor, Giraudoux returned from combat with the heart of a reformer. According to Agnes Raymond’s biography of Giraudoux, he envisioned the French victory as a time to better the country. Raymond writes that Giraudoux had “this taste for perfection, this desire to create a real environment as harmonious as that in his fictional works.” ((Ibid., 10.)) Acting outside the political sphere, he took up work as a creative writer in order to disseminate his dreams of urban renewal in the postwar era, yet the officials of the Third Republic did not listen to him. For this reason, he often compared his fate as a politically-engaged writer with that of the “second sex,” lacking a voice in government yet possessing such “feminine” qualities as creativity and spontaneity. ((Ibid., 14.)) Finally, in 1939, Daladier’s government offered him a job as the Commissoner General of Information. His duties included regulating the press, city planning, education management, and promoting the arts. His first task involved the suppression of communist newspapers, not a work of artistic achievement. So began his first encounter with censorship. ((Ibid., 16.)) When Pétain took power in 1940, Giraudoux resigned, in part because he was horrified by French complacency with the defeat. After his resignation, Giraudoux felt the need to keep a low profile considering he was described in a Nazi journal as “the  Jewish gang’s Minister of Propoganda.” ((Ibid., 17.))

Despite the Occupation, the arts flourished. It was again as a writer that Giraudoux found a medium for his views. During the Occupation, he wrote two films, oversaw the revival of his play Electre, and premiered Sodome and Gomorrhe, a work he had started writing in 1941. ((Ibid., 99.)) Even though the Nazis censored all public art, Giraudoux knew how to overcome these barriers due to his work as a censor during the Third Republic. In an interview with Frédéric Lefevre about his writings, Giraudoux said, “Every work needs a context, which for writings of the past is furnished by literary history and for living writers by their own lives.” ((quoted in Raymond, 3.)) Thus it becomes clear that Giraudoux’s Sodome et Gomorrhe was not written in the vacuum of fiction, but stood as the political voice of Giraudoux in the context of the German Occupation.

Both Giraudoux and Pétain, however, not only reacted to the current state of affairs, but also to the discourse of gender and sexuality from the interwar period. The 1920s and 1930s in the Third Republic were filled with disillusionment. Even though France had triumphed over Germany and reclaimed its pride from the Franco-Prussian War, the French population had been decimated, particularly with the loss of French men. And yet the justification for this enormous loss of life seemed distant and hollow. With such extreme casualties, the aftermath of new forms of warfare, and an economy that was on the decline, French society was in disarray. As Mary Louise Roberts argues, the French used the discourse of gender to express anxieties about these greater social and economic changes. ((Mary Louise Roberts, Civilization without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917-1927 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994) 1.))

In fact, renowned war veteran Pierre Drieu La Rochelle famously summed up the general sentiment about interwar society saying, “This civilization no longer has clothes, no longer has churches, no longer has places, no longer has theatres, no longer has paintings, no longer has books, no longer has sexes.” ((quoted in Roberts, 2.)) And to Rochelle (as echoed years later by Pétain) this anxiety about sex was expressed last because, according to Roberts, the French mind saw it as the most important fate of society. His fear stemmed from a great change in fashions during this time: women started to embrace a more boyish figure, short hair was in style, and clothes could be more androgynous while revealing more skin. ((Ibid., 70.)) On a more material level, women had started to enter the workforce as necessitated by the lack of young men who were mentally or physically ready for labor. All these shifts in the conception of femininity led to fears that gender roles were blurring; sexual difference was disappearing.

Pétain and Giraudoux were forced to navigate these symbols of gender, yet upon the fall of France in 1940, Pétain chose to embrace the symbol of the mother. When France fell so abruptly and so feebly against Hitler’s army, the French psyche was on the verge of collapse. French citizens everywhere deemed the Third Republic a failure. The tenets of democracy, capitalism, and equality had let down the nation. As Pollard writes, “The post-WWI legacy of inflation, unemployment, riots and strikes, near civil war between right and left, had let to social and political uncertainty. ((Pollard, 3.))

Yet, when looking to grapple with these complex issues, it once again became easier to use a discourse of gender. Pétain supported a propaganda campaign of  travail, famille, patrie as a way to articulate that national stability came with gender stability. This stability required a clear delineation between masculinity and femininity.  Henry Rousso describes Pétain’s famille as: “le père, le chef de famille, a des droits particuleurs. Quant aux femmes, elles sont invitées à rester au foyer. L’avortement ou l’homosexualité sont sévèrement réprimés.” ((Henry Rousso, Vivre sous l’Occupation (Paris: Gallimard, 2005): 38.)) In short, pétainist France sought to assert dominance over the sexes as a way of restoring governmental authority and national pride. It was a crusade to redeem a masculine identity that had been so discredited by the Nazis, to increase the population by promoting motherhood, and to subvert individuals to the will of the state through the regulation of sexual deviance. In short, “the pétainist panacea of strong patriarchal authority was not just appropriate to the short-term crisis, but imperative for France to ‘recover’ its place in world affairs.” ((Pollard, 5.))

It is Giraudoux’s play, though, that argues against the beneficial qualities of affirming sexual difference and condemns such differentiation as a repressive sexual model. At the start of the play, the Archangel avers that it is the division of men and women based on sex that has upset the natural order and has angered God, for sexual difference makes a happy marriage impossible. In speaking of the virtues of the couple, the Archangel says, “Ce jemelage et cette ligue contre lui-même étaient aussi une fidélité et une promesse.” ((Giraudoux, 9.)) What is most important to note is the word jumelage. This word connotes the presence of twins. The Archangel speaks of the ideal couple in terms of kinship, familiarity, and, ultimately, a kind of shared identity. To be a twin is to embrace a life of equality; twins recognize their common origin, embrace a common humanity, and share DNA. Further, the Archangel also calls “ce jumelage, cette ligue contre lui-même,” a league against the self. ((Ibid.)) With a twin, it is impossible not to see the self in another, yet the Archangel’s words recognize in a couple the ability to transcend self altogether. With marriage described in such terms of sameness, there is little room for sexual difference. Marriage as defined by the Archangel is about finding a partner in life, a twin who can help one lose the debilitating notions of ego and pride.

The Archangel then defines the dangers of sexual difference, “le mal a un sexe.” ((Ibid., 10.)) When the other character, the Gardener, tells the Archangel that he is not married, the Archangel begins to rant. He asks the Gardener to listen to the songs of the North and South. These songs are in discord because there is not duet. Men sing in the North and women sing in the South. God has come to punish Sodom and Gomorrah because men and women are no longer one. The Archangel speaks of “le male a un sexe,” saying “Plaisirs, souvenirs, objects prennent un sexe, et il n’y a plus de plaisirs communs, de mémoire commune, de flueurs communes.” ((Ibid.)) This sentence denotes that no longer are pleasures, memories, and flowers understood in the same way for all humans; now, our interactions with the world are regulated by our sex. It is interesting to read “fleurs communes” as the ultimate loss, for the Archangel seems to bemoan that not even flowers–nature itself–can be spoken of in common terms between men and women. This discourse of en commun versus prenant un sexe also indicates larger societal implications of sexual difference. Giraoudoux wants his audience to see that the fight for “un couple á Dieux” is not merely a fight for marriage, but a fight for society itself. Unlike Pétain, Giraudoux sees the preservation of family through the acceptance of a common humanity, not through reasserting the duality of male and female. ((Ibid.)) In the same way, Giraudoux argues that society cannot form a community if its people are divided by gender and sex. The heterosexual couple and the gender norms promoted by Pétain were first and foremost oppressive and an impediment to national unity.

Now all of humanity’s fate rests on the ability of one couple, Lia and Jean, to prove their relationship as true. Throughout the course of the play, however, Giraudoux emphasizes that it is sexual difference which makes a happy marriage impossible.

In order to further argue against sexual difference, Giraudoux then structures his play so that we receive three equally distinct representations of both femininity and masculinity. The feminine representations are Delila, the traditional kept woman who embraces feminine weakness to manipulate her husband; Ruth, the gossip who embraces female submission; and Lia, the headstrong rebel who wants to break free of the heteronormative world. The masculine representations include Samson, the face of brute strength and virility; Jacques, the oblivious husband; and Jean, the gentleman and tender lover. Navigating these gendered symbols, it soon becomes clear that none of these pairings are compatible; “un couple á Dieux” becomes impossible because each character is trapped by a discourse of sexual difference.

The character Dalila is first mentioned in the Prologue when the Gardener offers the Archangel the names of two couples with the possibility to prove God wrong: “Il reste Jean et Lia, il reste Dalila et Samson.” ((Ibid., 10.)) In response the Archangel says that unfortunately Dalila and Samson are abroad and cannot be credited. During Act II, however, Dalila and Samson show up just when all seems lost for Lia and Jean’s relationship. Welcomed by the joyous cries of young girls, Delila walks into the scene as a member of the female chorus cries, “Voici le seul couple heureux, le seul vrai!” ((Ibid., 52.)) Samson and Dalila are made out to be the paragon couple, having mastered the ideal balance between femininity and masculinity. They are not just an example of happiness, but of truth itself. It is with such high expectations that we hope to see the two acting in perfect jumelage, being a pair in solidarity and kinship. The scene that unfolds is not so optimistic.

Dalila begins by bragging to the other girls how she chose Samson, the strongest of them all, for her husband. Lia then says to her, “Son nom ne va pas ave le vôtre.” ((Ibid., 53.)) Lia’s statement carries the hope of sexual unity as promised by “un couple á Dieux.” It is not that the name of Samson necessarily is dominant or more important than Dalila’s,but it simply goes well with hers. The implication is that the two identities of Samson and Dalila coexist on the same plane. In response, however, Dalila reverts to the rhetoric of sexual difference, saying, “Un homme, c’est d’abord la force.Je suis née peureuse, comme toutes les femmes. . . Mais contre la souris et le moustique, je ne me sense rassuréee que part le presence d’un mari qui étrangle la panthère entre deux doigts.” ((Ibid., 54.)) She is completely consumed by the separation of masculinity and femininity in a way that Pétain would have embraced. The man is “d’abord la force.” ((Ibid.)) Masculinity means strength, and femininity means cowardice. She would not be able to live without fear of petty insects and mice if she did not have the assurance of a husband with the ability to strangle a panther with two fingers. The feminine is then the role of the dependent, unable to survive alone. This dependence on masculinity turns women into leeches and parasites.

Dalila’s representation parasitic femininity is best expressed when she reveals to the other girls, “J’ai choisi celui qui n’a jamais commu d’autres femmes. . .Comment serait-il infidel? D’ailleurs je prends soin de lui parler toujours de ses ennemis personnels au feminine.” ((Ibid., 55.)) Any hope of jumelage is lost with Dalila’s belief that Samson did not grow up around women. He was kept in ignorance about the ways of the other sex and was, therefore, able to be completely taken advantage of by Dalila who convinces him that all women other than herself are evil. In this way, they stay together not because they truly love each other, but because Samson is so innoculated by the rhetoric of sexual difference he fears other women as enemies. Dalila, on the other hand, does not realize that her own feeling of powerlessness has not manifested in love, but manipulation. Her dependence on Samson leads her to fill his head with degrading lies about femininity, and in doing so degrades herself.

