Filed under: regionalism
That no scholar has yet, to my knowledge, read Stephen King’s short story “The Reach” (1981) as an extension of and response to Sarah Orne Jewett’s work seems like an immense oversight. Both writers are known for their focus on Maine in their literature; both have created small hamlets in the state to serve as the local locus for their characters’ exchanges; both consider what relationship local place has to discursive social space. In what may be a coincidence (or possibly homage?) King has written a short story, included in the collection Skeleton Crew, with “The Reach,” with the title “Mrs. Todd’s Shortcut”; the eponymous protagonist evokes Country of the Pointed Firs’s Mrs. Almira Todd. That the two writers have not been read together in scholarship is, ultimately, unsurprising, when we consider that many regionalist scholars do not believe that regionalism exists post-World War II (some, like Judith Fetterley and Marjorie Pryse, and Stephanie Foote, argue that it ends just past the turn of the twentieth century, although Robert L. Dorman’s extensive history of the interwar regionalist movement is a powerful counter). Too, Stephen King’s reputation as a popular horror writer, whose books sell at airports (gasp!), might prevent scholars from reading him seriously. However, King’s representation of regional place/space and its ties to an afterlife are absolutely in the tradition of a regionalism that calls into question the boundaries of a borderland, whether between the rural hamlet and the urban center, between this century and the last, or between this life and the next.
A quick summary of the story: Stella Flanders, an elderly woman, has lived on tiny Goat Island, Maine, her entire life: married, raised children. Stella has never crossed over the stretch of water called the Reach between Goat Island and the mainland, because she “never saw any reason to go” (586). In her ninety-fifth year, the ghost of Stella’s husband, Bill, begins coming to her, asking her to cross the Reach and join him. She begins to see her long-dead friend Annabelle in the coals of her stove. During a whiteout storm, the Reach freezes over, and Stella begins to cross it on foot. She sees Bill, Annabelle, and all her other loved ones who have been dead for many years. Bill gives Stella his hand, and asks Stella if she’ll come. Stella, crying with happiness, responds “Yes I will, yes I did, yes I do” (604) – responding to the insistent question “do you love?” that has been in her mind throughout the story. Stella is found dead on the mainland, frozen to death, wearing her dead husband’s hat. Stella’s son Alden, who recognizes the hat, is left to wonder “Do the dead sing? Do they love?” and decides that they do.
As in many regionalist works, the central character of “The Reach” operates outside the borders of traditional heteronormative plots. Fetterley and Pryse note that regionalism is notable for its foregrounding of “characters who are old women with beard hairs rather than heroines falling in love” (316), and while “The Reach” is centered around a woman returning to her lost love, King’s choice of an elderly heroine suggests his interest in looking at the local not from the (chronological) center, but from the periphery. As in other texts of late 20th century regionalism, in“The Reach” the stranger/native dialectic that Foote acknowledges in earlier regionalisms is destabilized. Whereas in Jewett the stranger/tourist enters the native/region, nearly always maintaining some sort of defined distance, the ‘stranger’ in King is not nearly so easy to identify. We might see it, in part, as represented by the ubiquitous presence of the “mainland” in the text. Stella’s refusal to engage with it suggests its foreignness to her, and to her small island: “Everything I ever wanted or needed was here . . . if I ever wanted, just once, to stand on Congress Street in Portland . . . I wanted this more. I am not strange. I am not peculiar, or even very eccentric for a woman of my years . . . I believe it is better to plow deep than wide” (592-3). And although the “mainland” functions here in familiar, Jewettian form, as the urban other, King expands on Jewett by suggesting the mainland as indicative of the other side, an afterlife where we are reunited with our loved ones. Crossing the Reach, for Stella, is not simply a geographic movement away from the local, and toward the center, but a crossing into death, into a familial reunion that constitutes a redemptive liminal site. This is a different play on the stranger/native dynamic, where the stranger is ultimately more familiar to us than we ever knew: a re-shifting, disorienting that suggests the stranger/native dynamic is infinitely more complicated than 19th century regionalism may believe.
There’s a clear ethos of community and feeling in King, a thematic that Fetterley and Pryse argue in is one of the major defining components of literary regionalism. Regionalist texts value “tender feelings, challenging a patriarchal masculinism that contains women’s development and narrowly channels men’s identities and range of acceptable emotional response” (Writing Out of Place 343). Regionalism, in other words, values empathy, emotion, and connection; empathy is a “reparative process” (344) that we might read as suturing concepts of point/periphery to create a site of oscillation, engagement, and understanding. I locate this valuing in King through Stella’s constant, repeated consideration of one question: “Do you love? This question had begun to plague her, and she did not even know what it meant” (583). Crossing the Reach, Stella hears the voices of her dead husband and friends, asking her to take their hands and cross over: “She burst into tears suddenly – all the tears she had never wept – and put her hand in Bull’s hand. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes I will, yes I did, yes I do’” (604). Stella, of course, is answering the question – unspoken directly by any of the dead – affirming a life and ethos dedicated to what Raymond Williams has called “structures of feeling”: the shaping of subjective experience through values and emotions.The region is a highly subjective space, allowing for the privileging of intangible feeling often treated with discomfort elsewhere (see the distaste within much scholarship for sentimentalism). That King suggests the importance and value of love, connection and community through his privileging of reunion places him firmly in the regionalist tradition.
