What is a Victory? The Results of War and Legal Defeat in Faulkner

“The South lost the Civil War and we’ve never recovered as a nation from that. There’s this angry white guy mentality that’s never gone away. They’re bitter and they want white people to rule the world.” – Eric Andre

“I would sell my mother into slavery to see a movie called V for Vendetta Part II. Okay guys, people took over. What would they have done a day later? How would they re-organize the power? The same state, how would they restructure the power?” – Slavoj Žižek

At the end of The Lord of the Rings, Frodo drops the One Ring into the fires of Mordor and ends the threat of Sauron and his army; Middle Earth enters a new era and, in the film version in particular, there is a sense of peace, love and friendship which permeates the lives of every character. At the end of The Matrix: Revolutions, the humans and machines—after centuries of fighting with each other—reach a truce and develop, we understand, a respect for one another—celebrated by Michael Popper enthusiastically screaming out to a group of terrified humans, “the war is over!” Not to dismiss the multitude of layers which can be found in each of these works of fiction, this is a trope we’re familiar with: the story wraps up, the conflict is resolved, the musical score reaches a crescendo and everything is right in the world. Similarly, in 2005’s film adaptation of V for Vendetta, V accomplishes his goals, blows up parliament and an endless crowd of masked supporters of the cause to overthrow the tyrannical government signal to the viewer that change is coming, and for the better. The victory narrative continues—but as Slavoj Žižek once asked regarding the ending of this film: “What would they have done a day later?”

Perhaps William Faulkner’s The Unvanquished provides an answer for this, and it’s not one that would necessarily fill seats in a theater—or at least wouldn’t allow anyone to feel good after leaving the movie. Despite the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Confederate troops in the Civil War, the reality, as Faulkner illustrates in “Skirmish at Sartoris” is that the Confederacy doesn’t necessarily die. The Emancipation is not the destruction of the One True Ring, the end of the Civil War doesn’t bring about a change of heart for those who saw Black people as inferior—it only shifts the legal structures and when Ringo says that Blacks aren’t “n——, in Jefferson nor nowhere else” the answer to Žižek’s question emerges: the war doesn’t end—what happens next is the realization that the war “just started good” (Faulkner 199).

Legally, the war ends. This is what is meant Eric Andre says that the “South lost the Civil War.” But the reality is, as Faulkner’s narrative portrays, that Andre’s “angry white guy mentality” remains, and this is the true law, the law which placed Black people into bondage in the first place (Darville). The Civil War doesn’t erase the desire to see “white people rule the world,” because that desire cannot be distilled into some simple binary opposition of the kind that we typically see in war films, both of the fantasy and realistic variety. It is not a magical object to be burnt and removed from the world, it is not a villain who can be vanquished and written out of the script moving forward. Faulkner tells us this in “Skirmish at Sartoris” in the most cynical of ways by placing a wedding in the midst of a racist seizure of an election, preventing Blacks from voting. In this moment, the delusion of the Right to naturalize oppression, to bake it into its legal structure, is signaled through a wedding, a swearing-in of sorts, a celebration of bride and groom with the “Yaaaaay, Druisilla! […] Yaaaaaay, John Sartoris! Yaaaaaaay!” (Faulkner 210). Andre’s “angry white guy mentality” lives on through the wedding as a symbol of a return to a natural way of things for the Confederacy, and in this way they don’t so much as lose, as they make an attempt to defy, to rebel (Darville). It is a Ring that refuses to melt, a tyrannical overlord who refuses to vanish from the page, two sides of a war who refuse to agree even after the bullets stop flying. Faulkner gets us asking the kinds of questions Žižek asks at the end of V for Vendetta, and it provides an answer: What happens next is that the losing side refuses to lose.

Through The Unvanquished we can, perhaps, alter our conversation about the Civil War and speak with greater nuance about the cultural and ideological actions which take place after weapons are laid down (or at least the weapons aimed between white people, not the weapons still aimed at Blacks and minorities). Perhaps it becomes more effective to say that Civil War never truly “ended,” as some have chosen to do when speaking of nuclear disarmament in the context of the Cold War. Perhaps we need to be more clear about what ends after events such as the Civil War: Legal institutions may shift, but the underlying ideological impulse remains, and until we address that and its origins, we may end stuck with an eternal legacy of racism which no mere illusion of a “fellowship” can dissolve.

Works Cited

Faulkner, William. The Unvanquished. Vintage International, 1991.

Darville, Jordan. “Eric Andre Is Insanely Honest Because Who Else Is Going To Be?” The FADER, The FADER, 8 Nov. 2017, www.thefader.com/2016/10/26/eric-andre-interview.

Žižek, Slavoj. “Slavoj Žižek: Why There Are No Viable Political Alternatives to Unbridled Capitalism.” YouTube, YouTube, 27 Nov. 2016, www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7JgfB8PaAk.