When Samson comes into the picture, we get an image of masculinity that is worthy pitying. He is oblivious to his wife’s twisted sense of their relationship. As Dalila says of her role as wife, “Je n’ai qu’á l’entretenir dans cette enfance qui ne finira qu’á sa mort.” ((Ibid.)) Samson is described as a big baby who will never grow up until “sa mort.” ((Ibid., 57.)) Her role as a woman is to be the eternal mother in which pleasure and love are bargaining chips. Meanwhile, he remains trapped in “cette enfance.” And, when he speaks of his wife, he says, “J’ai choisi cdell que les filles envient et haissent dés le berceau.” ((Ibid.)) In her he sees tenderness, loyalty, sympathy, and, above all, beauty. She is not human to him, for she can do no wrong. Upon hearing his description of his wife, one girl cries, “pauvre aveugle.” ((Ibid.)) And Samson does appear to be blind. This example of masculine patriarchy leads to complete ignorance. Strength is a poor excuse for intelligence. Giraudoux paints the classic heterosexual couple as dysfunctional. He describes it as a corruption of the archetypal symbol of motherhood that Pétain saw as the future of the French nation. Giraudoux says that to confine the woman to subservience makes her desperate and vengeful against other women, while the power given to the man makes him blind to the world around him. In the words of Judith, another girl from the chorus who addresses Samson, “Tu as choisi la belette et la vipère.” ((Ibid.))

Giraudoux further suggests the faults in the feminine and masculine representations of Dalila and Samson, for the couple is suddenly withdrawn from the search for “un couple á Dieux” when Samson is struck down by the heavens, incapacitated. Yet before Samson and Dalila we see the fall of a similar couple trying to embody classic gender roles: Ruth and Jacques. Ruth and Jacques are the good friends of Jean and Lia, but they face their own conflicted matrimony. We are first acquainted with Ruth as she slyly delves into the marital troubles of Lia in the opening scene. Upon Lia’s cursing of the heavens for her emotional frustration, Ruth asks why she blasphemes against the heavens and Lia responds with “Par ce que je suis un front, comme tu es un ventre.” ((Ibid., 18.)) Ruth is “un ventre” in that she is the representation of submission and tenderness. This notion of being a stomach also alludes to her association with feminine fertility in that un gross ventre is often euphemistic for a pregnant woman’s figure. Ruth describes her ideal relationship as one in which the man would be her salvation:

C’est sure lui, c’est par lui quie j’allais goûter les délices et les voluptés d’une vie qui restait fade pour moi-même. J’avais dans mes bras celui qui allait aimer pour moi, suffrir pour moi. . .Tous les nuages et les soleils sur son visage, et moi-même au fondde lui me nourrissant de las nourriture des femmes,de ses entrailles et de son coeur. Jusqu’á la mort!” ((Ibid., 19.))

Ruth is the feminine caregiver. She sees her own position as stable and domestic and expects her husband to be the opposite. Her notion of femininity makes her feel as though her duty is not to enjoy the pleasures of life, but to keeper of le foyer. It is her duty as a woman to give “la nourriture des femmes,” to allow her body to become a shelter and sanctuary in times of trouble. ((Ibid.)) This feminine obligation makes her say, “J’avais dans mes bras celui qui aller aimer pour moi, suffrir pour moi.” Underneath this supposed selflessness is a core of selfishness. Giraoudoux makes Ruth appear unfulfilled in her feminine role, and therefore, expects that a man will be able to compensate for her own domestic frustration. She wants him to suffer and love her out of compensation for her womanly touch. She wants him to make her life worthwhile.

With Ruth’s high demands, Jacques cannot help but fall short. With the image of masculinity as “la voix de tout ce qui vaut d’être entendu,” Ruth quickly become dissatisfied to find that Jacques also favors stability. ((Ibid.)) He is not an adventurer or pioneer; instead, he is contented with normalcy. Jacques is not afraid of a quotidian life, yet Ruth speaks of this attitude in disgust, saying, “Il a les memes gestes pour s’habiller, pour se peigner, pour embrasser. . .Maintenant je mange, je pense, je souffre, j’aime moi-même.” ((Ibid., 20.)) By viewing masculinity as the complement to feminine complacency, Ruth views Jacques’s normalcy as effeminate and unattractive. It is, in fact, the expectation of sexual difference that makes her incapable of loving and makes her conclude, “j’aime moi-même.”

When Lia, Jean, Jacques, and Ruth find themselves in a disagreement about the weather. Ruth sides with Jean, who thinks the weather is beautiful while Jacques sides with Lia. Jacques is soon frustrated by Ruth’s blatant frustration and condemns her falsehood, “Oui, Ce n’est pas que Ruth voyait bleu le ciel. C’est qu’elle mentait.” ((Ibid., 29.)) He accuses Ruth of expressing her discontent in deceit. Rather than take control of her own fate, Ruth insists on wallowing in her problems and fantasizing about what could have been. She only sees what she wants to see because her feminine role has forced her to accept mediocrity. Jacques reveals all of these qualms when he accuses her of infidelity: “Tu ne pense qu’á Jean. Tout ce qu’on peut dire,c’est que tue as lutté contre ton désirm c’est que tu luttes. Mais, Ange, sa fidélité deviant pire qu’une trahison.” ((Ibid., 30)) Both Jacques and Ruth are caught in a web of misunderstanding. Ruth asks of Jacques’s masculinity a delusion of adventure, while Jacques sees Ruth’s delusions as essential to her femininity. Ruth’s femininity tells her to put others first, yet by never accounting for her own joy, she lives in a world of lies and becomes hateful toward her husband. It is for this reason that Jacques accuses her of fighting against her own desire: “tu as lutté contre ton désir.” ((Ibid.)) Both Ruth and Jacques have been forced into gender roles that dehumanize them. Ruth is not allowed to think and act for herself and Jacques is expected to take on the strength of a heroic and adventurous life.”Un couple á Dieux” is impossible since neither person is expected to be him/herself.

The couple of Lia and Jean, however, has the most hope of appeasing God. Right from the start, the Archangel deemed them the single source of salvation and humanity. There is such hope attached to Lia and Jean, for Lia is the one character who attempts to transcend sexual indifference and embrace a love between people, not men and women. In speaking of her first love of Jean she says, “Jamais époux au contraire ne sont entrés dans leur maison nouvelle avec plus de promesses. . .J’ai vu Jean comme la biche voit soncerf,de mes yeux les plus clairs,et tel qu’il est. . .Je n’ai jamais eu á le déshabiller que sa robe.” ((Ibid., 15.)) Lia speaks of her love with the romanticism of nature: an image of a doe and a stag. The animal relationship does not carry the presumptions and expectations of human constructions of masculinity and femininity but represents an attraction that is primal and the source of life itself. The doe and stag need not put on masks to be acceptable to the other, but merely inhabit their bodies. For the same reason, Lia mentions that her eyes were never clearer,for there was no abstraction to cloud her vision of Jean. They allowed themselves to be vulnerable with each other such that their minds were already naked to each other before they disrobed. Nakedness and sex were secondary to establishing their emotional relationship. Love blossomed from their ability to simply be together as humans, in effect as animals, as lovers.

Unfortunately, Lia’s jumelage with Jean appears to be coming to and yet, it is not necessarily due to a fault of Jean’s. Rather, Lia is beginning to become aware of her sex. She confides in Ruth, saying, “Mais les objets du monde ne sont plus les mêmes pour nous. . .le visage qu’il voit de moi n’est plus le mien. Le monde s’est dédoublé et nous avons chacun le nôtre.” ((Ibid., 17.)) She reveals that it is consciousness of sexual difference that has come between them. They are slowly but surely being taught to see the world in terms of male and female duality. It is important to notice that the images of nature have evaporated. Lia speaks of “les objets du monde” and “le visage”: human terms. Jean has begun to regulate his actions according to a construction of masculinity. The face he reveals to Lia is no longer hers, for he no longer lets himself be vulnerable to her. He has become complacent in the traditional marriage roles society has set out for them. She complains of his sudden distance, how he wants to run away from problems on a “tapis volant.” ((Ibid., 21.)) Whenever she tries to confront him with her grief, rage, or passion “il ne voit rien, il n’entend rien.” ((Ibid.)) He has started to hide himself behind the mask of heterosexual masculinity, which says he must be distant and patriarchal. “Le male a un sexe” has corrupted their relationship.

When Lia tries to confront Jean with her marital troubles, she enters and breaks into a fury about their roles as husband and wife:

Moi, mon corps n’a jamais été que ma voix vers toi; ma gorge, mes cheveux, mes jambs n’ont jamais été que les mots de ce language que le péché original a enlevé à notre bouche. Á travers les éspaisseurs des folies et des sagesses, á travers les ages, á travers la mort, à travers les éspaisseurs des folies et des sagesses, á travers les visage changeants de la terre, mes mains, mes hanches, mes yeux t’ont dit le dévouement et l’espoire d’avant la faute. Tout ce que tu said de ce qu’étaient les vrais fleuves, les vrais arbres, la vraie vie, c’est par eux que tu le sai. Toi, ton corps et un dos, un silence.” ((Ibid., 24.))

Lia attacks the root of the problem. Jean has suddenly come to see her very body as sinful. Society has finally convinced him of the evil of femininity: “mes yeux t’ont de le dévoument.” ((Ibid.)) He no longer sees her humanity, for he has become obsessed with her body as a representation of “péché original,”something distinctly female. Yet the damage has already been done. He is willing to categorize her in the feminine realm to put distance between them. His presence in her life has become “un dos,” his back always turned to her. Jean’s body is silent in that it no longer shares that common language of human touch and understanding, but has become isolated in the realm of masculinity. And thus their relationship is doomed to fail, for their very bodies can no longer experience the same world.

In the end, Jean and Lia cannot save humanity for the aforementioned reasons. Sexual difference halts their fruitful relationship, leaving them both without the love they once shared. As they prepare for the end of the world, Jean and Lia call upon their gendered kin: Lia with her sisters and Jean with his brothers. So too do the animals of the world divide themselves into masculine and feminine camps as if to undo the great pairing into Noah’s ark. Standing next to Jacques, Jean says, “Lance-la vers les femmes. Ce sera notre adieu.” ((Ibid., 78.)) So plays out Giraudoux’s warning against sexual difference: a world divided between the sexes is doomed to collapse.

Giraudoux believed “un couple á Dieux”could only exist without the confines of gender. In doing so, he subverted the propaganda of Pétain, which had sought to uphold this ploy by the Vichy government, and instead revealed such duality as oppressive and incompatible with true love. To Giraudoux, love meant two people who saw each other as equals, as humans, and as partners on life’s journey. Pétain’s heterosexual delineation did just the opposite; it enforced submission, inequality, and dehumanization. Ultimately, Sodome et Gomorrhe is not just a testament to the true meaning of a couple, but a call to a nation to transcend sexual oppression and embrace a common humanity.

 

Bibliography

Giraudoux, Jean. Théâtre.  (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1959).