(Forgive my extended absence from this blog; I’ve been spending the last few months preparing intensely for qualifying exams. I’m proud to say I passed with flying colors and am now a doctoral candidate!)
Historical fiction for children, specifically historical fiction that engages with marginalized persons and/or groups, inherently comes with the baggage of decades (centuries?) of problematic representation. So much is cringeworthy. I recently returned to Carol Ryrie Brink’s Caddie Woodlawn, for the first time as an adult, and was horrified. First, by the portrayal of Native people (who aren’t given a tribal identification, who are at one end or another of a savage/noble polarity, and who are consistently rescued or otherwise benefited by their relationship with the benevolent and somewhat condescending Caddie), and secondly, by my blindness as a (white, Jewish, middle class) child; when I read this book in girlhood, I never questioned any of these representations. I wish my mother, a feminist who gave me the book in hopes that I would enjoy Caddie’s “wildness,” had had the perspective to problematize some of these images for me.
I don’t suggest that these hurtful or reductive representations aren’t still present in the children’s literature that gets published today, but there are books that engage with historical marginalization, oppression and violence in potentially rich ways. Laurie Halse Anderson’s Chains (2008) is one of the latter, though by no means perfect (there are still anachronisms that jar). What fascinates me, though, is the way in which Anderson openly engages with the poetics of Toni Morrison’s novel Beloved, in her depiction of a young slave girl in 1776 New York City, refusing in large part the simplification of slavery for her young readers into a closed teleology wed to a linear temporality. This text privileges continual remembrance, particularly through deliberate destabilization, the foregrounding of a collective loss, and representations of a transatlantic diaspora suffused with mourning.
What makes Chains a remarkable book is in its refusal to make slavery something teleologically closed, and Anderson does this through evoking Morrison’s provocative term rememory, a word appropriated and put to work in many other works (scholarly and creative), but a word that startles when encountered in middle-grade fiction. Rememory hybridizes ‘memory’ and ‘remembering’ to suggest that memory itself can function independently of intentional, internal processing, that rememories are exterior, collaborating things. What I find most interesting about Anderson’s use of the term, though, is in its context – rememory is used not to evoke the slave’s relationship with her parents, in a thematic echo of Morrison, but in reference to Isabel’s former white owner: “He didn’t care that the neighbors would come around with cakes and platters of cold meat, and drink ale to the rememory of Miss Mary Finch of Tew, Rhode Island” (4).
Though this employment can be interpreted as a misuse or misappropriation of Morrison’s evocation, I think of it instead as a clarifying misdirection. Mary Finch is not the text’s mourning subject, but is, as Isabel’s owner, nevertheless implicated in the site of violence signified by rememory. In Chains, as in Beloved, rememories have dimensions beyond the individual, and while Morrison evokes this as a kind of productive interconnectedness, Anderson, in her reorientation of the term, suggests that a reckoning with memory and representation can’t exclude the violent institutions that create the necessity for these connections.
Filed under: children's literature | Tags: adult/child, little house on the prairie, race
Here’s a fascinating example of the complex, continually negotiated relationship in children’s literature between the adult writer and the implied child reader:
The wonderful Debbie Reese of American Indians in Children’s Literature posted two years ago part of the text of a speech Laura Ingalls Wilder made in 1937. Wilder insisted that she “told the truth” in her books, but not the whole truth: “There were some stories,” she says, “I wanted to tell but would not be responsible for putting in a book for children, even though I knew them as a child.”
And what was one of those stories that Wilder wanted to tell but did not, for fear of infecting innocent minds? Apparently, her family’s encounter with the Bender family. Wilder recalls the Ingalls stopping at the Bender’s homestead on the trip between Independence and the Little House, seeing young Kate Bender in the doorway, but not entering.
The Bender family, also known as the Bloody Benders, were serial killers who butchered travelers who entered their and buried them in the garden. They killed approximately a dozen people, including a child.
