Chapter 5 Writing about Racial, Ethnic, and Cultural Identity

Ashley Eckhardt

Professor John Pennington

ENGL 150: Introduction to Literature

April 20, 20–

The Convergence of Races: 19th Century Imperialism and Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness

Europe in the 19th century experienced a rash of imperialistic sentiment as nations competed to gain political and economic control of the African continent while supposedly civilizing the African people. The scientific developments of the time contributed to the concept of white supremacy as social Darwinism grabbed hold of the European population and turned the colonizers into saviors and reformers of inferior and backward barbarians. Joseph Conrad’s novella Heart of Darkness, published in 1899, explores the effects this mad rush to conquer Africa had on the African natives and the land itself as colonizers enslaved the natives and depleted their natural resources which they so valued. This “Scramble for Africa” caused European society to deteriorate as well, as nations became embittered against one another in their pursuit of more territory and economic success in Africa, resulting in brutality towards one another and the native populations within Africa and the European continent. Conrad portrays how the colonizers’ original philanthropic intentions turned to brutality and exploitation through the character of Kurtz, who creates a monopoly on the ivory trade in the Congo and subjugates the native tribes in his region through fear and violence.

Contemporary critics argue that Conrad’s novella Heart of Darkness embraces the racist viewpoints of the 19th century through its use of derogatory descriptions of the African natives Marlow encounters in the Congo. The racism that ran rampant in 19th century Europe changed for some after Darwin’s publication of his theory of natural selection in 1859. Some scientists and thinkers applied Darwin’s ideas to society, in a movement known as social Darwinism, allowing people to justify their racism on the basis that certain races, like certain animals, were genetically designed to be superior to others. To the European mind-set, this meant that “white” Europeans were superior to all other races, particularly the “yellow” Asians and “dark” Africans (de Gobineau 167–68). Through the use of these misdirected scientific developments, many Europeans regarded the imperialistic activity of their governments as either their natural right as the superior race or as a civilizing mission to save the inferior and backward populations of Asia and Africa. It was this mind-set that led to King Leopold of Belgium’s mission to the Congo at the end of the 19th century to “improve the well-being’ of the inhabitants of the Congo” (Hawkins 292). Conrad shows the hypocrisy of this mission in Heart of Darkness as much of Marlow’s journey through Africa takes place in the Belgian-controlled region surrounding the Congo River. Marlow describes these “civilizing” Europeans as “they wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it” (Conrad 44). To Conrad, these European philanthropists were hiding their true greed and self-righteousness behind the mask of civilization and enlightenment, one of the most disgusting and hypocritical aspects of imperialism, yet Conrad himself had difficulty in detaching himself from the social practices of his time. Joseph Conrad’s main purpose in writing his novella Heart of Darkness was to relate the atrocities of 19th century, but he unconsciously succumbed to his own inherent Eurocentrism, allowing the stereotypes propagated by social Darwinism and racism to become evident within his work.

Conrad explores the treatment of Africans by the colonists in Heart of Darkness in an attempt to relate the atrocities committed by the European colonizers to the populace in Europe. Conrad was agitated over the brutal treatment of the native populations under European control and determined that the entire 19th-century imperialist system was immoral and needed to be abolished. Conrad saw imperialism as a system that brutally exploits native populations for greed and national pride, and he believed that such systems should not have been allowed to remain a mainstay in the governments of apparently civilized and enlightened countries. In Heart of Darkness, Marlow witnesses this unjust system in action immediately upon stepping onto the African continent as he watches a chain gang coming toward him:

Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind wagged to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.… [T]hey were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from over the sea (Conrad 33).

Conrad, like Marlow, was greatly affected by this sight of imperial might and brutality and thus devoted himself to speaking out against the institution. His audience, however, was already imbued with racism against non-European cultures, making his task extremely difficult, as “Conrad’s objection to imperialism on the grounds that it disrupted indigenous cultures was unusual in an era that failed to see the worth of those cultures” (Hawkins 294).

The population within Europe itself fully believed in the good intentions of their colonial missions, being equally saturated with the ideas of social Darwinism and the racism that followed from it. They gave their full support to these expeditions, as seen when Marlow’s aunt commends him for his effort at “weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways” (Conrad 28). Even Kurtz’s original intention, when he first began his expedition in the Congo, was to enlighten the Africans. It was only after he had been within the continent for some time that the temptation of immense wealth and power overcame him and he transformed into the greedy and self-serving despot that Marlow discovered on his own journey through the Congo. Conrad took it upon himself to alert the European populace to the vulgarities of the imperialistic actions they so admired. Conrad “came to believe that it was his task as a novelist to unmask society, to look below its surface to discern its essential character,” and what he “discerned [was] a rapacious colonialism” (Raskin 120). With all the scientific justifications of imperialism, Conrad certainly had an arduous task before him, one that was made even more challenging by the numerous political and economic benefits acquired through this nefarious system.

Conrad also remained ambivalent about imperialism itself throughout his life, further detracting from his ability to persuade European society of its evils. He appeared to laud British imperialism, as he once wrote to his cousin about the Boer War, “that they—the Boers—are struggling in good faith for their independence cannot be doubted; but it is also a fact that they have no idea of liberty, which can only be found under the English flag all over the world” (Hawkins 293). This uncertainty about his own views regarding imperialism is found within Marlow as well. He is clearly agitated over Kurtz’s conduct in the Congo, but still remains faithful to him and protects his reputation. Marlow lies to Kurtz’s Intended about his last words and his actions while in Africa; as a result, his failing to recognise the import of the real lie when he protects Kurtz’s reputation in Europe with evasions and by deliberate deception abets the exalted fantasies of the Intended, is the fiction’s means of showing up Marlow’s capacity for self-delusion and the strength of a commitment to Europeanism which blinds him to the act as one that is a betrayal of his principles. (Parry 36)

Marlow, like Conrad, cannot completely eradicate his Eurocentrism, weakening his argument against the institution of imperialism within Europe in the 19th century.

Joseph Conrad wrote Heart of Darkness during the high point in European imperialism of the 19th century. His purpose in writing the novella was to speak out against the system of imperialism that he felt was corrupting both the colonized populations as well as Europe itself. Conrad lived in a period of rampant racism, justified by social Darwinism, which supported the “civilizing” expeditions to Africa and Asia, and later the brutal exploitation of the native people of those regions. The political and economic benefits that resulted from imperialistic endeavors also contributed to the popular support that surrounded the vicious system. As a result, Conrad’s attempt to persuade the European people of the detriments of imperialism was hampered by his unconscious Eurocentrism, as seen in his savage descriptions of Africa and its people in relation to the purity of the Europeans. Despite this setback, however, Conrad’s novella did much to enlighten his European audience to the true nature of imperialism and “inspired the reformers who eventually ended [King] Leopold’s rule” (Hawkins 293). Heart of Darkness is still important one hundred years after it was written to portray the atrocities of 19th century imperialism to a contemporary audience.

Works Cited

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. 1899. New York: Penguin, 1995. Print.

De Gobineau, Arthur. “The Moral and Intellectual Diversity of Races.” Heineman 165–69.