Giraudoux, Jean. Sodom and Gommorrah. Translated by Herma Briffault. (New York: McGraw Hill, 1961).

Pollard, Miranda. Reign of Virtue: Mobilizing Gender in Vichy France. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998).

Raymond, Agnes. Jean Giraudoux: The Theatre of Victory. (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1966).

Roberts, Mary Louise. Civilization without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917-1927. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994).

Rousso, Henry. Vivre sous l’Occupation. (Paris: Gallimard, 2005).

 

 

 

We often fail to realize how much of our identity is shaped by our culture. How we perceive the world, understand ourselves, and interpret our relationships with others are all severely influenced by the environment in which we are raised and the methods of thought with which we are inculcated. Truly, so much of our identity is so thoroughly ensconced with our social constructs that it is difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish between the two. I argue that the self is merely a social construct and that those components most integral to our identity are shaped by the social paradigms that surround us. I also explore the psychosocial effects of the absence of social stimulus by examining records about feral children and attempts made to integrate them into society.

 

Defining the Self: A Modified Bundle Theory

Let us begin by defining the self. David Hume declared the self to be “nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions that follow each other enormously quickly and are in a perpetual flux and movement.” ((David Hume, “6: Personal Identity.” Treatise on Human Nature, ed. Jonathan Bennett. (2007) , in Early Modern Texts, www.earlymoderntexts.com.)) By his definition, the self is merely a bundle of conscious mental states, or perceptions, used to interpret our sensations, ideas, and surroundings. This may not seem like the most self-evident conclusion regarding the nature of the self; therefore, I would like to explain Hume’s reasoning for such a conclusion. He asks his readers to partake in a thought experiment in which they must, through introspection, attempt to identify some form of an essence apart from any mental perception that could be defined as the self. Upon such introspection, Hume found that there was no such essence and that all he could identify was a series of interconnected desires, thoughts, sensations, and memories; in essence, all he found was his bundle of perceptions. Through such a thought experiment, Hume concluded that the self is indeed by nothing more than a bundle of perceptions, all interwoven to give the illusion of central identity. Hume’s bundle theory is accurate in that it applies to both animals and humans; both have perceptions that allow them to interpret sensations, thoughts, and their surroundings. However, Hume fails to realize that there is a fundamental difference between the animalistic perceptions that allow only basic cognitions and human perceptions, which allow for a much wider scope of thoughts, sensations, and insights.

I argue that the self is merely a social construct and that those components most integral to our identity are shaped by the social paradigms that surround us.

Since human perceptions seems to be so fundamentally different from animal perceptions, we must outline exactly what defines the human self. The basis for the human self is still found in Hume’s bundle theory, but the fundamental difference comes from the fact that we have developed the ability to create from our perceptions an identity. However, this is not an identity in the sense that most people define it. It is not a central essence that underlies all of our perceptions, rather it is the ability to attribute to our perceptions a series of preferences, dispositions, proclivities, and biases. This combination of perceptions and preferences can be collectively referred to as an identity, and it is what allows us specifically as humans to develop both language and personality when in a social setting. In essence, every cognitive animal has perceptions, but humans are able to add character and temperament to such perceptions to create personality. For the purpose of this paper, the human self will be referred to as an identity and will be comprised of a bundle of perceptions molded by social settings into a personality.

 

Defining Perceptions: Nisbett and Cultural Variation

Considering that the self is defined by its perceptions, it follows that we must discern that which in turn shapes our perceptions. In an attempt to define the cultural aspects that shape different mentalities, Richard Nisbett thoroughly analyzes the differences between Eastern and Western cultures. According to Nisbett, there are two basic social ideals. The first is the Gesellschaft, or individualist ideal inherent in Western cultures (principally the United States and Northern European countries). In an individualist setting, persons believe they have specific, distinctive attributes that set them apart from the general population. They greatly value their autonomy and generally aspire for individual acclaim and personal achievement. Relationships are regarded as a means to an end and social aspirations revolve around independent rather than collective advancement. ((Richard Nisbett, The Geography of Thought  (New York: The Free Press, 2003): 48.)) The second is the Gemeinschaft, or collectivist ideal, found most prominently in Eastern cultures. A collectivist believes that a community is based on a shared sense of identity, where relationships depend on a sense of unity and mutality. To a collectivist, an individual is not defined by unique and distinctive traits, but rather through the set of relationships maintained within the society (such as friend, brother, or wife). A greater focus on group goals, coordinated action, and harmonious social relations makes individual distinctiveness undesirable. A collectivist archives personal satisfaction only through the accomplishment of group goals. ((Ibid., 61.))

Nisbett’s comparison demonstrates that two individuals can have extremely different ways of perceiving the world and themselves simply due to cultural differences. Westerners might believe themselves to be unique individuals striving to distinguish themselves from the masses, while Easterners will see themselves as cogs within an intricate machine, seeking collective approval and social success. Both styles of thought allow for very different views of the self, differences that are built around the social constructs inherent in each culture. Nisbett’s overwhelming evidence shows that our identities are almost entirely molded by our upbringing and the cultural paradigms with which we are indoctrinated. Now, assuming that the self is defined by its identity, and that our social environment heavily influences that identity, it is plausible to conclude that our social setting predominately shapes the self and thus that the self is construct.

 

Defining Social Constructs: Sally Haslanger

At this point, we must define a social construct. According to Sally Haslanger, “something is a social construction if it is an intended or unintended product of a social practice.” ((Sally Haslanger, “Gender and Social Construction: Who? What? When? Where? How?” Theorizing Feminisms, ed. Sally Haslanger and Elizabeth Hackett (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006): 17.)) While this is the basic definition of a social construct, Haslanger delves deeper into the subject and delineates two varieties of social constructs. The first is the construction of ideas. Haslanger believes that all ideas are constructs in the sense that they refer to concepts that only exist within our cultural framework, and that said ideas are “only possible within and due to a social context.” ((Ibid.)) However, this is not the classification that applies to human identity. Our identity is a socially-constructed object; specifically, we are discursively-constructed objects. To clarify: “something is discursively constructed just in case it is (to a significant extent) the way it is because of what is attributed to it or how it is classified.” ((Ibid., 19.)) Much like our constructed gender classifications, we also have constructed identities, which come into being by attaching the cultural ideals explored by Nisbett with our developing identities. As Haslanger points out: “each of us is socially constructed in this sense because we are (to a significant extent) the individuals we are today as a result of what has been attributed (and self-attributed) to us.” ((Ibid.))

 

The Argument

For the sake of clarity, I will now set forth my argument in a numbered sequence of premises and conclusions.

(1) The self is nothing but a bundle of perceptions, thoughts, and interactions, which our environments molds into an identity. (2) Our identities are defined by our culture and the society in which we are raised, as is shown by Nisbett’s comparison of Eastern and Western mentalities. (3) A social construct is that which is the intended or unintended product of social practices and cultural paradigms. (4) Therefore, the self must be nothing but a social construct.

 

Objection 1: Being Removed from Society

Having mapped out the argument, I am now faced with an obvious objection. If I were removed from a social setting, would I cease to have a self? Of the two objections I consider, this is the easier one to address. If I have been removed from a social setting, this implies that at some point, for an undetermined amount of time, I was exposed to a social world. Regardless of the span of time, we can conclude that any exposure to society, especially during earlier developmental stages, will allow social paradigms to shape my identity. Any exposure to society allows from the development of an identity based on my environment and experiences in a social setting. That being said, even if I were to be removed from society, my previous exposure to a social condition would have allowed me to establish my identity though my social context. Thus, my self has already been formed around the set of cultural ideals I was exposed to.

 

Objection 2: The Feral Child

A more intricate objection to consider would be: if I were isolated prior to any contact with a social setting, would I never develop an identity at all? This may seem at first to be a serious objection simply because humans have an inherent desire to believe they are superior in their ability to develop complex identities. This objection falls short in its failure to acknowledge that while we are capable of creating very complex identities, we are only able to do so in social settings. Removing the social aspect from human development entirely removes our ability to develop a distinct and complex identity. Examining stories about feral children can best support this conclusion. Two cases in particular stand out, both taken from Candland’s book, Feral Children and Clever Animals.

I will begin with Peter, a feral child found in the German town of Hameln in 1724. Peter was taken into captivity and kept in a local hospital where he was examined and observed by a series of psychologists and physicians. The general conclusion was that Peter was a “true feral man, a human being raised not by other human beings but by the natural state provided by the wild. He was surely capable of learning, for he had learned from his experiences how to deal with the natural environment of the forest. Yet he was untouched by human contact, human demands, and human forms of socialization.” ((Douglas K. Candland, Feral Children and Clever Animals: Reflections on Human Nature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995): 9.)) Many attempted to integrate Peter into a constructive social setting, but he was unable to master the simplest of tasks. He was incapable of acquiring language, he displayed complete indifference towards money and the opposite gender, and his nature seemed to lack humanness in even the most basic ways. Truly, Peter appeared to be more animal than human and displayed a complete lack of traditional identity, curiosity, and nearly every other aspect thought to be intrinsic to humans.

An even more obvious example is found in yet another feral child, Victor,a young boy of about twelve found in France in 1799. Victor appeared to be even more feral than Peter in unexpected ways. Upon discovery, Victor was subjected to the scrutiny and amusement of the public. While this was not the best use of the fascinating psychological subject, a description of the boy’s behavior given by a witness of the event provides great insight into the boy’s psychology and behavior; truly it can be said that it was not a boy turned savage by the wildness they saw:

What they did see was a degraded human being, human only in shape; a dirty, scarred, inarticulate creature who trotted and grunted like the beasts of the fields, ate with apparent pleasure the most filthy refuse, was apparently incapable of attention or even elementary perceptions such as heat or cold, and spent his time apathetically rocking himself backwards and forwards like the animals at the zoo. A “man-animal,” whose only concern was to eat, sleep, and escape the unwelcome attention of sightseers. ((Ibid., 18.))

Victor was more savage animal than human and was incapable of the simplest human tasks, sensitivities, and skills that often define our identities. This “degraded human being” was the product of complete isolation from the social havens of our societies. This isolation resulted in an individual who had no discernible sense of identity or self. Victor was incapable of even those aspects thought to be most crucial to a functioning society; he “showed no sense of justice, of righteousness, or of wrongness of social habits, such as theft.” ((Ibid., 34.)) Evidently, Victor lacked all traits that define a functioning human being in a social setting, and more importantly, lacked a sense of identity. From such an example, it can be concluded that our sense of identity does truly rely entirely on our social settings. Our society allows us to develop emotionally, intellectually, and morally, and more importantly, allows us to establish a sense of identity, which discerns us from animals with less advanced cognitive abilities.

 

Conclusion

In summary, the self is a social construct because it is defined by the social paradigms that nurture and develop our perceptions of the world. Through records about feral children and observations regarding their nature, behavior, and general psychology, it can be established that identity is so thoroughly ingrained within our social paradigms that one cannot exist without the other. Individuals such as Peter and Victor, who had no previous exposure to society, had no sense of identity and were reduced to animals with no sense of self or distinguishing intellect. On the other hand, individuals brought up in varying cultural settings displayed varying interpretations of their identity. The human mind appears to be a blank slate full of potential, a slate that can be inscribed with ideals of humanity through intellectual and emotional stimulation, or it is a potential than can be neglected so much so that it is reduced to an animalistic state completely devoid of identity and humanity. It is clear that in one form or another we are all created and constantly defined by the social ideals in which we are immersed.