When the bodies were uncovered, the Benders disappeared. Wilder: “The night of the day the bodies were found a neighbor rode up to our house and talked earnestly with Pa. Pa took his rifle down from its place over the door and said to Ma, ‘The vigilantes are called out.’ Then he saddled a horse and rode away with the neighbor. It was late the next day when he came back and he never told us where he had been. For several years there was more or less a hunt for the Benders and reports that they had been seen here or there. At such times Pa always said in a strange tone of finality, ‘They will never be found.’ They were never found and later I formed my own conclusions why.”*
Wow. Considering that a major prevailing theory holds that a vigilante group murdered the Benders, this would suggest that Charles Ingalls was involved in that massacre, right?
So Wilder was lying! Not about the Bender case – she gets the basic facts right – but about her involvement and her father’s involvement. Laura explicitly includes herself in this narrative when it’s totally unnecessary; she mentions the Benders as an example of a kind of frontier violence she could not include, and the anecdote would work if she framed it as something that occurred relatively near their homestead in approximately the same period of time.
Perry Nodelman cites the adult writer’s reticence to “tell all” a defining hallmark of children’s literature: “Texts for adults don’t usually presume to tell less of the truth than their writers know, as texts for children characteristically do. In telling less than their authors know, these texts represent a holding back, a reticence about saying too much in too much detail that might well leave its traces within the text” (143). And while I think Nodelman is dead on here, I wonder how we might deal with traces of this false subtext, created as an example of what could not be included, when the narrative was imagined in the first place.
Ultimately, this odd lie could be read, I think, as a placeholder for the real elided violence of the Little House series towards the Native populations: this is the story here for which Wilder does not want to be responsible.
*Take a look at this other telling of Wilder and the Benders, typed up by Rose Wilder for the Pioneer Girl manuscript, where Pa tells Ma in front of Laura that one of the murdered victims was “a little girl, no bigger than Laura,” buried alive.
“A Stop at Willoughby” is not The Twilight Zone‘s most well-known episode (that’d likely be “Time Enough at Last”) or even its best (I’d argue for “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street” or “The Midnight Sun”). It is, though, a perfect encapsulation of the mid-century tension between the pressures and thrums of modernity and the idealized nostalgic regional space, and it plays out the negotiation between the two beautifully.
A summary, if you’d rather read than watch (and I recommend you watch over reading – I can’t do Rod Serling justice!): Gart Williams is an overstressed New York advertising executive who has grown exasperated with his career and is unable to cope. He has a boss who keeps telling him to “push, push, push!” and a wife who doesn’t respect him and sees him as valuable only for the size of his bank account. While on his train commute from work, he falls asleep and dreams that his train has stopped at a picturesque small town called Willoughby in 1888; he wakes up before he’s able to get off the train in his dream. On telling his wife about his dream and his desire to be in a town like Willoughby rather than New York, she laughs at him and calls him Huckleberry Finn. On the subsequent train ride, he falls asleep again and this time, attempts to get off the train at the Willoughby stop, but is unable to do so in time. During the third dream, he exits the train and is welcomed like an old friend, by name, to the town by its inhabitants. The shot of the old station clock fades back into 1960, where (spoiler alert!) a train engineer is standing over Williams’s body. Williams, we learned, jumped off the train and killed himself. The hearse that carries him away has printed on it Willoughby and Son Funeral Home.
Willoughby is perfectly representative of the idealized regional. This is the space that so many critics of literary regionalism were criticizing for its insularity, its refusal to engage with history, its provincialism, its purported homeopathic nature (will cure you of the ills of modernity).* And for the first 20 minutes of the 22 minute episode, Serling seems as though he’s reinforcing this problematic embracing of nostalgia. Willoughby is “where a man can slow down to a walk and live his life full measure,” rather than base it around feeding the hungry monster of capitalism.
HOWEVER. There’s that great twist of an ending, which suggests that Willoughby is not only fantasy, but it’s always already impossible – to achieve it means death – there IS no functional, sustainable regional space that looks like these fantasies. There is no homeopathic cure for modernity; that the modern experience – the shocks, the jostles, the push push push, the need to feed the capitalist machine – are inextricable from contemporary life, and the only escape from them is death.
In structuring the episode this way, Serling dismantles the binary of rural fantasy vs. urban horror, and suggests the utter futility of nostalgia to cultural survival and forward movement – though he criticizes the modern experience of shock/jostle, he also implicitly criticizes the space of Willoughby by caricaturizing it to such great lengths, and by ending with the realization that one cannot be a functioning, breathing human being and occupy Willoughby. That the space of Willoughby is white and primarily male (we never hear a woman’s voice in Willoughby) suggests also that this is a white male bourgeois fantasy – this would never be the dream of a woman of color.
*Actually, most regional spaces in regional literature aren’t anti-modern or insular, but practicing a kind of complex “provincial cosmopolitanism” (Tom Lutz’s fantastic term; read his Cosmopolitan Vistas for more).