Performative Allyship in Native Son: Handshakes and Safety Pins

About three or four years ago, various posts—original and shared—made their way through my social media streams; celebrities and friends of mine, all white like myself, had gotten it in their head that a way to creating safer spaces for those among us we condensed into the monolithic phrase “people of color,” was to openly wear a safety pin on our clothing, letting anyone know that they were “safe with us.”

I’ll confess to the reality that I gave into this for about a week. I punctured a pocket flap of my denim jacket with an obnoxiously large safety pin and went about daily life, attended some political protests, went to work, school, etc; the size of this thing reminded me of a production of The Glass Menagerie I had once heard of where the utensils used for the dinner scenes were exaggerated in size to give the sense that it was all a dream, a memory. Perhaps it was a combination of this memory, an observation of other white people I knew who were doing this and the way I felt around black and brown people I knew that keyed me in to the negative aspect of what I was doing, topped off with articles and blog posts I had come across from minority perspectives about the effect this was having: I was making the conversation about me, about me being white and about me performing a kind of allyship to make myself feel better without considering what the gesture meant.

This is what came to mind through a reading of Native Son. Jan, who arguably does wish to create a safe space for Bigger when they meet, comes from a place where he considers the reality, or at least a part of the reality, of racism and wants to create a safe space for Bigger. It’s hard to read this scene, however, with any sense that the actions are comforting for Bigger or are at all changing the power dynamics between a white and black person—let alone giving sincere contemplation to the reality of them. Jan’s handshake comes with a demand, “Come on and shake” he says and continues to “tighten” his fingers and hold on to Bigger’s hand (Wright). The scene is one of discomfort; the interiority of it reveals a nervous state in Bigger’s mind, he’s not sure what to do with Jan’s demands that he not “say sir” to him and Mary’s insistence that Jan “means it” does nothing (Wright). These actions, if anything, remind Bigger of his otherness, making him “conscious of his black skin [creating] a prodding conviction that Jan and men like him had made it so that he would be conscious of that black skin” (Wright).

Jan is, in effect, making this space about him, making it about gestures that absolve him of any guilt he may carry over his role in the system of racism. He doesn’t realize that though the words and the actions are shifted, the commands are still the same: he’s still commanding Bigger’s body and speech—he’s not allowing a space to exist where Bigger can be who he is. This is what reminds me so much of the issues surrounding the safety pins; my realization was in fact that I was demanding a kind of attention by this gesture, and the reality was that of the white people who I knew who still continued to do this, none of them were asking these questions; in fact, the safety pin allowed things to continue as they were, it was the least amount of minimal effort, a gesture of “desperate, [cheap] sincerity” as Baldwin might put it (Baldwin 23). These performative gestures did nothing to address the “badge of shame” which Bigger carries on his skin, and it, in its most destructive sense, created a “single sharp point of attention” of otherness among whiteness (Wright). It was an empty, performative gesture which made the conversation about what white people were doing, not about the ways in which we were creating harmful spaces in the first place.

Works Cited

Baldwin, James. Just Above My Head. Delta Trade Paperbacks, 2000.

Wright, Richard. Native Son. Harper, 2008.

Layers of the Self: Annotated Bibliography

  • Balaram, Arita. “(Re)Theorizing Hybridity for the Study of Identity and Difference.” Social & Personality Psychology Compass, vol. 12, no. 10, Oct. 2018, p. N.PAG. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1111/spc3.12413.

How do “assimilation and nation-building” work through cultural imperialism to create “racialized hierarchies” that affect and construct one’s sense of self (Balaram 2)? I will be using this source as a means of answering this question while utilizing Balaram’s methods and research to understand “new identities and subjectivity [emerge] from colonization and continued projects of racial domination” (Balaram 2). Balaram’s discussions of politics, history and the “hybrid subject” will be helpful in creating a perspective for viewing the construction of identity.

  • Farrugia, Jack P., et al. “‘It Is Usually about the Triumph of the Coloniser’: Exploring Young People’s Conceptualisations of Australian History and the Implications for Australian Identity.” Journal of Community & Applied Social Psychology, vol. 28, no. 6, Nov. 2018, pp. 483–494. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1002/casp.2381.

As outlined in its abstract, this piece goes into the ways in which whites “reconstruct Australian history to silence the mistreatment of Indigienous Australians […] to favour the coloniser perspective” and that “this reconstructed history is typically accepted uncritically” (Farrugia et al. 483). I’m very interested in using this piece in tandem with the themes of historical narratives in Faulkner’s The Unvanquished. Similar to the Garratt piece, while this is a source that looks at a context outside of America and the black experience, it does focus on how “identity is shaped by [specific] ideals” (Farrugia et al 485). Its critical look into how “understanding and experiences of racism” factor into a historical basis for “identity development” (Farrugia 485, 490).

  • Faulkner, William. The Unvanquished. Vintage Digital, 2013.

Faulkner’s portrayal of the late 19th Century south will serve to provide more American context for the discussion of the historical legacy of slavery and racism and its ties to the cultural and political realms of white America.