 

Bibliography

Carland, Douglas. Feral Children and Clever Animals: Reflections on Human Nature. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995).

Haslanger, Sandy. “Gender and Social Construction: Who? What? When? Where? How?” In Theorizing Feminisms, edited by Sally Haslanger and Elizabeth Hackett. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006).

Hume, David.”6: Personal Identity.” Treatise on Human Nature. Edited by Jonathan Bennett.  (2007) In Early Modern Texts, www.earlymoderntexts.com.

Nisbett, Richard. The Geography of Thought. (New York: The Free Press, 2003).

 

 

In “The Jazz Harmonies of Connection and Disconnection in ‘Sonny’s Blues’,” Susanna Lee explains that drugs, as described in James Baldwin’s story, “compromise emotional presence long before they dismantle practical functioning. Before the addict ends up on the street, that is, he occupies (at times for years) a liminal space in the world, communicating with people from the other side of the wall, separated from human feeling by a sort of invisible film.” ((Susanna Lee, “The Jazz Harmonies of Connection and Disconnection in ‘Sonny’s Blues’,” Genre: Forms of Discourse and Culture 37, no. 2 (20045): 295.)) Lee describes Sonny and his nameless friend, the story’s principle heroin users. Yet Lee’s definition also seems to describe the character most averse to literal drug use: the narrator. Lee unwittingly provides a fitting description of how the narrator of “Sonny’s Blues” hides behind an “invisible film” composed not of drugs, but of language. The narrator’s addiction to his own language initially prevents him from experiencing his own emotions and connecting with Sonny. The story charts his ability to accept new modes of expression, particularly gesture and music, and displays how this change affects his attitude towards life in Harlem through the interlocking dichotomies of darkness and light, childhood and adulthood.

The opening scene introduces the narrator’s reliance on metaphor to represent his emotions. For instance, the narrator says, “A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long. . . .It was a special kind of ice. It kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less.” ((James Baldwin, “Sonny’s Blues,” in The Story and Its Writer: An Introduction to Short Fiction, ed, Ann Charters (Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2011): 58.)) The narrator uses such comparisons to express his feelings in a way that emphasizes language while denying his actual feelings to both himself and the reader. Keith Byerman calls this “the narrator’s practice of reading events through the vehicle of his own language,” which suggests that language acts as an intermediary between the speaker and the world, an intermediary that in this case prevents honest expression of feeling. ((Keith Byerman, “Words and Music: Narrative Ambiguity in ‘Sonny’s Blues’,” Studies in Short Fiction 19, no. 4 (1982): 371.)) The scene also introduces the interlocking motifs of darkness and childhood and their expression through music. The story opens when the narrator reads about Sonny’s arrest in the newspaper. After continuously re-reading the news article, the narrator says, “I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car. . .and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside.” ((Baldwin, 58.)) The narrator gives sonic properties to the visual concept of darkness, foreshadowing the relationship between darkness and music.

The opening scene also links this image of darkness to the narrator’s image of his brother as child. The narrator, a school teacher, projects his image of his students onto Sonny; he conjures an image of Sonny “about as old as the boys in my classes” because he doesn’t know what Sonny looks like as an adult. ((Ibid.)) He connects his ideas about children to darkness when he asserts that his students’ reliance on the movies hinders their perceptions of the real world: “All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness.” ((Ibid.)) Edward Lobb reads this quotation as the narrator’s opinion that “bad art, like heroin, is merely a refuge from the real world,” as opposed to good art of the blues that appears later in the story. ((Edward Lobb, “James Baldwin’s Blues and the Function of Art,” International Fiction Review 6 (1998): 147.)) However, at this point in the story, the narrator is ignorant of the power of the blues, which suggests that the narrator does not distinguish between good and bad art; rather, his attitude towards the movies is indicative of his general attitude toward art, which includes music. In the narrator’s mind, music prevents young people from dealing with “the darkness into which they are born,” the Harlem ghetto. ((Robert Reid, “The Powers of Darkness in ‘Sonny’s Blues,” CLA Journal 43, no. 4 (2000): 443.)) Music constitutes a second darkness more terrible than the first, because, like a drug, it hinders the ability to deal with the real world. The narrator is at this point unaware that his reliance on language serves a similar function.

The narrator’s interaction with Sonny’s childhood friend allows the narrator to reduce the validity of Sonny and his peers by comparing them to children. He turns to simile to antagonize the youthfulness he sees in Sonny’s friend: “I couldn’t stand the way he looked at me, partly like a dog, partly like a cunning child.” ((Baldwin, 59.)) His addition of an animal to the comparison deepens his suggestion about the inferiority of children and their modes of expression. The narrator  then watches a barmaid dance to a jukebox and explains, “When she smiled one saw the little girl. . . beneath the battered face of the semi-whore.” ((Ibid., 60.)) This description continues the narrator’s ongoing suggestion that the relief music offers is only for the ignorant and simple-minded, the drug users and whores of the Harlem streets, who are at once dangerous and childlike. The narrator also uses language in the scene to express his contempt for drugs. Though Sonny’s friend offers him the chance to better understand his brother through a description of heroin use, the narrator rejects him: “I certainly didn’t want to know how it felt. It filled everything, the people, the houses, the music, the dark, quicksilver barmaid with menace.” ((Ibid.)) The narrator’s attitude towards addiction is similar toward his attitude toward music, and he associates both with the menacing darkness of Harlem. The narrator “psychologically retreats” when drug use is mentioned, which suggests that he is close-minded to escape methods other than his own. ((Suzy Bernstein Goldman, “James Baldwin’s ‘Sonny’s Blues’: A Message in Music,” Negro American Literature Forum 8, no. 3 (1974): 231.)) Ironically, the psychological retreat the narrator makes with language is similar to the psychological retreat of drug use. The narrator uses metaphor as a drug to prevent himself from experiencing and expressing the pain of feeling. He associates the expression of feeling with children: “I felt that in another moment I’d start crying like a child.” ((Baldwin, 61.)) To the narrator, feeling itself is as childish as the musical or emotional expression of it. He rejects all of these systems of expression, choosing instead to numb himself with language.

When the narrator finally sees Sonny for the first time after his arrest, he notes that Sonny “looked very unlike my baby brother. Yet, when he smiled, when we shook hands, the baby brother I’d never known looked out from the depths of his private life, like an animal waiting to be coaxed into the light.” ((Ibid., 62.)) The simile continues the narrator’s habit of using language to compare his brother and his peer group to both children and animals, which deepens the narrator’s assertion that Sonny is less perceptive than himself. Additionally, the passage suggests that, since Sonny is “waiting to be coaxed into the light,” he is currently trapped in the darkness of the urban drug scene, a darkness whose opposite, relief, is a separate entity that he associates with light. At this point, the narrator still sees dark and light as a dichotomy, with darkness as the suffering that must be avoided and escaped.

Ironically, the psychological retreat the narrator makes with language is similar to the psychological retreat of drug use. The narrator uses metaphor as a drug to prevent himself from experiencing and expressing the pain of feeling.

The narrator uses language to retreat from reality into a flashback. He slips instantly from past to present tense while recounting details: “And the living room would be full of church folks and relatives. There they sit.” (Ibid., 64.)) Recalling this scene in the present tense suggests that the narrator is reliving his memory in the narrative present. In this way, his language is an escape that temporarily replaces reality, much like a drug. However, the image he presents in this flashback begins to expose the contradictions in the dichotomies between both darkness and light and childhood and adulthood. The narrator fixes on a darkness that isn’t just outside, but also exists inside, visible on people’s faces:
“every face looks darkening, like the clouds outside” ((Ibid., 65.)) Light, the presumed antidote to darkness, does not ease suffering, but rather makes it worse: “And when light fills the room, the child’s is filled with darkness” ((Ibid.)) This paradox suggests the falsehood not only of the dichotomy between darkness and light, but also the dichotomy between childhood and adulthood. The child the narrator describes–presumably himself–is portrayed as exceptionally perceptive. The narrator says, “the child knows that they won’t talk anymore because if he knows too much about what’s happened to them, he’ll know too much too soon, about what’s going to happen to him.” ((Ibid.)) This memory acknowledges both that children are more perceptive than they appear and that they grow to become adults, which unsettles the dichotomy between ignorant childhood and perceptive adulthood that the narrator relies upon to assert his superiority over Sonny. These contradictions set the scene for the narrator’s worldview to change, although he is still too confused by his own language to realize it.

The brothers’ respective addictions to language and heroin have prevented them from connecting to each other. As the flashback continues, gesture is introduced as a possible mode of communication. When Sonny tells the narrator that he is going to become a piano player, the narrator says, “I sensed myself in the presence of something I didn’t really know how to handle, didn’t understand. So I made my frown a little deeper” ((Ibid., 67.)) In the face of a communication struggle, the narrator suggests that his facial expression might help convey his message to Sonny, whose powers of language he believes inferior to his own. Yet the narrator does not have this same confidence in the power of Sonny’s gestures. After Sonny tells his brother than classical music does not interest him, the narrator says, “he paused, looking hard at me, though his eyes would help me understand, and then gestured helplessly, as though perhaps his hand would help” ((Ibid., 68.)) The narrator uses qualifiers like “as though,” “perhaps,” and “helplessly” to suggest that Sonny’s gestures are futile, which places the blame on Sonny for the narrator’s own inability to read him. The narrator channels this sense of his own superiority into another assertion that Sonny is young and foolish: “With another part of my mind I was thinking that this would probably turn out to be one of those things kids go through and that I shouldn’t make it seem important by pushing it too hard.” ((Ibid., 69.)) Yet, the narrator’s closing image suggests that Sonny may not be the child that the narrator makes him out to be: “But the worry, the thoughtfulness, played on still, the way shadows play on a face which is staring into the fire.” ((Ibid., 70.)) This image suggests a callback to the narrator’s memory of the adults whose faces darkened in front of the children, which places Sonny on an adult level for the first time, though subtly. The paradoxical image of dark shadows and fire further suggests that the narrator’s firm ideas about the darkness of suffering are changing, and he may soon start to perceive both his own and his brother’s suffering differently.