Hawkins, Hunt. “Conrad’s Critique of Imperialism in Heart of Darkness.” PMLA 94.2 (1979):286–99. JSTOR. Web. 6 Apr. 2005 <http://linksjstor.orgisici?sici-0030-8129%28197903%2994%3A2%3C286%3ACC011H%E 2.0.00%3B2-P>.

Heineman, John L., ed. Readings in European History: 1789 to the Present. 2nd ed. Dubuque: Kendall/Hunt, 1994. Print.

Jameson, Fredric. “The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch. New York: Norton, 2001. 1937–60. Print.

Leroy-Beaulieu, Paul. “Colonization and Modem Nations.” Heineman 178–79.

Okafor, Clement Abiaziem. “Joseph Conrad and Chinua Achebe: Two Antipodal Portraits of Africa.” Journal of Black Studies 19.1 (1988): 17–28. JSTOR. Web. 6 Apr. 2005 <http://links.jstor.orgisici?sici=00219347%28 198809%2919%3A1%3C17%3AJCACA%3E2.0.00%3B2-1>.

Parry, Benita. Conrad and Imperialism: Ideological Boundaries and Visionary Frontiers. London: Macmillan, 1983. Print.

Raskin, Jonah. “Imperialism: Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.” Journal of Contemporary History 2.2 (1967): 113–31. JSTOR. Web. 6 Apr. 2005 <http://links.jstor.orgisici?sici=0022-0094%28196704%292%3A2%3C113% 3AICHOD%3E2.0.00%3B2-8>.

Stefanie Jochman

Paper Proposal #2

EN309

Dr. Crowley

October 1, 20–

Paper Proposal #2

1. I am working on Chesnutt’s use of Dodie Carteret as a symbolic character because I want to show how Dodie affects major points of the novel, especially those involving racial conflict and its possible resolutions, in order to prove that Dodie represents the opportunity for racial equality in America.

2. Evidence that will help to solve my “problem.”

   The Carterets’ love for Dodie instigates many instances of racial conflict.

   • Dr. Miller faces Maj. Carteret’s bigotry when he comes to Dodie’s aid (92).
   • When Dodie almost falls out of the window, Olivia blames Janet. “Twice within a few weeks her child had been in serious danger, and upon each occasion a member of the Miller family had been involved” (111).
   • Major Carteret assembles the Big Three in part to defend the property he believes Dodie should inherit and also to provide his son with a white-ruled Wellington.

   Dodie is, for the Carteret’s, a reassurance of their superiority.

3. When Olivia finally gives birth to a child, she feels as though she is no longer threatened by her more fertile half-sister.

   Dodie’s fever serves as an equalizer for Carteret and Dr. Miller.

   • “In the agony of his own predicament…for a moment the veil of race prejudice was rent in twain, and he saw things as they were, in their correct proportions and relations…Miller’s refusal to go with him was pure, elemental justice…In Dr. Miller’s place, he would have done the same thing” (241).
   • “It was his fault!” (242)

   In order to save Dodie or, in the symbolic case, American society, the Carteret’s must appeal to the Millers.

4. The line “There’s time enough, but none to spare,” contextually refers to the time allowed to save Dodie’s life. However, this statement also acts as Chesnutt’s message to white Americans that they can help solve the problem of racial violence and inequality if they work with their black brothers and sisters rather than against them; such action must be taken quickly.
5. After examining The Marrow of Tradition, I have come to the conclusion that Theodore “Dodie” Carteret serves as a symbol of American society during the Reconstruction in that Dr. Miller’s ability to heal him could initiate a peaceful union of black and white society. Not only is Dodie symbolic, his life also mirrors the life of Wellington itself; his birth coincides with the birth of a white supremacist movement, his fever reflects the heat of the riot, and his undetermined fate represents the malleability of Wellington after the race riot with its biggest supremacist enlisting the aid of a black doctor. By giving a white infant so much significance in the story, Chesnutt is inferring that the race “problem” must be solved by whites as well as blacks.

Stefanie Jochman

Professor Karlyn Crowley

EN309A

November 5, 20–

Dodie Carteret and The Marrow of Tradition: “The Burden of the Nation” On An Infant’s Shoulders

During the time of the American Reconstruction, many whites believed that racial inequality was solely a “Negro problem.” However, in his collection of essays, The Souls of Black Folk, W. E. B. DuBois argues that “the burden belongs to the nation,” meaning that blacks and whites are both responsible for creating a more equal society. In The Marrow of Tradition author Chesnutt echoes DuBois’s message of interracial cooperation with the story arch surrounding Theodore “Dodie” Carteret, the infant son of the novel’s primary white characters, Major Phillip and Mrs. Olivia Carteret. While many critics have focused on the importance of the novel’s adult characters, they have neglected the importance of baby Dodie Carteret. At first glance, it may seem that Dodie, an infant, has little to say about racism in American society. However, as a baby, Dodie is symbolic of the potential for a new birth in American racial relations. Once readers pay attention to Dodie’s presence in the novel, they can recognize how his health parallels the tumultuous life of Wellington and thus grasp an understanding of how racism affects a community. Furthermore, by observing Dodie’s relationship to characters like his mulatto cousin or situations like his expectoration of an old rattle, readers reveal Chesnutt’s underlying themes of racial identity and his suggestions for how societal change can be made. Finally, by accepting the importance of Dodie to The Marrow of Tradition, readers also accept their responsibility to promote social change and equality for all races.

Born in the first chapter of the novel and near death in the last, Dodie Carteret lives in tandem with the novel’s plot. Dodie’s birth sets into motion Major Carteret’s plan for white supremacy. That movement causes the fictional Wellington race riot, an event based on an actual riot in Wilmington, North Carolina, that is central to the novel’s plot. Dodie also plays a role in the heated confrontations between the Carterets and the Millers, two couples who represent the white and black races, respectively. Near the conclusion, Dodie develops a fever when Wellington erupts in the flames of racial violence. The events of Dodie’s life mirror those occurring in Wellington, and by constructing such parallels between Dodie’s life and Wellington’s racial climate, Chesnutt magnifies the effects of racism on a community. For example, shortly after Dodie’s christening, Major Carteret meets with Captain McBane and General Beaumont to establish the white supremacy campaign. Here, Dodie’s birth coincides with the birth of changes in the social structure of Wellington. Major Carteret’s family lost their fortune in the Civil War; now that he has a son to receive inheritance and power, Carteret desires to create a world in which African American businesses and causes will not threaten Dodie’s chances of wealth and happiness (44). Carteret’s scathing articles about African Americans in his newspaper create violence and hatred in a once ideal community.