Someday I’m going to write a paper on Deadwood, and I’m going to have a great time doing it. Deadwood is one of the greatest shows I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching, and possibly the most literary of anything that’s ever aired on cable (with the possible exception of The Wire, which I’ve criminally neglected, and plan to watch as soon as I get to that fabled land of Having More Time).
Since it was canceled in 2006, Deadwood‘s earned a slightly increased focus in scholarship. The most interesting analysis so far is Daniel Worden’s “Neoliberalism and the Western: HBO’s Deadwood as Allegory,” which examines the camp as neoliberal space that “interpellates all members of society as equals under the rule of the marketplace, and one that subordinates all interests to economic self-interest” (233). Worden makes the point that Deadwood‘s engagement with neoliberalism counteracts the western’s traditionally systemic nostalgia; he’s absolutely right (or at least his theory is sustainable and defensible through evidence, which is as close as we get to ‘right’ in lit crit).
But I’m more interested in Deadwood‘s speech: the rhythms and cadences of dialogue, with profanity woven through like coarse thread. From David Milch, creator and sometimes writer:
. . . I wish more people had noticed the overall language, the rhythms of period speech that we tried so hard to re-create, and the richness of the imagery. Profanity, I’ve come to believe, was the lingua franca of the time and place, which is to say that anyone, no matter what his or her background, could connect with almost anyone else on the frontier through the use of profanity. But there’s so much more to the dialogue than just the profanity. The language of the characters in the show is never generic, and everyone’s is different. They come from different backgrounds, different parts of the country, and they all express themselves a little differently.
That’s one of the things people like about the show, that after they’ve watched for a while, they can instantly identify each character by the quirkiness of his or her speech. These are people, you know, who all grew up long before the age of electronic media, when regional speech patterns began to lose their distinctiveness. Many of them might have been illiterate, but they knew the King James Bible and Shakespeare, and that’s what shaped the way they thought and the way they expressed themselves.
I work on regionalism and one of its tropes, dialect, and so this kind of stuff is right up my alley. I’d argue that profanity in Deadwood is less about emphasis and more about creating a linguistic echo of the muck and the mire and the rules of the market; it allows speech to reflect transaction. The word cocksucker, to look briefly at just one particular profanity, appears a notable number of times throughout the series, twelve alone in the first episode. Certainly cocksucker is no empty pejorative, but reflective of the kind of economic exchange so prevalent in the camp – Al Swearengen and Cy Tolliver’s popular whorehouses. Mr. Wu, who controls the Chinese side of the camp and who knows very little English, communicates early on to Swearengen through three words: “Swedgin” (Swearengen), “white,” and “cocksucka,” operating in the language of the camp’s stratified hierarchies. In Deadwood (at least, in the first season), Swearengen controls the market; those who are white constitute or execute the camp’s growing operations. Cocksuckers, for Wu, are those who work against market interests; simultaneously, however, the labor of the literal cocksuckers, the camp prostitutes, benefits the growth of order and neoliberal regulation.
And none of this is even getting to the regional part of Milch’s quote! But, to sum up: brilliant show; totally literary; I’m itching to do an extended close reading. Someday.
This footage of Anne Frank in 1941, just a year before the Franks and the van Pels went into hiding, is remarkable for its richness. I’m never not astounded by the potential of an image or images to perform powerful cultural work. In this case, the few seconds of Anne in this film – her rapt attention to the newlywed couple, the turn of her head to shout back into the apartment (to Margot? to her mother? to Otto Frank?) – absolutely transcends the temporal and physical/digital space it occupies, suggesting a crisis of representation: because the moments here are so much more than the tangible, quantifiable evidence suggests. This is socio-historical haunting at its clearest: the merging of the visible and invisible, the reminder of structures of subjective history.
We can’t watch this video without holding it next to and within the context of Anne’s life, to the context of state exclusion, bare life and genocide. It’s Anne’s omnipresence in our cultural discourse that allows this, though, and so I’m left thinking when I watch this video not only of Anne Frank but of her neighbors, of the countless, lost voiceless and nameless in film and still images. What is their relationship to history? What discourses are they haunting?
“The ghost or the apparition is one form by which something lost or barely visible makes itself known or apparent to us . . . [Haunting] is often a case of inarticulate experiences, of symptoms and screen memories, of spiraling affects, of more than one story at a time.” – Avery Gordon, Ghostly Matters.
“Poet’s Work,” Lorine Niedecker
Learn a trade
to sit at desk
Niedecker is perhaps my favorite of the poets working in the Objectivist movement, largely because she defies the canard that the rural or regional has no place in modernist poetry. The power of this poem, I think, is largely in her use of the term ‘condensery,’ which has a clear double function here: as signifier of collusion and careful amalgamation, but also as a factory where milk is produced; an image of physical and creative labor.