The narrator continues to devalue Sonny’s expressive powers when his primary form of expression switches to music. The narrator is firm in his assertion that the music could not possibly make sense to Isabelle and her family: “And the sound didn’t make any sense to her, didn’t make any sense to any of them–naturally.” ((Ibid., 71.)) He returns to his method of using simile to control and qualify his surroundings, but there are more apparent contradictions in his word choice. The narrator notes, “It was as though [Sonny] were all wrapped up in some cloud, some fire, some vision all his own; and there wasn’t any way to reach him.” ((Ibid.)). Here, the narrator mixes comparative objects with connotations of darkness (cold) and light (heat). Though the narrator does not understand his brother’s reliance on music, his ideas about light, darkness, and musical expression seem to be evolving, whether or not he is cognizant of it. Before, the narrator suggest that music made people blind to the darkness, a darkness which must be abandoned and escaped. Now, his mixed images of light and darkness suggest the beginnings of a realization that in Harlem,”freedom lies in the recognition of the darkness and the light from which the darkness comes.” ((Reid,452.)) Music plays a dual role in suffering, perpetuating suffering by providing a cathartic expression of it. Oddly, the narrator seems to rely on music at the end of the scene: “I started down the steps, whistling to keep from crying, I kept whistling to myself, You going to need me, baby, one of these cold, rainy days.” ((Baldwin, 72.)) He uses music the same way he uses language: as a drug that masks feeling. He is himself one of the boys who uses the movies to ward off the darkness and pain of his world. Sonny uses music as a tool for feeling, rather than as a prophylactic against it. It is no wonder that this use of music sounds “weird and distorted” to the narrator. ((Ibid.))

The next section of the story begins us back to the narrative present, and with it, the narrator’s turning point. He immediately reveals details about the death of his daughter. His language in this section is straightforward and literal, which distinguishes it from the rest of his discourse. The only simile comes at the end, and it conveys the emotional devastation of the daughter’s death for the family: “where Isabel is weeping against me seems a mortal wound.” ((Ibid.)) This break from the narrator’s typical language style suggests the possibility for the narrator to recognize new modes of expression in light of his daughter’s death. Though the daughter’s death is the catalyst for the narrator’s reunion with Sonny, he does not present us with details until this point, well over midway through the story. It seems that the narrator’s reflection on his biography have already begun to affect his willingness to express himself. This disclosure of information, both in content and form, indicates a potential turning point in both the brothers’ relationship and the narrator’s understanding of alternative modes of expression.

This potential crystallizes at the revival meeting, which the narrator notes takes place shortly after Sonny begins staying with the narrator’s family. The narrator acknowledges that this is a point when something is changing: “It was strange, suddenly, to watch, though I had been seeing these street meetings all my life.” ((Ibid., 73.)) He watches as “the woman with the tambourine, whose voice dominated the air, whose face was bright with joy, was divided by very little from the woman who stood watching her, a cigarette between her heavy, chapped lips, her hair a cuckoo’s nest, her face scarred and swollen from many beatings, and her black eyes glittering like coal. Perhaps they both knew this, which was why, when, as rarely as they addressed each other, they addressed each other as sister.” ((Ibid.)) The narrator seems to recognize a different power of music–not the prevention of emotion, but the expression of feelings and the creation of brotherhood. This new idea seems to be perpetuated by Sonny’s reentry into his life. Though he resorts again to simile to describe the music, he now recognizes its power over the audience: “the music seemed to soothe a poison out of him.” ((Ibid.)) Here, for the first time, the narrator uses figurative language to express, rather than deny, music’s powerful therapeutic function.

Yet the conversation that follows between the brothers shows that the narrator has not yet overcome his addiction to the language that he relies upon to avoid the pain of suffering. Once again, the narrator discredits Sonny by comparing him to a child, noting that he looked, “from where I was standing, almost like a schoolboy.” ((Ibid., 74.)) Sonny attempts to use this moment of shared musical experience to connect to the narrator through the narrator’s own preferred form of expression: figurative language. But Sonny’s choice of comparative object makes this connection impossible: he says, “her voice reminded me for a minute of what heroin feels like sometimes. . .It makes you feel sort of warm and cool at the same time. And distant. And–and sure.” ((Ibid.)) Sonny’s choice to compare the music to the feel of heroin fails to connect to the narrator on two levels. The narrator has already established both his aversion to drug use and descriptions of it and also his aversion to direct descriptions of feeling, which he always denies in favor of comparisons to concrete objects. This failed connection sets the stage for the narrator to continue denying Sonny’s modes of expression. The narrator notes: “[Sonny] looked at me with great, troubled eyes, as though, in fact, he hoped his eyes would tell me things he could never otherwise say.” ((Ibid., 75.)) The narrator once again denies Sonny’s facial expressions as a communication method, and also continues to assert that the language that is beyond Sonny’s capability is the superior form of expression. The narrator will always resort to language, as evidenced by his commentary on his own questions: “‘And what about you?’ I asked–I couldn’t help it.”((Ibid.))

Midway through this conversation, however, something changes. The narrator asks his brother, “‘There’s no way not to suffer–is there, Sonny?'” Sonny replies, “‘I believe not. . .but that’s never stopped anyone from trying.'” ((Ibid.)) This concise and eloquent response, unusual for Sonny, unlocks the narrator’s ability to read the messages Sonny sends him. Suddenly, the narrator learns something from Sonny’s facial expressions, which he previously dismissed: “I realized, with this mocking look, that there stood between us, forever, beyond the power of time or forgiveness, the fact that I had held silence–so long!–when he had needed human speech to help him.” ((Ibid.)) The triumph of gesture causes the narrator to doubt the merit of his addiction to words. For the first time, words fail the narrator:”I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t. . .it all would have sounded empty–words and lies.” ((Ibid., 76.)) This recognition causes him to see his brother differently. Once again, the narrator notes the conflict between child and adult within his brother differently. Once again, the narrator notes that Sonny”stopped, looking inward, looking helplessly young, looking old.” ((Ibid.)) The narrator’s sentence structure, which de-emphasizes “young” through the qualifier “helplessly” and ends emphatically on “old,” suggests that he finally considers Sonny an adult, one capable of expressing himself through words, gestures, and perhaps even music.

The nightclub scene displays the narrator’s new willingness to accept his brother’s alternative modes of communication while reintroducing several motifs that reveal the implications of this change. The nightclub creates an alternative space of darkness:”the lights were very dim in this room and we couldn’t see.” ((Ibid., 77.)) This reference to darkness and blindness harkens back to the narrator’s description of the movies at the start of the story. Now, though, the narrator’s understanding of darkness has changed, for he recognizes that the darkness of suffering and the light of relief are inextricably linked, as indicated by the indigo light in the nightclub, which contains both. Once again, the narrator acknowledges that Sonny’s gestures are valid forms of expression: “Sonny was part of the family again. I could tell from his face.” ((Ibid., 79.)) The narrator describes the music as if it were language, which endows the music with language’s expressive power: “The dry, low, black man said something awful about the drums, Creole answered, and the drums talked back.” ((Ibid.)) Finally, it seems, the narrator has learned to hear Sonny’s alternative mode of expression, which finally allows him to feel his suffering and the suffering of his loved ones: “I saw my mother’s face again, and felt, for the first time, how the stones of the road she had walked on must have bruised her feet. . .I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel’s tears again, and I felt my own tears begin to rise.” ((Ibid., 80.)) Music has transcended the narrator’s previous mode of expression by allowing him to feel , rather than providing him with an avenue to deny feeling; as Lobb explains, “Sonny’s music breaks the silence that has existed between the brothers, and breaks down the wall of reserve that has removed the narrator, for all practical purposes, from the human community.” ((Lobb, 146.)) This wall of reserve is reminiscent of the all of “invisible film” in Lee’s description of drug addicts. Sonny’s music, it seems, provides the rehabilitation the narrator needs to recover from his language addiction and reconnect more directly to the world.

Though the narrator has grown to recognize alternative modes of expression, he is still, limited by his tendency to represent the world by his own linguistic inventiveness.

Yet the story’s ending reintroduces a sense of ambiguity as to whether this change in the narrator will lead to actual understanding with his brother, setting the stage for the narrator’s potential relapse into language’s mediating effect. The narrator seems unconvinced that this moment of communication will transcend the darkness outside: “And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.” ((Baldwin, 80.)) This allusion to Isaiah initially seems to suggest that the scotch and milk that the narrator buys his brother will serve not only as a symbol of communion, but also a shared relief from a lifetime of suffering. However, the simile marks a return to the narrator’s emphasis on figurative language to describe his surroundings, which limits his ability to connect to others. The “for me” frames this comparison exclusively in the realm of his private understanding, which suggests that even if the gesture is meant to renew the narrator’s connection to Sonny, his linguistic tendencies will continue to prevent robust communion. As Lee explains, “The ‘for me’ of the last sentence underscores, as does the title ‘Sonny’s Blues,’ the ultimately individual nature of experience–an individuality, as we see through the narrative, both heightened and mediated by communion with another.” ((Lee, 298.)) Though the narrator has grown to recognize alternative modes of expression, he is still, limited by his tendency to represent the world by his own linguistic inventiveness.

By learning to accept the alternative modes of communication of gesture–especially music–the narrator learns to break the dichotomies between light and darkness and between childhood and adulthood, dichotomies that he has used to keep order in his world and deny his feelings. The ending’s ambiguity suggests that this is a fight that the narrator will have to continue. This reading of the story carries implications for the wider black community. The narrator notes that “Sonny’s fingers filled the air with life, his life. But that life contained so many others.” ((Baldwin, 79.)) Just as Sonny’s blues encompass the stories of a community, “Sonny’s Blues” tells the story of a people. In charting the narrator’s addiction to and the beginnings of recovery from a drug-like use of extravagant language that has prevented him from the immediacy of empathetic feeling, Baldwin hints  that perhaps the narrator’s drug poses a greater threat to the black community than does Sonny’s. As John Reilly explains, the narrator’s acceptance of Sonny’s world compels him to “abandon the ways of thought identified with middle-class position which historically has signified for Black people the adoption of ‘white’ ways.” ((John M.Reilly, “‘Sonny’s Blues’: James Baldwin’s Image of Black Community,” Negro American Literature Forum 4, no. 2 (1970): 444.)) The narrator’s journey towards an acceptance of his community parallels Baldwin’s own journey. In an interview, Baldwin states that, after discovering the blues, “I finally realized. . .that I was ashamed of where I came from and where I had been. I was ashamed of the life of the Negro church, ashamed of my father, ashamed of the Blues.” ((quoted in D. Quentin Miller, “Using the Blues: James Baldwin and Music” A Historical Guide to James Baldwin, ed. Douglas Field (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009): 90.)) Infused with personal conviction, Baldwin’s story sends a message not just to the black community, but also to the entire human community, about the painful histories that must be experienced and acknowledged in the journey to transcend suffering.

 

Bibliography 

Baldwin, James. “Sonny’s Blues.” In The Story and Its Writer: An Introduction to Short Fiction, edited by Ann Charters, 58-80. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2011.

Byerman, Keith. “Words and Music: Narrative Ambiguity in ‘Sonny’s Blues’.” Studies in Short Fiction 19, no. 4 (1982): 367-72.

Goldman, Suzy Bernstein. “James Baldwin’s ‘Sonny’s Blues’: A Message in Music.” Negro American Literature Forum 8, no. 3 (1974): 231-33.

Lee, Susanna. “The Jazz Harmonies of Connection and Disconnection in ‘Sonny’s Blues’.” Genre: Forms of Discourse and Culture 37, no. 2 (2004): 285-300.

Lobb, Edward. “James Baldwin’s Blues and the Function of Art.” International Fiction 6 (1979): 143-48.