Dodie not only symbolizes the birth of a new era in Wellington history; his arrival also indicates the death of an old one. Dodie is part of a new generation that has never experienced slavery, and thus he would be unfamiliar with plantation life and its demoralizing attitude towards African Americans. How he and other children react towards the attitudes of the past will help to determine the future of Wellington and American society. Charles Chesnutt uses this aspect of Dodie’s character to his advantage. He constructs a symbolic event centering on Dodie in which the baby’s reaction to his own near-death experience hints at Chesnutt’s desires for the new generation. At Dodie’s christening, Polly Ochiltree gives her great-nephew an old rattle. Aunt Polly Ochiltree is one of Chesnutt’s characterizations of the “Old South,”–the era of pre-Civil War history immortalized in plantation fiction. She upholds the “Old South” mentality of supporting black inferiority and submission. When Dodie is born she declares “I shall leave my house and land to this child! He is a Carteret—he would never sell them to a negro” yet she inadvertently threatens her bequest by giving Dodie the rattle. Dodie begins gasping for air after he chokes on a piece of Aunt Polly’s rattle. He is physically strangled by a figurative piece of the “Old South” (123). When Dodie finally spits out the rattle on his own, Chesnutt is making an important statement. In order to breathe, society—like Dodie—must discharge that which is strangling it.

A further parallel between Dodie and Wellington is created when Dodie contracts croup near the end of the novel. Throughout The Marrow of Tradition, Dodie suffers from colds and other common childhood infections; he recuperates from each and continues growing and developing. Similarly, life in Wellington remains relatively quiet as the supremacist movement grows and develops. Then, when Carteret’s campaign gets out of hand and the riot ensues, life in town is disrupted. At the same time Dodie, Carteret’s son, contracts the croup. The croup is an inflammation of the bronchi that involves congestion, mucus, and a high fever. Such symptoms are comparative to the intense heat and congested streets of the riot. During the riot, fire silences screams; the streets run red with the blood of blacks and whites; an angry mob tramples citizens; and, when the riot reaches fever-pitch, Dr. Miller’s hospital is burned to the ground.

When Dr. Miller encounters the riot, he describes its emotional heat as one in which “friendship, religion, humanity, reason, all shrivel up like dry leaves in a raging furnace” (217). Such a furnace could only reside in Hell, to which Wellington’s riotous state bears similarities. In her haste to escape the danger of the hellish riot, Dodie’s nurse leaves him near the draught of an open window, so he catches cold and develops the croup (235). Dodie’s croup and Wellington’s riot share the same root cause: Major Carteret’s white supremacist movement, which brought Hell to earth. Chesnutt’s narrator observes how even Carteret is surprised by the damage his movement has done. “‘Is it serious?’…He had always thought of the croup as a childish ailment, that yielded readily to proper treatment; but the child’s evident distress impressed him with sudden fear” (236). The major’s amazement, while directed toward his son’s illness, also infers that Carteret realizes he can no longer control the riot and fears that he will suffer for his part in it. Indeed, Dodie “burns” with fever over the flames of his father’s earthly Hell. Since Dodie is Chesnutt’s symbol for future generations of white Americans, his fever warns white readers that, though African Americans are the ones attacked during the Wellington riot, the white race will pay for their sins if racial violence continues.

Chesnutt’s decision to construct parallels between Wellington and Dodie, the white child of upper-class parents, is important to the novel’s overall message of interracial cooperation. It would be easy for readers to identify the effects of racism and racial oppression upon an African American child; that child is on the receiving end of the oppression. When Chesnutt focuses on a white child amidst an environment of racial oppression and inequality, however, readers recognize the negative effects of supremacy on the oppressors. Furthermore, readers can observe how whites’ prejudice towards blacks endangers them and their children. Major Carteret expects Dodie to live a life of ease, free from “Negro domination,” because he, as Dr. Price informs Dr. Miller, “has certain principles…certain inflexible rules of conduct by which he regulates his life. One of these…forbids the recognition of the Negro as a social equal” (88). However, Carteret’s efforts to protect Dodie by upholding the “purity and prestige of [his] race” are worthless (89). By showcasing Dodie’s swallowing of the rattle, his near-tumble from the window, and his deathly bout with croup, Chesnutt proves the futility of Major Carteret’s white supremacist movement. Carteret establishes the campaign in an effort to protect his son and any assets his son would inherit; yet that campaign does nothing to shield his progeny from the clutches of disease or the violence of a town riot.

Continuing with his examination of the effects of white supremacy Chesnutt highlights the invisibility of African Americans as well as their undetermined future by naming the white child, Dodie, while leaving the black child, the Millers’ son, to die nameless and unknown to readers. Early in the novel, Chesnutt’s narrator makes it a point to describe in detail the naming of Dodie Carteret, saying, “they named the Carteret baby Theodore Felix…Having thus given the child two beautiful names, replete with religious and sentimental significance, they called him—‘Dodie’” (50). The sarcastic tone with which Dodie’s nickname is introduced suggests not only are the white traditions of naming and nicknaming silly and self-degrading but also that Dodie is, from birth, a spoiled child. However, it is when Dodie is being doted upon—whether being given a new toy, held near the window to see a mockingbird, or cared for by a nanny—that his well-being is threatened. In this way, Chesnutt suggests that a coddled society has the potential to die young.

In contrast to his spoiled cousin, the Millers’ son is never given a name by the narrator. He is rarely mentioned other than when he is seen traveling with his mother, and his life has little significance to the narrative until he dies. Even then, he and his mother are lumped among the dead bodies in the streets after the riot. They are nameless, faceless, and lost until Dr. Miller finds them near a lamppost (227). The mob’s cruelty towards African American women and children speaks to the dehumanizing nature of racism and its devastating consequences. Furthermore, the namelessness of the Millers’ son in comparison to the publicized life of Dodie subtly hints at the invisibility most African Americans suffered during the Reconstruction Era. Here, the neglected society also dies young. By juxtaposing the two children, Chesnutt implies that a happy medium must be met in which both children—and both races—are given equal attention in order for them to survive.

The comparison and contrast of Dodie and his African American cousin can be extended into the relationship between their parents, the Carterets and the Millers. While Dodie’s parallel to Wellington is important to the message of The Marrow of Tradition, Dodie serves the novel best as the thread which sews together the Millers’ and the Carterets’ fates. Initially, Dodie is a source of pride and achievement for the Carterets in their desire to be superior to the Millers. At the beginning of the novel Dodie is as much a welcomed miracle as he is a status symbol, because his birth reestablishes Major Carteret’s position as a dominant male in Wellington. Indeed, Major Carteret is able to gain General Beaumont and Captain McBane’s attention after the birth of his son, because, as Beaumont remarks, “now that you have a son, major…you’ll be all the more interested in doing something to make this town fit to live in” (63). During the Reconstruction Era, a child was a symbol of biological wealth: one’s ability to “go forth and multiply.” A childless man was left without an heir to his fortune or his family heritage, leaving him in a weakened state compared to fellow businessmen with children to control their future assets. As Chesnutt’s narrator informs readers, “One cloud had marred the otherwise perfect serenity of [the Carteret’s] happiness. Olivia was childless. To have children to perpetuate the name of which he was so proud, to write it still higher on the roll of honor had been [Major Carteret’s] dearest hope” (44–45). To make matters worse in Major Carteret’s mind, the African American Miller family has already been blessed with a son and is thus more biologically wealthy than he; a man whom Carteret refuses to acknowledge as a social equal has a greater chance of being remembered and accumulating a fortune. Dodie’s birth assures Major Carteret that his name—the family’s legacy and position in Wellington society—will not be lost to history. Instead, Dodie will be the heir “to take a place in the world commensurate with the dignity of his ancestors” (62). Carteret is no longer threatened with social inequality amongst his peers. If his plan for white supremacy succeeds, his family will have as much of a chance to succeed as those of the other old “names” and their progeny.

While Dodie pits Major Carteret against Dr. Miller, he is also the answer to Olivia’s desires and the cure for her jealousy towards her half-sister, Janet Miller. As the Carteret family’s servant Mammy Jane points out “de wust of all, w’iles Mis’ ’Livy ain’ had no child’en befo’, dis yer sister er her’n is got a fine-lookin little yaller boy, w’at favors de fam’ly, so dat ef Mis’ ’Livy ’d see de chile anywhere, it ’d mos’ break her heart fer ter think ’bout her not havin’ no child’en herse’f” (49). Though she does not admit it verbally, Olivia is extremely jealous of Janet’s fertility. Since, in her mind, she is superior to Janet and more entitled to her family’s heritage–including its physical likeness—Olivia considers Janet’s baby to be a trump card: a wealth that Janet, as Olivia’s half-sister and the product of a socially taboo relationship, should not receive before Olivia. Aunt Polly poisons Olivia’s already poor view of Janet’s mother Julia by telling the story of Julia and Mr. Merkel’s secret marriage. Thus, Olivia fears that “her father had…preferred another to her” (202). Since she, like her husband, associates love and legacy with wealth she goes to desperate lengths to protect Dodie’s inheritance, the majority of her father’s estate. While the size of her family is now equal to Janet’s, the Merkel inheritance will ensure Olivia’s son’s social superiority to any of Janet’s children.

At first, Dodie’s life fuels his parents’ greed and prejudice as they struggle to remain superior to the Millers. In the novel’s conclusion, however, Dodie is made to be the olive branch of atonement—a reparation of injustice—and peace for both the families and their races. The atonement for the riot begins when Dodie falls ill with the croup and Carteret reluctantly runs to Miller, a man whose aid he previously refused on the basis of color, for help. Upon arriving, Carteret observes the angry doctor gesturing toward the body of his son, saying “‘dead, his little life snuffed out like a candle, because you and a handful of your friends thought you must override the laws and run this town at any cost…as you have sown so may you reap!” Miller finally speaks for his race and demands that Carteret atone for the deaths he caused by watching Dodie die. Recognizing in Miller the same pain he is feeling for Dodie, Carteret admits “Miller’s refusal to go with him was pure, elemental justice…In Dr. Miller’s place he would have done the same thing.” In fact, the connection is so powerful, that Carteret experiences an “involuntary admiration” for Dr. Miller, and, admitting he was wrong for having turned away Miller’s services, takes the blame for his child’s impending death (241). At this moment, Carteret is changed. By recognizing the pride and love both he and Miller have for their sons, he can no longer fully separate himself from African Americans or believe “The Negroes have themselves to blame…I wash my hands of them” (233). He recognizes his part in the riot, and in shouldering that burden, emphasizes W. E. B. DuBois’s claim that “the hands of none of us are clean” (The Souls of Black Folk 72).

When Olivia makes her appeal to the Millers to spare Dodie’s life, she also acknowledges the dirt on her hands while empowering her half-sister Janet. Chesnutt’s narrator acknowledges the way Dodie’s croup has, to paraphrase Polly Ochiltree, turned the world upside-down: “Death, the great leveler…wrought a marvelous transformation on the bearing of the two women. The sad-eyed Janet towered erect, with menacing aspect, like an avenging goddess. The other, whose pride had been her life, stood in the attitude of a trembling suppliant” (125, 244). Olivia, who avoided confronting her half-sister out of fear, pride, loathing, and greed, must finally confront the woman her family wronged in order to save Dodie. Olivia is even willing to reveal her deepest secret; Janet is her legal sister. While Janet thought that being considered a Merkel was what she had always desired, when she hears Olivia’s proclamation, she develops another of her own: “I throw back your father’s name…but that you may know that a woman may be foully wronged, and yet may have a heart to feel, even for one who injured her, you may have your child’s life” (246). As if speaking for an entire race thought to be in want or desire of the life of a white citizen, Janet rejects name, estate, reputation, and relation, but, in doing so, affirms her equality with Olivia as a human being, mother, and citizen of Wellington. Furthermore, both Janet and her husband’s reactions to the Carterets’ pleas suggest that, in times of racial conflict, African Americans must be willing to take a stand, but they must also be willing to work with whites—rather than against them—to obtain equality

The Carterets level themselves with the Millers and, in doing so, take a step toward accepting racial equality, but their responsibility to society is far from over. In The Marrow of Tradition, Dodie Carteret and the Millers’ son represent Wellington’s future generations, but at the novel’s conclusion Dodie is suffering and his cousin is dead. Thus, the new generation is forcing the old one to reckon with its racial division. Like DuBois’s theory concerning racial equality, Dodie’s only chance at survival depends on the cooperation of both races, and, as his attending physician Dr. Evans emphasizes, “There’s time enough, but none to spare” (246). However, even if Dodie survives, the absence of his cousin forces him, previously the representative for the new white generation, to represent all races, and thus work towards a society of equals. Here, at the last page of the novel, Dodie ceases to be an ailing white child and becomes a symbol for America’s ailing society. Chesnutt wrote The Marrow of Tradition in order to bring attention to the societal consequences of race riots and oppression. Dr. Evans’ last remark is intended to spur readers into action as much as it hastens Dr. Miller. Once readers recognize Dodie’s importance to Charles Chesnutt’s The Marrow of Tradition as a symbol of Wellington, racial relations, and the future of American life, they can understand the urgency of “there’s time enough but none to spare” and rush to shoulder W. E. B. DuBois’ burden of the nation.

Works Cited

Chesnutt, Charles. The Marrow of Tradition. Bedford Cultural Edition. Ed. Nancy Bentley and Sandra Gunning. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2002.

DuBois, W. E. B. “Of Booker T. Washington and Others.” The Souls of Black Folk. Ed. David Blight and Robert Gooding-Williams. New York: Bedford, 1997.

Hannah Schmitt

Professor John Neary

ENGL 236: U.S. Literature II

3 April 20–

“Kill the Indian … and Save the Man”

Pauline Puyat and the Fragmenting Force of the U.S. Government in Louise Erdrich’s Tracks

In 1892, Capt. Richard H. Pratt delivered a paper, “The Advantage of Mingling Indians with Whites” at the Nineteenth Annual Conference of Charities and Correction. In this speech, Pratt infamously proposed to “Kill the Indian … and save the man” (Pratt 261). Pratt’s argument would become the most notorious summary of the mission of government-sanctioned Indian boarding schools, which attempted to forcibly assimilate Native American children into white culture. From the 19th into the early 20th century, the United States actively sought to destroy Native cultures through forced assimilation and, as Pratt requoted in his speech, believed “that the only good Indian was a dead one” (260).