Miller, D. Quentin. “Using the Blues: James Baldwin and Music.” In  A Historical Guide to James Baldwin, edited by Douglas Field, 83-110. New York: Oxford UniversityPress, 2009).

Reid, Robert. “The Powers of Darkness in ‘Sonny’s Blues’.” CLA Journal 43, no. 4 (2000): 443-53.

Reilly, John M. “‘Sonny’s Blues’: James Baldwin’s Image of Black Community.” Negro American Literature Forum 4, no. 2 (1970): 56-60.

 

 

 

Racism persists partly because of generations’ continuous exposure to social practices and norms in the United States. We grow up hearing racial slurs, seeing distinct groups being privileged repeatedly, and are sometimes victims of racially-charged attacks. A seemingly innocent exchange between two individuals has the potential to reflect or to accentuate trends of racism in America. These everyday interactions raise questions about ethnicity, race, and relations between groups that come from different backgrounds and are members of different communities.

As a society, members of the dominant culture often create niches for individuals who are differently raced, have unique heritages, or are simply concerned not “normal” white Americans. Some see an Asian person, and assume she is a foreigner (here, let us define foreigner as a person whose native language is other than English and who cannot pass as an American citizen because of accent, tradition, or religion). Likewise, blacks often get characterized as dirty, lazy, and poor without considering that persons might be West Indian, a recent African immigrant, or part of the upper class. These niches can define us, and it is difficult to escape the expectations and assumptions with which others often burden us. Conversely, some individuals aren’t placed within niche categories, and may feel that they belong nowhere.

In third grade, I found myself in a situation that compromised my prior understanding of self and my sense of group membership. As the only non-Caucasian member of a Hebrew school with nearly three hundred students, I knew that I was different. People stared. My mom told me it was because these classmates wanted to be my friend or thought I was pretty, but I new they were questioning my very presence. Though their mouths remained closed, I could not move from one room to another without feeling the glare of their judgments. This tacit behavior continued for about a year and a half. But one day a classmate sat next to me in the sanctuary and asked bluntly: “So why are you here? I mean, I know you say your parents are Jewish, but is it, like, legal to be both Asian and Jewish? I’ve never met an Asian Jew before, and there are no others here.”

He trailed off, not finishing his thought, but I was already stunned. I considered us friends, so was I to brush off this incident as a misunderstanding or excuse him on behalf of his naievete? Or should I, a soft-spoken and timid eight-year-old, make a scene in the midst of services? Furthermore, if someone feels emboldened to ask me if I, in essence, belong to my face, what did my other classmates say outside my presence? And, did he really think of me as just one troubling instance rather than an equally-devoted member of the synagogue and Jewish community? Finally, he asked if it was legal to be both Asian and Jewish, making my hybridity a judicial matter.

As the only Asian in Hebrew School, it was clear I didn’t fit the expected notion of a Jew.  Jewishness is typically understood in two ways: as followers of a distinct minority religion, or as an ethnic identity, one that flourishes in the Middle East, Europe, or Israel. But this standard view restricts those who, like me, do not fall into the traditional categories. Since Middle Eastern, European, and Israeli Jews have worked to accentuate their whiteness (and its associated privileges) we tend to classify Jews as white. In America, whiteness imputes status. Yet, my Asian background–including what some call a “yellow” skin tone–troubles this ideal. As one sociologist points out, while “white skin. . .was perceived as an absence of color, not ‘stained with pigment,’ [Asians and Mongolians] became a certain kind of racial opposite. ((Michael Keevak, Becoming Yellow: A Short History of Racial Thinking (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011), 62.)) The discrepancy between a Jewish/white and Jewish/Asian identity therefore put me in an “other” category, which diminishes my status from an individual with desirable traits to someone defined by ambiguity and inconsistency. While he may not have intended to do so, my classmate belittled my existence and made me confused about my own identity; not only did he imply that I did not belong with the Jews as a people, but he also highlighted my Asian features, which in turn doubly reinforced my minority status and inferiority.

Yolanda Adams (in an essay with the telling title “Don’t Want to Be Black Anymore”) notices that a “fascination with color seems odd, considering that every label can be either an insult or a compliment.” ((quoted in Joan Ferrante and Prince Brown, Jr. The Social Construction of Race and Ethnicity in the United States (Boston: Longman, 1998), 50.)) Being called out as an Asian Jew made me self-conscious and hyper-aware of my identity, a feeling many minority persons find disruptive. As Adams puts this, “When people see me. . .they invariably look past the person and see my color.” ((Ibid., 51.)) Similarly, my Jewish identity is made invisible by my skin color. Racial identity overpowers religious devotion. I cannot, without tension, be an Asian Jew. Furthermore, according to the logic Adams observes, for many white Americans,  I cannot be a Jew.

In third grade, I found myself in a situation that compromised my prior understanding of self and my sense of group membership.

My hybridity is this: I am an Asian by blood, a Jew by faith, and consider myself a full member of the Polish and Russian family that has raised me. But my identity is almost always reflected back to me as hyphenated, partial, and incomplete. Uehara-Carter underscores this point in “On Being Blackanese:” “No society can tell me that I am more of one culture than another because of the way someone else defines me.” ((quoted in Ferrante and Brown, 53.)) By illustrating her unique identity, Uehara-Carter redefines who an American can be and what an American can look like. Many assume that identity features are mutually exclusive, and that one cannot blend two (or more) identities without losing the authenticity of one trait or another. Tellingly, Uehara-Carter admits that she is most offended by “the attitudes of bewilderment and the exoticism of [her] being” on which others focus. ((Ibid.)) While she robustly defends her identity, she must expend significant energy to constantly correct and educate others. In retrospect, I too felt resentful that my classmate demanded that I somehow validate my presence. At the same time, however, I felt like I should apologize for making him confused and uncomfortable.

Dawkins’ “Apologizing for Being a Black Male” exposes the daily struggles for black men in a white-dominant society. While Asians (the “model minority”) are not stereotyped as threatening in the way that black men are, both groups must constantly prove their worth in public. Dawkins describes himself as “reluctant” to complete daily tasks in the presence of white females; he fears misunderstanding or snap judgments from bystanders, with whom he finds himself “apologizing, at least internally, for being a Black male.” ((quoted in Ferrante and Brown, 68.)) After my classmate’s comment,  I discovered myself questioning my right to be in the temple. I reevaluated my comfort as the only minority member of the congregation, and internally apologized for intruding into this group of whites, an impossible request for forgiveness undeserved.

When perceived inconsistencies in one’s identity are noticed by others, the authenticity of the “assembled” parts is brought into question. Is it impossible for someone to truly be Jewish if she is also Asian? Can a person be fully Asian if she practices a religion other than Buddhism, Daoism, or Confucianism? Authenticity is understood as one’s loyalty to a certain singular identity, as on practices customs, speaks the language, and looks the part. Authenticity is often a function of one’s biological (rather than adoptive) family status, especially when a child’s race differs from that of the new parents. Sarah Van’t Hul reminds us that many blacks thought “it more damaging for black children to be adopted by whites than to be placed in foster care” because a white family corrupts a black child’s access to black culture, heritage, and identity. ((Ibid., 81.)) Though the adoption of Asian children by white parents became more frequent in the 1990s when I was adopted, it was still unusual, and almost never went unnoticed.

But hybridity can also fascinate. At Hebrew School, my Asian Jewishness made me wonderfully exotic. No one seem repulsed by my attendance. I brought diversity to my family and modified (I would like to think for the good) their own identities as adoptive parents. Still, I wonder if I am expected to be more loyal to my adoptive family’s roots than to my biological Asian ones? Do people not reckon fully with my religious affiliation when they classify me as Asian-American based purely on my physical features? Ever since that classmate doubted my legitimacy as a Jew, I have worn David’s star at my neck and have taken an active role in Jewish organizations, including a leadership position in Davidson College’s Hillel. But accentuating one trait only goes so far. I cannot change my Asian features. In a culture seemingly obsessed with race, my Asian face will always predominate, no matter what else I emphasize.

Six years after the incident with my classmate, I asked him about his impertinent question.  He had no recollection of asking it (which speaks volumes to the concept of social privilege), but I have remained forever changed by it. White Americans asks us to negotiate our identities and to navigate social exchanges so that they can remain comfortable and complacent about the power of whiteness. Often these expectations manifest themselves in what may seem to outsiders minor, trivial, or insignificant ways. But each comment is potentially potent since each causes a measure of adjustment, even change. Redefining identity becomes burdensome over a lifetime that need not be marked by the demand to fully make sense to everyone else.

 Bibliography

Ferrante, Joan and Prince Brown,  Jr. The Social Construction of Race and Ethnicity in the United States. Boston: Longman, 1998.

Keevak, Michael. Becoming Yellow: A Short History of Racial Thinking. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011.

 

In February of 2011, Cassy Herkelman became the first girl to win a high school wrestling match at an Iowa state tournament when her opponent, Joel Northrup, refused to wrestle a girl and forfeited the match. Northrup cited religious beliefs when explaining his decision to concede the match at the most important tournament of his life: “As a matter of conscience and my faith, I do not believe it is appropriate for a boy to engage a girl in this manner. ((Barbara Pinto and Olivia Katrandjian, “Wrestler Joel Northrup Forfeits to Female Opponent in Iowa State Championships,” ABC News, February 18, 2011, http://abcnews.go.com.)) Northrup’s explanation is critical. Without it, one might assume that Northrup did not want to wrestle Herkelman for fear of the possible shame that could come from losing to a girl in a male-dominated sport–a shame that, while unjustified, is present in some minds thanks in part to popular cultural portrayals of gender and sports. As Theresa Walton explains in her essay on television’s portrayal of girl/boy wrestling, one episode of Malcolm in the Middle dramatizes the embarrassment that Reese and the rest of the family feel after he loses to a girl wrestler. ((Theresa Walton, “Grappling with Dominant Ideologies:Fox Network Weighs in on Girl/Boy Wrestling,” The Journal of Popular Culture 40, no. 4 (2007): 720.)) Northrup, instead of shying away from the potential shame that Reese experiences, seems like a devout Christian whose reasoning for forfeiting the match involves neither misogyny nor gender discrimination.

His reasoning aside, Northrup (however inadvertently) fortifies the barriers that deny females full access to male-dominated sports. More than four decades after the Title IX declared that “no person shall on the basis of sex be excluded from participation in. . . athletics,” women and girls continue to be shut out from competing against men and boys. ((“Title IX of the Education of Amendments of 1972,” The United States Department of Justice, http://www.justice.gov/crt/about/cor/coord/ixlegal.php#10.%A)%20Athletics%20(%A7%20_.450). )) Whether they are defensible or indefensible, excuses still arise that
strengthen these gender barriers. While this essay does not call for the integration of sexes at every level of sport, Cassy Herkelman deserved a shot at wrestling Joe Northrup, a shot at advancing in the state tournament because of her talent, not as some concession. The fact that she did not get that opportunity reveals that there is a lasting and unresolved issue of gender equality in sports.