Louise Erdrich’s Tracks unfolds in the 1910s, in the midst of Pratt’s boarding school culture. The Ojibwe characters in Tracks must respond to the United States’ threat to their culture and attempt to sort out their own cultural identities in the midst of profound racial tension. The two narrators of the text, Nanapush and Pauline, deal with the intense racism they encounter in different ways. Nanapush, the fairly stable, reliable narrator, rejects white culture and attempts to preserve Ojibwe culture despite social pressures to abandon it. Pauline takes a different approach. Unlike Nanapush’s voice, Pauline’s narrative structure is erratic, full of wild assumptions and bizarre occurrences. Pauline is at times cruel, manipulative, guilty, masochistic, morose, cunning, illogical, and, above all, highly religious. In light of Pauline’s many failings, readers may be tempted to view Pauline as the unmitigated villain of the story, and dismiss her story as irrelevant. Such a dismissive reading of Pauline overlooks the novel’s historical context, particularly the pervasiveness of discrimination against Native Americans and the arid cultural climate created by the United States’ boarding school programs. If audiences read Pauline without considering these crucial factors, Pauline’s character loses its essential historical commentary. While Pauline’s flaws are indeed substantial, they are not entirely her fault. Unlike Nanapush, who firmly believes in the value of his Ojibwe roots and rejects the racism of encroaching white culture, Pauline listens to the United States government’s stance on Native Americans. She comes to believe that in order to be accepted by the surrounding white society she must indeed kill her inner Indian to save her white identity. Over the course of Tracks, then, Pauline attempts to erase her Ojibwe identity through her extreme, conservative Catholicism. Herein lies the significance of Pauline’s character. As her quest to assimilate into white society and therefore ease her guilt over her identity continues, Pauline—and, through Pauline, her audience—discovers that she cannot assimilate the way the United States government wants her to. Pauline’s connection to her Ojibwe heritage runs so deep that when she attempts to “kill” it she inadvertently fragments her own existence and plunges into a frantic insanity. Through Pauline’s experiences, readers learn that the United States’ attempt to “kill the Indian … and save the man” is not only unethical, but impossible.

Pauline’s guilt over her racial identity causes her to distance herself from her culture by rejecting its values, specifically reproduction. Even before Pauline enters the convent, she attempts to reject reproduction in favor of death, recognizing that if she procreates, she will continue her Ojibwe line. Unlike Fleur, who celebrates reproduction, Pauline seeks out death and shows no interest in perpetuating her culture. While Fleur and Nanapush embrace their culture and see it as something desirable which ought to be preserved, Pauline only sees her guilt, and has absorbed the criticisms against her society. In Pauline’s eyes, her heritage should not be preserved. Whenever Pauline finds herself in a position which traditionally places her in control of preserving life (and, therefore, culture), Pauline attempts to deny or subvert her role. Pauline becomes a midwife for her community, but transforms this life-giving role so she becomes a symbol of death. When Pauline becomes pregnant, she sees her pregnancy as the continuation of an identity from which she distances herself. The other Ojibwe characters in the text celebrate new children as a hope for life in their rapidly shrinking community: they pamper Lulu and celebrate Fleur’s pregnancies despite their misgivings about Fleur herself. To Pauline, however, bearing children solidifies her bond to a community she feels ashamed of, and therefore attempts to abort her pregnancy. When Pauline feels Marie move later in her pregnancy, Pauline describes how “the fists of hate took me so hard that I wept” (133). At Marie’s birth, Pauline frantically attempts to stop her labor, afraid that if she gave birth she “would be lonelier … an outcast … a human being who could be touched by no other human” (135). Pauline rejects Marie because she continues a cultural identity. As a mother, Pauline would always be tied to her Ojibwe roots because she has helped perpetuate their society.

In order to stem her association with reproduction—and with it, her Ojibwe heritage—Pauline rejects not only procreation but also her own sexuality. After she banishes her sexuality, Pauline attempts to fill the sexual void she has created with voyeurism and manipulation, alternatives which never fully satisfy her repressed sexual longings. Pauline describes her own sexual encounters with Napoleon as unfulfilling, and rejects her own sexual tensions. Instead, Pauline contents herself with watching other couples have sex and manipulating the sexuality of those around her. When Pauline finds herself drawn to Eli, she responds by manipulating him and Sophia (another character Pauline oversexualizes) into having sex. Pauline takes the sexual expression which her culture values and attempts to turn it into something negative, by stigmatizing Sophie and threatening the relationship between Fleur and Eli. Pauline wants to punish the other characters in the novel for their sexual urges.

At the same time, though, Pauline seems to envy other characters’ freedom of sexual expression, and attempts to achieve her own sexual satisfaction by living vicariously through them. Even as she exploits Sophie and Eli, “pitiless” and declares that “they were not allowed to stop” (84), Pauline “shrank backwards into their pleasure” (83). When Pauline describes how “Sophie shuddered [and] her eyes rolled to the whites,” she also presents readers with the image of Sophie’s “skirt floating like a flower” (83). Pauline distorts the sex Eli and Sophie have, but she almost subconsciously slips traditionally beautiful metaphors into her otherwise coarse descriptions. Similarly, when Eli and Fleur make up in the winter, Pauline describes how the ice fishers outside their cabin celebrated their relationship and drew hope from Fleur and Eli (130). After Pauline fails to prevent Fleur’s miscarriage, her description of the end of Fleur’s pregnancy shows her ambivalence towards child-rearing. Though Pauline rejects sexual activity of her own, she nonetheless attempts to relieve her repressed sexuality, and at times seems envious of the other characters.

By becoming a nun, then, Pauline rejects cultural pressure to reproduce, but at the cost of her already-tortured sexuality. She enters into a way of life which discourages its followers from expressing sexual energy. By joining a community which forbids sexual congress, Pauline avoids confronting her heritage. Pauline can refuse to perpetuate her heritage without justifying her actions, because the rule of her religious order expressly forbids sexual activity. Rather than creating her desire to refrain from sexual relationships, Pauline’s decision to join a religious order justifies for her actions.

Besides allowing her an outlet with which to express her own sexual guilt, Pauline’s commitment to a religious order also helps her erase her guilt over her existence. Unlike Nanapush and Fleur, Pauline is genuinely ashamed of her Ojibwe identity. By becoming a nun, Pauline seeks to create anonymity in order for her to dispel her guilt about her heritage, and hopes to craft a new identity for herself where others would define her according to her lifestyle rather than her race. By joining a community where the members share a common dress, abide by common rules, and worship in a common way, Pauline seeks anonymity and, with it, a reprieve from her own self-loathing. Furthermore, the comparative isolation of a religious community provides Pauline with a buffer between herself and the highly racialized world outside the convent. She finds, however, that not even religious life erases her identity enough to make her forget her own racialized existence. Though Nanapush, Margaret, and Fleur treat Pauline “as they would a white” (145), the whites with whom Pauline longs to belong refuse to accept Pauline on the basis of her religious commitment, and they continue to evaluate Pauline in terms of her race. Towards the end of the text, Pauline’s convent declares that it will not accept any more Native Americans and, in doing so, clearly reaffirms the racial separation between Pauline and the white nuns at her convent (138). Pauline realizes that actually becoming white is the only way she can release herself from the shame she feels about her own identity. Catholicism, then, offers Pauline the chance to change her own genealogy.

Historically, Catholicism has revered mysticism as a plausible and, for certain people, a natural experience. Rather than reconciling herself with her guilt by learning to appreciate her native culture, Pauline tries to change her race. Pauline cannot erase her own racial identity, but, because of Catholicism’s acceptance of mysticism, she is able to reject it by having Jesus declare her “not one speck of Indian but wholly white” (137). Through her conversations with Jesus (real or imagined), Pauline attempts to actually change her own race by having Christ create a new one. Unfortunately for Pauline, characters cannot typically change their race at will, and Pauline gradually loses touch with the world around her. As Pauline’s struggle to create a white identity for herself intensifies, she finds herself edging towards insanity, and begins communing with statues, insisting on her own magical capabilities, and conversing with visions. Catholicism, though, allows Pauline to have these experiences and even provides theological justification for her actions. In the eyes of mystical Catholicism, Pauline’s religious extremism becomes not only possible but perhaps even encouraged. Even though Pauline’s extremism psychologically damages her, Catholicism encourages her to continue delving into her mystical experiences. Through her mystical experiences, Pauline is able to conform to the dictates of her society and believes she can create a new, white identity.

Catholicism also allows Pauline to justify her masochism and, in doing so, lends itself to Pauline’s self-destruction. Just as her insanity can be understood through the lens of Catholicism as mysticism, Pauline’s self-inflicted suffering can be seen as religious asceticism. Like mysticism, asceticism has historically held a prominent place in Catholic history—many saints (particularly from the Middle Ages) practiced “mortification of the flesh.” Just as Pauline’s desire to lose her identity and her visions are encouraged under some forms of Catholicism, Pauline’s masochism gains religious significance when she filters it through a religious lens. Pauline’s willingness to hurt herself reaches extremes in the novel, and she engages in clearly self-destructive behavior in an attempt to alleviate her guilt. Over the course of the text, Pauline scrubs her hands raw, takes to wearing potato sack drawers, and starves herself. Pauline regulates her most basic bodily functions—such as urination—in order to alleviate her guilty conscience. Though even the Mother Superior of her convent discourages her practices, the religious heritage of Catholicism makes Pauline’s practices more acceptable, and she is seen as overly devout rather than as psychologically unwell. Pauline releases her guilt by hurting herself while lessening her stigma.

However, Pauline also distorts the message of Catholicism. As Pauline attempts to scour her Ojibwe heritage from her life, she alters the traditional images of Catholicism to support her outlandish attempts to achieve racial superiority. As she delves deeper into Catholicism, she recognizes the hypocrisy of the racism she encounters and manipulates traditional Catholic prayers and images to express how angry and ostracized she feels. Pauline cannibalizes her religion in a desperate bid to make Catholicism once again relate to her. When she and Fleur encounter Margaret after Fleur’s miscarriage, Pauline imagines Margaret scolding her: “she jabbered at me, finding the blood, the cold ashes, how it was my fault, my fault, and my most grievous fault” (163). Pauline takes the mea culpa line from the Confiteor, a part of the traditional Catholic Mass, and changes it from a means of expressing her guilt to releasing herself from it. By invoking these words as Margaret accuses her instead of recording the actual charge Margaret brings against her, Pauline paradoxically attempts to step-side her guilt by drawing on overtly religious language to establish her own spiritual superiority. Margaret threatens Pauline because Margaret, like Nanapush, becomes a whole, healthy individual by embracing her culture. She reminds Pauline that Pauline psychologically unstable. To counteract her misgivings about herself, Pauline refuses to assign weight to Margaret’s accusations. Even the verbs Pauline uses seem to doubt the legitimacy of Margaret’s concerns: she depicts Margaret as “jabbering” at her instead of scolding her. The religious imagery Pauline uses creates a moral high ground—just as becoming a nun creates distance between Pauline and the other Ojibwe characters, Pauline relies on her religious knowledge to establish superiority over Margaret.

Pauline’s guilt, though, also makes her angry at the religion to which she belongs, and her prayers gradually develop a sardonic edge as she realizes she cannot become whole. As Fleur desperately attempts to save her child, Pauline prays to the “God who bound my wrists, who tripped me, [the] Lord and Author of all Lies” (158). Later on, as she lies ill at the convent, she prays, “Dark from dark … True God from True” (195). In both these instances, Pauline takes traditional religious imagery and reverses it, applying typically negative imagery to the Catholic God. In the first instance, God takes on a traditional title for Satan and becomes the “Author of all Lies.” The Catholic God has failed to assuage Pauline’s guilt and has created a world in which she cannot achieve the unracialized (read: white) existence she longs for. Pauline has attempted to erase her heritage with her faith, and realizes that even her religious vocation cannot free her from the racism of the society around her. The second prayer, which she adapts from the Nicene Creed, changes the Creed’s “light from light” to “dark from dark,” thereby reversing God’s origin story. The God Pauline trusted in to provide her with equality betrays her, and she realizes that not even her deity seems able to forget her race. Pauline’s religious commitment changes then, and she declares that “Christ was weak” (192). Her comparatively devout tone at the beginning of her religious quest gives way to her distrust in the promises of her religion, and she eventually rejects the religious belief in the superiority of Christ entirely.

Pauline, though, is not the only character to draw from her spirituality in order to deal with her racial identity. Nanapush recognizes Pauline’s struggle because he has worked through similar issues. He, however, ultimately accepted his Ojibwe heritage, and can therefore develop into a healthy, fulfilled adult. As an older man, Nanapush has already dealt with his own misgivings about his identity, and has developed his own philosophy for dealing with encroaching white society. At the beginning of the novel, Nanapush recounts witnessing the deaths of his relatives and friends. By this time, he is familiar with white society—in his youth, he served as a guide for buffalo hunters (139). When the novel begins, then, Nanapush is acutely aware of the racism of surrounding white society. Unlike Pauline, though, Nanapush has decided that the best way to confront discrimination is not to assimilate and attempt to erase his cultural heritage but rather to hold true to his cultural heritage and reject the pressures of white society. Nanapush does not ignore racism; rather, he acknowledges white society and then manipulates it to his advantage. Like a traditional trickster, Nanapush slyly waits until he has an opportunity to exploit the system which oppresses him, then strikes. Because of his own background Nanapush recognizes Pauline’s struggle to deal with her guilt and, in his own trickster way, attempts to convince her that she cannot find fulfillment by rejecting bits of herself. Nanapush is observant, and takes it upon himself to point out Pauline’s actions to others. When Pauline begins wearing her shoes on the wrong feet, Nanapush declares “God is turning that woman into a duck,” and draws everyone’s attention to Pauline’s feet (146). When Pauline takes to wearing potato sack drawers and bars herself from urinating during the day, Nanapush cleverly pokes fun at her practices by plying her with liquids and then telling a story about water (149). By constantly drawing attention to Pauline’s practices, Nanapush turns her devotional practices into a joke, and attempts to show Pauline how ridiculous her actions are. However, Pauline cannot or will not accept the alternative Nanapush offers to her own guilt, because she is unwilling or unable to recognize the goodness of her own culture.