Northrup presents his reasoning for not wrestling with Herkelman very vaguely. He says that the “manner” in which one wrestles is inappropriate when a girl is the opponent, as if the act of wrestling becomes more than mere sport when a girl is involved: it is now a sexualized activity. Northrup is no longer competing against a girl or wrestling her; instead, he is “engaging” her, becoming the instigator and aggressor rather than simply one of the co-equals in a match. Although Northrup’s religious reasons make him seem politically innocent (which he may well be), nonetheless, his statement runs counter to the spirit of Title IX and the vision of its creators: his words disrespect a female’s body, conceiving of it as fragile and, by extension, contact as violative despite his opponent’s preparedness and willingness to engage. With Northrup’s reasoning, when a girl walks onto the wrestling mat, the mat is long longer a place of competition but rather a potent site of sexualized meaning.

What is curious is that female wrestlers tend not to imbue contact with such significance. In the winter of 2011, sixteen-year-old Cristta Hartinger earned her way onto her high school’s varsity wrestling team. When asked by a reporter whether she found it uncomfortable to wrestle a boy while both he and she are wearing singlets, Hartinger replied, “You don’t think about it. There’s nothing to think about–you just wrestle.” ((Stephen T. Watson, “Girl Wrestler Aims to Show She Belongs,” Buffalo News, http://ehis.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?vid=3&sid=7e05efa7-ces5-43b0-875a-e231e6c90030%40sessionmgr198&hid=106&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbG12ZQ%3d%3d#db=n5h&AN=2W64256683530.)) “Just wrestle” is what Northrup was unable to do when matched up with Herkelman. Ironically, Hartinger’s ability to avoid the distracting thoughts that unnerve Northrup gives her a mental edge over  boys like Northrup in a sport supposedly unsuited for girls. Hartinger’s situation suggests that the key for girls who want to compete with boys is to be mentally undistracted, strong and confident enough to brush aside the obstacles that appear so problematic to traditionalists.

Although mental fortitude may be one of the main factors separating girls who compete against boys and girls who do not, when addressing integrated competitions, many youth athletics organizations focus only on physical differences in genders. The Iowa High School Athletic Association’s position on girls participating in traditionally male sports programs offers guidelines for girls joining a boys’ team. For example, if a girl wants to join the football team, “she should be informed that football is an aggressive contact sport.” ((Iowa High School Athletics Association, “Girls Participating in Boys Sports Programs,” http://ww.iahsaa.org/resource_center/Eligibility_Forms_Information/Girls_Participating_on_Boy’s_Teams.pdf.))  Although the IHSAA’s motives are to support a girl trying to play football, the language it uses does little more than demean her by making her seem uneducated in sports. The association feels the need to “inform” girls of the aggressiveness and dangers of football, as if a girl–and one who plans to play the sport at that–is unaware of its violent nature. The IHSAA’s guidelines for girls who want to wrestle announce that someone must notify the girls that “competition and practice are often aggressive and physically demanding.” ((Ibid.)) Once again, the IHSAA insults girls’ athletic intelligence by stating the obvious. The fact that the association must warn girls in this way implies that they cannot handle the physical demands and aggressiveness that comes with wrestling boys.

Despite the amount of attention paid to the physical obstacles that girls face when they play contact sports such as football and wrestling, these do not account for the entirety of gender division in youth sports. Another reason lies at the professional level. Young athletes look up to professionals as role models. There is even more gender exclusivity in professional sports. Young female athletes still await a woman to break the gender barrier in many sports. Michelle Wie, one of the most promising young women golfers in recent years, has failed to make the cut in the five men’s PGA Tour events she has played in, while Annika Sorenstam, arguably the best women’s golfer of all time, missed the cut in her lone attempt to play with men. In March 2013, Lauren Silberman became the first woman to take part in an NFL Regional Scouting Combine; however, in her attempt to draw the attention of football scouts as a kicker, her attempts came up significantly shorter than needed to be awarded a place on a team. ((Mike Garafolo, “Fellow Female Kicker on Silberman:’She Was Terrible’,” USA Today, March 4, 2013.)) Despite her lack of success in her tryout, Silberman hopes that her mere presence will open pathways for women who want to play in the NFL: “I certainly hope I’m not the last,” she said. ((Dennis Waszak, Jr., “Lauren Silberman, Female Kicker, Lasts 2 Kicks at NFL Regional Combine Tryout,” Huffington Post, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/03/lauren-silberman-female-kicker-nfl-combine_n_2803293.html.)) Katie Hinda, however, is not as optimistic as Silberman. Hinda, who kicked for the University of Colorado and the University of New Mexico, claims that although Silberman’s performance has more to do with her lack of preparation than with her gender, nevertheless “she’s going to be looked at (as inferior) because she is female.” ((Garafolo.)) Hinda’s words are troubling; even though her gender may not be the cause of failure, society will perceive it to be. This judgmental attitude illustrates the small margin of error that females must work within when trying to play a male-dominated sport. Any mistake leads not only to a critique of the individual, but reflects on female athletes as a group. Therefore, even though Silberman’s mere presence in the tryout may seem groundbreaking, her failure to kick well erodes much of the progress that her presence made.

Despite the amount of attention paid to the physical obstacles that girls face when they play contact sports such as football and wrestling, these do not account for the entirety of gender division in youth sports. Another reason lies at the professional level.

While a female has yet to achieve success in men’s basketball, there now appears to be a faint possibility that a woman might be selected in the upcoming NBA draft. Mark Cuban, the owner of the Dallas Mavericks, recently stated that he would be open to drafting Baylor University’s Brittney Griner:”I’d lean toward yes, just to see if she can do it.” ((Bernie Augustine, “Can Brittney Griner Play in the NBA?Dallas Mavericks Owner Mark Cuban Sparks a Debate,” New York Daily News, http://www.nydailynews.come/sports/basketball/woman-nba-mavs-owner-sparks-debate-article-1.1308671.)) The fact that Cuban is even considering selecting a woman in the draft (an event in which NBA teams have only two chances to draft players who they think will become long-term employees) appears on the surface to be a big step forward for female athletes. However, Cuban’s language betrays a lack of seriousness and an attitude of genuine change. NBA owners don’t typically spend one of their two precious draft picks on a player who they have to “see if [he or she] can do it;” they pick players who they are confident will perform to NBA standards. Cuban’s reason for considering Griner is illegitimate and, in a way, cruel and even sexist since it positions Griner as lesser than men simply by dint of her sex. Gender consideration, as in Hinda’s comments about Silberman, is accompanied by suspicion and doubt rather than by support and positive expectation.

It is unclear to what extent professional sports will become integrated. The increasing number of women who have attempted to join professional men’s leagues is impossible to ignore; yet, the lack of a standout female performer on the men’s level continues to make owners hesitant. A fair number of girls now participate in boys’ sports, yet nearly every instance of such integration elicits the attention of national news. Gender parity and the de facto goals of Title IX will not be achieved until gender integration becomes commonplace, which seems quite far off.

Bibliography

Garafolo, Mike. “Fellow Female Kicker on Silberman: ‘She Was Terrible’.” USA Today, March 4, 2013.

Iowa High School Athletic Association. “Girls Participating in Boys Sports Programs.” http://ww.iahsaa.org/resource_center/Eligibility_Forms_Information/Girls_Participating_on_Boy’s_Teams.pdf.

Pinto, Barbara and Olivia Katrandjian. “Wrestler Joel Northrup Forfeits to Female Opponent in Iowa State Championships.” ABC News. February 18, 2011. http://abcnews.go.com.

“Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972.” United States Department of Justice.  http://www.justice.gov/crt/about/cor/coord/ixlegal.php#10.%A)%20Athletics%20(%A7%20_.450).

Walton, Theresa. “Grappling with Dominant Ideologies: Fox Network Weighs in on Girl/Boy Wrestling.” Journal of Popular Culture 40, no. 4 (2007): 714-26.

Waszak, Dennis, Jr. “Lauren Silberman, Female Kicker, Lasts 2 Kicks At NFL Regional Combine Tryout.” Huffington Post. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/03/lauren-silberman-female-kicker-nfl-combine_n_2803293.html.

Watson, Stephen T. “Girl Wrestler Aims to Show She Belongs.” Buffalo News. http://ehis.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?vid=3&sid=7e05efa7-ces5-43b0-875a-e231e6c90030%40sessionmgr198&hid=106&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbG12ZQ%3d%3d#db=n5h&AN=2W64256683530.

 

 

His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. . . .The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun. . . .It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna, “Come! come to me only.” The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say. . .Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one. . .come to me. He refuses to come. . . .But He comes in some other song, I hope! . . .There was a moment of absolute silence.

E. M. Forster, A Passage to India

Godbole’s poignant song reverberates throughout E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India. The melody is baffling yet potent. Godbole places himself in the position of a lowly milkmaiden who pleas with her God for unity and connection. Godbole recites this plea to the God Shri Krishna in the form of a raga, a rhythmic pattern where the musical notes are repeated over and over, as Godbole reprises, “Come, come, come, come, come, come.” ((Tracy Pintchman, “Snakes in the Cave: Religion and the Echo in E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India,” Soundings 75, no. 1 (1992): 64; Forster, 80.)) The repetition of “come” is in essence an echo. While this motif is most directly associated with the Marabar Caves, it is seen throughout the novel and is first introduced in the form of Godbole’s song. The refrain speaks to the root of tension in the novel and uncovers the underlying source of disunity amongst the characters as well as between England and India. Each character responds uniquely to the echo of the song, which demonstrates either their ability to grasp the multiplicity of India to find unity.

Like the numerous echoes in the novel, Godbole’s “come” keeps repeating, yet receives only silence in response. Krishna’s silence represents what Gertrude M. White calls “the problem of separation” between matter and essence. His song “signifies man’s attempt to forge unity between the material and the spiritual” and each character repsonds to this attmpt differently. ((Gertrude M. White, “A Passage to India: Analysis and Revaluation,” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 76, no. 4 (1953): 647.)) The nature of each character’s relationship with transcendent powers is inherently distinctive because each character grapples with different aspects of doubt and confusion. Tracy Pintchman confirms the diverse struggles of Forster’s characters, saying “different characters have different responses to the echoes based on their diverse personal, cultural, and religious values.” ((Pintchman, 71.)) It is through their responses to the echo of Godbole’s song that “Forster’s characters reveal their multiple and often contradictory assessments of the cosmos and the human condition. ((Ibid., 62.)) Forster’s use of the characters’ “contradictory assessments” demonstrates not only the separation between the material and the spiritual, but also the separations within the social and political world.

Forster shows each distinct culture (British, Muslim, and Hindu) to have an opposing response to the echo in Godbole’s song. Forster asserts that “no one is India,” as he uses Mrs. Moore and Adela to symbolize the English, Aziz the Muslims, and Godbole the Hindus. ((Forster, 72.)) The English cannot understand the echo, the Muslim ear is indifferent, and the Hindu strives–and appears to succeed–in grasping the elusive significance of the song.

Despite attempts to comprehend Krishna’s response, the English ultimately fail in their quest for greater understanding. According to Pintchman, they “have not the apparatus for judging whether life is a mystery or a muddle because they do not know whether there exist worlds beyond which they could never know or if all that is possible enters their consciousness.” ((Pintchman, 73.)) To the English, Godbole’s song is a mystery; they do not know why Krishna responds with silence or why the milkmaidens seek a sexual union with the God. The English struggle to connect to one another, let alone a higher power. The notion of transcendental powers frightens and baffles the English because there do not appear to be distinct answers, but rather open-ended questions that appear to lack a complete answer. Mrs. Moore even says, “We English. . .hate mysteries.” ((Forster, 69.)) They instead seek definite, concrete answers. For instance, Adela wants to “see the real India” manifested in one singular person, such as Aziz. ((Ibid., 24.)) She cannot grasp the plurality of an India that is made up of “a hundred Indians”. ((Ibid., 15.)) The English “excel at the practical life, but are lost in the spiritual.” ((White, 651.))

Mrs. Moore acts as a lens through which we view the reaction to the echo of Godbole’s song. For Mrs. Moore, the echo is “a frightening assertion of meaninglessness.” ((Pintchman, 65.)) When she questions Godbole about Krishna’s appearance in another song, it becomes clear she cannot acknowledge the possibility of an intangible answer from Krishna. She interprets the silence as indifference. ((Ibid., 64.)) As Mrs. Moore grapples with the idea of a God unconcerned with his devotees, she fears that while “Everything exists, nothing has value.” ((Ibid., 149.)) In essence, everything is the same, but in this sameness is nothing. ((White, 648.)) Krishna’s answer (or, rather, silence) catapults her into a state of disillusionment because the emphasis of nothingness and silence threatens her “talkative little Christianity.” ((Forster, 150.)) After witnessing the milkmaiden’s fruitless attempt at unity, she becomes apathetic about life; she loses interest in her family and friends. She comes to see that relationships are pointless because there is the possibility of being let down, just as the milkmaidens are let down by their god. ((Ibid., 135.)) Mrs. Moore’s apathetic view of relationships is solidified when she feels chafed by Mrs. Bhattacharya’s evasion, Adela’s failed engagement, and even by her Christian god that cannot help her make sense of India and the question it provokes.

As Mrs. Moore’s beliefs shift, she realizes that everything amounts to “Boum”: it all “amounts to same [sic],” thus undermining her views of the hierarchical Christian religion that emphasizes the tangible and material. ((Pintchman, 75.)) Mrs. Moore is crippled because she is confronted with the abstract, transcendental nature of the Hindu religion. She grapples with the concept of absence and nothingness, as do many who read the novel through a Western lens. The echo, in the form of Godbole’s song, brings Mrs. Moore’s world crashing in. As she contemplates the idea that her life has been built upon a faulty foundation of relationships and beliefs, she isolates herself. Instead of embracing the nothingness of Krishna’s response, she draws away from her faith and her family, dying at sea. She ultimately dies in a transitional phase, neither in England nor India: rejecting her former beliefs, yet running in fear from her newly-discovered truth.

Like Mrs. Moore, Adela also finds disillusionment in Krishna’s silence. However, the meaninglessness she feels corresponds to her physical relationship with Ronny rather than to her spiritual relation with the divine. ((Pintchman, 72.)) The echo enables her to see that she does not love the man she is about to marry. Krishna’s refusal to unite with the milkmaidens foreshadows that there will be no union between Adela and Ronny because, unlike in the song, there is no sexual connection between the couple. (( Wilfrid R. Koponen. “Krishna at the Garden Party: Crises of Faith in A Passage to India,” International Fiction Review 20, no. 1 (1993): 46.)) White suggests that a loveless union would be rape. ((White, 648.)) The echo instills in Adela an intense fear caused by her anticipated sexual union with Ronny. Driven by anxious expectation of a sexual union or perhaps that there will not be a connection, Adela imagines a sexual encounter with Aziz. Adela’s hallucination leads to her embarrassment and to subsequent accusations of Aziz.

Forster shows each distinct culture (British, Muslim, and Hindu) to have an opposing response to the echo in Godbole’s song.

The theme of unity in Godbole’s song parallels both Adela and Ronny, and therefore India and England’s inability to unite. There is nothing pleasant or collective about the relationship between the two countries. In fact, Ronny proclaims that his only job is India is “to hold this wretched country by force.” ((Forster, 50.)) Mrs. Moore rebukes Ronny with the Bible verse that says, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not love.” ((White, 652.)) Mrs. Moore speaks with the only vocabulary she knows, that of Christianity, a religion that fails to live out its own commandment in the novel. The use of violence and force during and following the trial scene by the British symbolizes the failure of Christianity and the “utmost degradation of such a union” like that between Ronny and Adela. ((Ibid., 650.)) The lack of love and kindness between the two countries represents the imperialistic rape of India by England.

While the Anglo-Indians are distressed by the significance of Godbole’s song, Aziz has no reaction. When he first hears the song, it sounds like “a maze of noises” to his Muslim ear. ((Forster, 80.)) Godbole’s language baffles Aziz, emphasizing the divide between Islam and Hinduism. Forster portrays Aziz as baffled by India, his own country, throughout the novel. Through this ambivalence, we see that Islam’s tenets do not equip Aziz to encompass the significance of the song. As a result, Aziz fails in his attempts to connect both with the other characters and with India.

Aziz acts under false pretenses when he tries to convince the other characters, namely the English, that he is knowledgeable about India. However, he is wrong about many aspects of India, such as the Marabar Caves. To sound cultured, Aziz interrupts Godbole’s explanation of the caves to Mrs. Moore and Adela. He excitedly interjects, yet contributes inaccurate information that Godbole then corrects. Once at the caves, Azia, “in spite of his gay, confident talk, had no notion of how to treat this particular aspect of India; he was lost in it without Professor Godbole.” ((Ibid., 141.)) Aziz is no more knowledgeable about India and the significance of Godbole’s song than the Christian characters. ((Ibid., 304.)) He does not understand India and he is most definitely not “India,” as Adela believes. ((Ibid., 72.)) In spite of their differing reactions, both the English and the Muslims fail to grasp the relationship between the material and spiritual in India, leading us to believe that perhaps Godbole is the only one to completely comprehend the significance of his song to Krishna.

The sexual message of Godbole’s song demonstrates his desire for complete unity with Krishna. Rather than interpreting Krishna’s silence as an absence of meaning, Godbole sees the silence as “a sign of hope which not only allows but encourages one to beckon divinity.” ((Pintchman, 74.)) For him, the absence of response does not equate to indifference, but rather serves as a symbol of unity through cosmic confusion. According to Shusterman, Godbole himself is baffled because his plea for religious clarity and unity is answered with silence. ((David Shusterman, “The Curious Case of Professor Godbole: A Passage to India Re-Examined,” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 76, no. 4 (1961): 430.)) However, Godbole welcomes this confusion instead of balking in disillusionment. He realizes that the absence of Krishna’s response implies a form of existence that finds value in nothingness. ((Doreeen D’Cruz, “Emptying and Filling Along the Existential Coil in A Passage to India,” Studies in the Novel 18, no. 2 (1986): 193.)) Godbole, through his Hindu beliefs, accepts the confusion, which Hinduism celebrates.

Forster portrays Hinduism as “the most accepting” of the spiritual ambiguity that causes conflict for the non-Hindu characters. ((Pintchman, 63.)) Hinduism’s centrality in A Passage to India is crucial and is intrinsically linked to the echo of Godbole’s song because only Hindu servants seem to understand it. ((Michael Spencer, “Hinduism in E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India,” The Journal of Asian Studies 27, no. 2 (1968): 281; Forster, 80.)) “The echo, the symbol of the formlessness, eternity, confusion, and illusion brought into relief by India, cannot be eradicated by the insistent denial of its existence. The Hindu sensibility understands this and celebrates the essense of the echo,” which leads us to conclude that Hinduism is the only religion that allows for the answer to Krishna’s response. ((Pintchman, 73.))

“Temple,” the third section of the novel, marks the culmination of the story’s agenda. The temple represents the Hindu religion and demonstrates its mediation of diversity in the universe. The world is a mystery, not a muddle, because an answer exists to the question of unity; however, the answer is conceptual and metaphysical. ((White, 651.)) The Hindus recognize “the sacred bewilderment” of the characters’ reactions to Godbole’s song as a mystery that encompasses all things to achieve unity despite apparent contradictions. ((Pintchman, 74.)) Hinduism is not concerned with “cosmic contradictions” such as that of good and evil which is explained by Professor Godbole. ((D’Cruz, 204.)) Forster portrays both Christianity and Islam to rely on form, which then negates the contingency of complete unity. As a result, the English and Muslim characters only perceive Krishna’s response as a muddle. ((Ibid.)) Godbole’s starkly different interpretation of the song’s echo, which reflects his Hindu beliefs, is abstruse to the other characters.

By the end of the novel, we realize that “the way of Godbole is the only possible way: love, even though to exist it must maintain a detachment from the physical world and human relationships, offers the single upward path from the land of steritly and echoing evil.” ((Shusterman, 426.)) Krishna’s response to Godbole’s song is provided during the Birth ceremony of Krishna in the form of “infinite love” that came to save the world from sorrow. ((Forster, 287.)) But the human ability to accept this love is inhibited by the confines of concrete knowledge. Despite Godbole’s Hindu beliefs, it becomes clear that no one can achieve unity through “infinite love.” ((Pintchman, 76.)) During the British ceremony, Godbole “remembered a wasp seen he forgot where, perhaps on a stone. He loved the wasp equally. . .he was imitating God. And the stone where the wasp clung–could he, no, he could not, he had been wrong to attempt the stone, logic and conscious effort had seduced.” ((Forster, 286.)) If the significance of the song is unity through infinite love, then the only way India and England will be unified is if they interact in a loving manner.

While Godbole, through his Hindu beliefs, comes closest to grasping the concept of infinite love, he fails to fully comprehend its significance. Despite his attempt to love everything equally, he still cannot achieve unity with Krishna and instead finds himself standing opposite to him at the Birth ceremony. Godbole’s failure to love the stone equally demonstrates that the ideals of Hinduism are simply too great and abstract for the human mind to grasp. After all, “no one is India”–neither the English, nor the Muslims, nor the Hindus, and no one can have India. ((Ibid., 72.)) India, the symbol of infinite love, calls “come,” come achieve unity, but it is not a promise, only an appeal.

 

Bibliography

D’Cruz, Doreen. “Emptying and Filling Along the Exisential Coil in A Passage to India.”Studies in the Novel 18, no. 2 (1986):193-212.

Forster, E. M. A Passage to India. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1924.

Koponen, Wilfrid R. “Krishna at the Garden Party: Crises of Faith in A Passage to India.” International Fiction Review 20, no. 1 (1993): 39-47.

Pintchman, Tracy. “Snakes in the Cave: Religion and the Echo in E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India.” Soundings 75, no. 1 (1992): 61-78.

Shusterman, David. “The Curious Case of Professor Godbole: A Passage to India  Re-Examined.” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 76, no. 4 (1961): 426-35.

Spencer, Michael.”Hinduism in E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India.” Journal of Asian Studies 27, no. 2 (1968): 281-95.

White, Gertrude M. “A Passage to India: Analysis and Revaluation.” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 68, no. 4 (1953): 641-57.