Though, Pauline wants to “kill the Indian … and save the man,” she discovers that this approach to dealing with her identity not only fails to assuage her guilt but also drives her insane. Over the course of Tracks, readers watch Pauline unsuccessfully try to separate herself from her Ojibwe heritage. As Pauline slips into insanity, readers realize that Pauline cannot develop into a healthy individual without first accepting herself.

Works Cited

Erdrich, Louise. Tracks. New York: HarperCollins, 2004. Print.

Pratt, Richard H. “The Advantages of Mingling Indians with Whites.” Americanizing the American Indians: Writings by the “Friends of Indians” 1880–1900. Ed. Francis Paul Prucha. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1973. 260–71. Print.

Alyce Hockers

Professor Ryan Cordell

English 235: U.S. Literature 1

April 14, 2011

“The Slavery Metaphor of Moby-Dick”

“Who aint a slave? Tell me that … [H]owever the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way either in a physical or metaphysical point of view” (Melville 23–24). The issue of slavery, although not discussed explicitly in Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, is criticized subtly in a parallel of the industries of whaling and slavery. During the time that Moby-Dick was written, whaling and slavery were two of the biggest sources of economy in America, and it is therefore not surprising that the two had some striking commonalities. When readers of Moby-Dick in the mid-19th century picked up the novel, they were expecting a high-seas adventure tale about whaling. Instead they were subtly handed an interpretation of slavery, which was an incredibly debated topic, thanks in part to the recent publishing of the Fugitive Slave Laws, which was at the forefront of American minds during the period of the publishing of the novel. It is important for the modern reader to understand the subtle metaphor comparing slavery and whaling; not only does it help us grasp the history of both institutions, but it also helps us gain insight into the fact that Melville could very well have been against white supremacy. It was difficult to discuss views on the institution of slavery at the time period, so Melville may have been using his novel as a subtle message into his insights on the issues of the industry. Throughout the entirety of Melville’s novel, the business of whaling is used as an extended metaphor of slavery and the pursuit, capture, and killing of runaway slaves to help readers understand the brutal and unethical nature of the institution of slavery.

The chasing of whales through the vast oceans is analogous to the chase of runaway slaves after they had escaped from their masters. The chase was about dehumanizing the hunted group; in this case: the whales or the slaves. Although the whale is already non-human, men treated them like they were an object rather than a life form. Both whales and slaves were not only hunted mercilessly, but also all for profit. Whaling was an incredibly profitable enterprise if you survived the journey to bring home the spoils of the hunt. The hunting of slaves, albeit much less dangerous, was also profitable. Wealthy landowners gave extremely large sums of money (at least for the time period) in return for the capture and return of their runaways. Landowners needed their slaves, just as America needed sperm oil, and both enterprises would reward money to whomever could supply them with their means to their desired end. When looking for runaway slaves, wanted posters often gave descriptions of the runaways that included various scars and marks that were on the bodies as a means of identification. Fred Bernard comments that “[i]mportant to the capture of runaways were their various marks, some natural, others inflicted” (396). Slaves were scarred from many things, including various beatings by their masters. One advertisement said this in the description of a runaway slave: “has had the upper lid of his right eye torn, and a scar on his forehead” (Advertisement). The same can be said for whales. Many of the animals escaped after having been marked by whalers, but not entirely captured. “Not a few are captured having the deep scars of these encounters,—furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some instances, wrenched and dislocated mouths” (Melville 349). This effectively gave them scars that could be used to identify them, most notably seen when the book is discussing Moby Dick. Captain Ahab repeatedly remembers every scar on the white whale, including his deformed jaw, and uses those to identify the whale to other men during his search.

There are also strong parallels with whaling and slavery in direct regard to color. Other than Moby-Dick himself, who is part white (the implications of which will be discussed in the subsequent paragraph), most whales are entirely black. The narrator of Moby-Dick comments, “blackness was the rule amongst almost all whales” (Melville 139). And Captain Ahab is considered, by most interpreters, to be white, as were most whaling captains of the time. This vision of whites (whaling captains) chasing blacks (whales) immediately conjures up illusions of slavery. With such an obvious parallel, Melville’s brashness with his views of slavery, during a time period in which the institution was highly debated, is quite surprising.

There is an obvious and glaring issue with the story of whaling as an extended metaphor for chasing slaves. Throughout this article, we have talked about whites chasing blacks. But in Moby-Dick, isn’t the Pequod a black ship and Moby Dick, notably, a white whale? Why is this all turned around? Fred Bernard thinks that it is because Moby Dick serves to represent a black trying to pass as a white, which makes him all the more pursued because of it (392). During the time, whites tried to keep blacks as completely separate from them as possible. Mulattos were frowned upon and tortured even though they were part white. Moby Dick, although often portrayed as white, is actually only partly white. His hump is albino while the rest of his body is black, like the rest of the members of his species. I think, at the very least, that the discrepancy in the metaphor only serves as irony and makes the metaphor even more profound. Everything is the same between whaling and the chasing of slaves. The chase, the torture, the killing, and the aftermath all have strong parallels in both industries. The only difference is that the roles have been reversed. What if it were the blacks (the black ship) chasing the whites (the white whale)? The irony gives more food for thought and attacks the ethics of the institution of slavery. I think that the switching of the colors of the chaser and chasee in Moby-Dick, rather than being a reason against the story as a metaphor, actually supports it. The metaphor itself makes you think about slavery, but the switching of the roles makes you evaluate the ethics of it.

Both the whales portrayed in Moby-Dick and the slaves of America fought vehemently against whaling and slavery, respectively, although the fight was unfair and seemingly futile. The whales that the Pequod would harpoon would drag the boats across the ocean for hours before giving up to capture. In the chapter “Stubb Kills a Whale,” the narrator comments that “whole Atlantics and Pacifics seemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale somewhat slackened his flight” (Melville 256). And the vast amount of slaves that did run away from their masters is a testament to their “resistance to servitude.” Graham Russel comments of the implications of the wanted poster advertising runaway slaves: “First and foremost, runaway notices are evidence of slave resistance” (Russell xiii-xiv). There were steadfast rules regarding slavery and regarding whaling. The fast-fish, loose-fish rules were similar to the fugitive slave laws. If someone else caught a whale (or slave) that already belonged to someone else, they couldn’t claim it for their own (Ellickson 89). But, if no one had laid claim to that particular whale yet, it was fair game for anyone. This is similar to how blacks were plucked from Africa and used as slaves when they hadn’t been purchased yet. After a slave had already been purchased, though, another white man could not take the slave as his own. And even if the slave ran away, other whites were obligated to return them to their original master. “The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 mandated that states to which escaped slaves fled were obligated to return them to their masters upon their discovery and subjected persons who helped runaway slaves to criminal sanctions” (“Fugitive Slave Act”). Examples abound of court cases where slaves were awarded back to their masters after running away. Although whaling cases were usually settled out of court, the ideas were the same. An ironic intersection of the two industries occurred in April of 1851. Escaped slave Thomas Sims was brought to court and awarded back to his master. The judge that handed down the decision just so happened to be Melville’s father-in-law (Pisano 12–13). The relation between Melville and slavery at the time gives weight to the novel’s interpretation as an epic metaphor.

Slaves and whales were also only known superficially to their chasers during the time period. At the time, whites treated blacks as if they were a different species. They could describe them physically, but they didn’t know the true character of the race. The same can be said for the whaler’s knowledge of whales. Ishmael goes into great detail describing how whales cannot be accurately described because they can’t be taken out of their element without ruining what they really are. “The living whale, in his full majesty and significance, is only to be seen at sea in unfathomable waters; and afloat the vast bulk of him is out of sight … and out of that element it is a thing eternally impossible for mortal man to hoist him bodily into the air, so as to preserve all his mighty swells and undulations” (Melville 239). Africans taken out of Africa and turned into slaves weren’t the same beings as they were in their home country. They were out of their element and they had been changed, which is analogous to whales who are removed from their watery homes. Without water to hold them up, they are not the same and cannot be accurately understood or depicted. On the same note of the concept of foreign species, there was also a language barrier in both industries. There is the obvious language barrier between whales and humans, but blacks also spoke their own language, while it may still have been a version of English. We can see this notably when the cook, Fleece, gives his sermon to the whales using the slave dialogue of the time, which is in stark contrast to the tongue of the white man: “Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill your dam bellies ’till dey bust—and den die!” (Melville 281). The communication barrier between the two allowed for hostility between the groups. Had the whales or the slaves been able to speak the same language as the whalemen or the white man, they may have been on more even playing fields and the group dynamics may have been less like predator and prey.

The ferocious capture and brutal killings of whales portrayed in Moby-Dick parallel the captures and killings of slaves during the 19th century before emancipation. In contrast to the aforementioned chasing being about dehumanizing the prey, the killing was about domination by the hunter. Although the exact details regarding whales and slaves aren’t the same, seeing as they were happening on completely different terrains, the big picture is extremely similar. Just as whales were chained to the sides of boats after capture, so, too, were slaves chained after being apprehended. Moses Roper, a slave, writes in his autobiography that a white man “chained me down in a log-pen with a 40 lb. chain, and made me lie on the damp earth all night” (13). The white man also chained him to another slave and, Roper goes on, “He kept me chained to her during the week, and repeatedly flogged us both while thus chained together, and forced us to keep up with the other slaves, although retarded by the heavy weight of the log-chain” (15). This was either in preparation for death or to be brought back to their masters. Also, as described before, slaves were mercilessly whipped as punishment for anything, an action which sometimes led to death. Whales were continually stabbed with harpoons to capture them and kill them. The abuse continues after the killing of the first whale aboard the Pequod. Stubb orders a piece of the whale to be cut away and cooked for him for dinner. David Cope comments that this “displays a tyrannical streak directly connected to [Stubb’s] role on the ship and indirectly to the assumption that, as a white man, he may abuse blacks without repercussion.” This is paralleled further as the scene goes on. As Stubb is physically abusing the whale by eating his flesh, he is also verbally abusing Fleece, an African American. He mocks this black cook as he devours the whale, strongly showing a correlation of the abuse by white men of blacks and whales (Melville 264–65).

The aftermath of the killings wraps up the ongoing whaling metaphor of slavery during the 19th century. After killing whales, the whalemen tied them to the boat as a symbol of their accomplishments. They also beheaded them and skinned them. The whale’s head was the most valuable piece of the creature’s body, so it was often hung by beams from a whaling ship, like the Pequod, not only to harvest the profitable pieces but also as a symbol of the domination of the ship and the men on board. Fred Bernard discusses a reward poster reprinted by William Lloyd Garrison in the Liberator, an anti-slavery proponent of the time period, in which a sum of money is offered for the return of a slave, but even more money is offered for the slave’s head. “Tying this analogue to Melville is the fact that these slave heads, like those of the sperm whale … were worth more than the mere bodies of the victims” (398). The head was a symbol of the creature’s life force; the part that identified the animal and gave it its essence. The white man taking control of the head was like taking control of the core of the creature, which both industries were aiming to do. In the end, both industries led to near extinction. The hunting of whales led to dwindling numbers and near extinction of the creatures. The hunting of escaped blacks led to uproar in terms of ethics, which ultimately and eventually led to emancipation: the extinction of slavery.

A discrepancy lies in the economics of both industries. Although both industries involved killings, one industry got their profits from a dead animal, while the other got theirs from live ones. This anomaly, rather than discrediting the validity of the metaphor, actually helps us understand the motivations of white hunters. Whales were more profitable dead than they were alive, but slaves were more profitable alive than they were dead. Indeed, an individual slave was more profitable living as a worker, but had slaves been allowed to get away with escaping from their owners, the industry would have quickly crumbled. Killing a runaway slave, although not initially a great monetary decision, sets an example for other slaves to keep their place.

Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick acts as an extended metaphor to parallel the whaling industry with the institution of slavery and the chasing of escaped slaves. We may never know Melville’s true views of slavery, but shouldn’t we take a hint from the fact that Moby-Dick, analogous to a runaway slave, was the ultimate victor? During the 19th century, Melville’s possible views against white supremacy would not have been well received by the masses, so Moby-Dick could have been a front to subtly portray his thoughts on slavery. Although not as racially motivated as some other books of the time, or even other books of Melville’s, Moby-Dick has strong racial themes that, although not at first apparent, critique racial inequalities of the time and question the ethics of slavery.

Works Cited

Advertisement. New Orleans Commercial Bulletin. 30 Sept. 1835. Print.

Bernard, Fred V. “The Question of Race in Moby-Dick.” Massachusetts Review: A Quarterly of Literature, the Arts and Public Affairs 43.3 (2002): 383–404. Print.

Cope, David. “Whiteness, Blackness, and Sermons to Sharks: Race in Melville’s Moby Dick.” Museum of American Poetics. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 Mar. 2011. <http://www.poetspath.com/Dave_Cope/Dick.htm>.

Ellickson, Robert C. “A Hypothesis of Wealth-Maximizing Norms: Evidence from the Whaling Industry” Journal of Law, Economics, and Organization 5.1 (1989): 83–97. Print.

“Fugitive Slave Act of 1850.” Gale Encyclopedia of U.S. Economic History. Encyclopedia.com. 1999. Web. 20 Mar. 2011 <http://www.encyclopedia.com>.

Melville, Herman. Moby-Dick. 1851. Ed. John Bryant and Haskell Springer. New York: Longman, 2009. Print.

Pisano, Andrew M. Decentering the Racial Paradigm: A Literary Analysis of the “Stubb’s Supper” Chapter in Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Thesis, U of North Carolina, Greensboro, 2008. NC Docs. Web. 20 Mar. 2011.

Roper, Moses. A Narrative of the Adventures and Escape of Moses Roper from American Slavery. 2nd ed. London: Darton, Harvey, and Darton, 1838. Google Books. Web. 11 July 2012.

Russell, Graham, and Alan Edward. “Pretends to be free”: Runaway Slave Advertisements from Colonial and Revolutionary New York and New Jersey. New York: Garland, 1994. Print.