  • Garratt, Lindsey. “Doubly Estranged: Racism, the Body and Reflection.” Ethnic & Racial Studies, vol. 40, no. 4, Mar. 2017, pp. 617–635. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1080/01419870.2016.1206589.

In one of my two sources which step outside of an American context, Garratt’s research on how “young migrant group boys in Dublin’s north inner city suffer from a break with their embodied selves” (Garratt 617). This research is helpful when considering the effects of racialization on children’s “embodied perspective [which is] at the heart of a child’s identity” (Garratt 620). Garratt’s exploration of how racialization can be observed to have an effect on boys’ ability to play soccer, and how this form of play “[constructs] masculinities” and specifically how “racialized masculinities” affect the “identity associated with the body” is helpful in analyzing what is otherwise an innocent, staple of life–sports. I will use the information gathered from this Irish context and will apply it to an American one through the works of Claudia Rankine, Richard Wright and William Faulkner.

  • Nama, Adilifu. Black Space: Imagining Race in Science Fiction Film. University of Texas Press, 2008.

I am including this source as I think it will provide a unique take on the portrayal and understanding of black identity in media, and a very specific form of media: that of the kinds of fantastical Science Fiction films and will attempt to connect this to themes in Wright’s novel concerning Bigger’s interest in film and media. I am choosing this specifically since it deals with fantastical realms of science fiction which, one might assume, are so removed from present day reality, that they might not carry with it the mechanisms of racism that can, as many of my other sources demonstrate, shape one’s understanding of history and their place in it. Nama’s work highlights very specific films, but I will largely work with a more broad understanding of how “SF films [engage] America’s cultural urges, political yearnings, and ideological dispositions” and how even when we’re talking about alternate realities, we are still very much talking about this one and are still talking and communicating messages of race which carry with it the abilities to shape an understanding of identity and history (Nama 3).

  • Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: an American Lyric. Penguin, 2015.

Rankine’s work is of particular interest to me as it deals with a very personal perspective on the formative powers of racism and oppression. I am particularly interested in connecting her use of the second person perspective to much of the dominating messages of oppression that are highlighted in other sources. I am very interested in using her perspectives on media in a modern context both in her book and on her website.

  • Seaton, Eleanor K., and Masumi Iida. “Racial Discrimination and Racial Identity: Daily Moderation among Black Youth.” American Psychologist, vol. 74, no. 1, Jan. 2019, pp. 117–127. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1037/amp0000367.

This dense psychological study examines how “ethnic/racial identity content consists of the meaning and significance that individuals ascribe to their ethnic/racial group” and will provide more nuts-and-bolts psychological examinations of the development of the self through racial perspectives and understandings (Seaton and Iida 117). It is concerned with the intersections of “racial/identity […], racial discrimination experiences and depressive symptoms” (Seaton and Iidia 118). I will incorporate their findings and the understanding of their methods as a mode of application more so than the raw data collection into my work.

  • Wright, Richard. Native Son. Vintage Digital, 2016.

Wright’s novel will provide an American context to understand some of the racist and oppresive mechanisms that are outlined in my other sources. I am also interested in the role media plays on Bigger and will connect this both to Rankine’s work.

  • Yancy, George. What White Looks like: African-American Philosophers on the Whiteness Question. Routledge, 2004.

Most of my resources concern the construction of the identity under siege by racism, but I believe that Yancy’s chapter will provide some analyses on the construction and function of white identity which “attempts to hide from its historicity [and] represents itself as ‘universal'” (Yancy 108). Yancys contention that a “genealogical examination of whiteness” reveals a “kind of historical emergence” which is not natural, but rather very carefully constructed. This is a dense work which I hope will give me some valuable Foucauldian and Nietzchean perspectives to balance out my other psychological and sociological sources.

My sources were the result of research to find information on how the self is constructed under forms of racist oppression through history, media and socialization. Starting with a chapter from Yancy provided by Professor Allred, I went on to find more sources ranging from psychological explorations of the manifestation of the self under racism to that of the ways in which media and history are constructed to become racist and oppressive mechanisms across different geographic and cultural contexts.

Final Project Proposal: Layers of the Self

For my final project, I aim to consider the ways an image of the self materializes in society through interaction and writing–and specifically the image of a self situated in a minority subject position; this can of course be extrapolated to other operators within this structure, and while I may make reference to this, my writing will focus on the struggle to realize a sense of self in the context of oppression. By the image of self, I am not referring to an intrinsic, immutable soul, but instead an image which exists in the social dynamic. I am thinking of dynamics such as Bigger’s first interactions in Native Son with Mary and Jan, or his state of mind when entering the Dalton residence, or how Ringo feels that he has been “abolished” when the social and economic structure has been radically altered in Faulkner’s The Unvanquished. I will posit that the self is often an illusory phenomenon generated by the material conditions of a society and the roles which it is assigned through bureaucracies, governments and other social roles and contracts; I will refer to Kafka’s work in this case for examples of harsh portrayals of bureaucracy and social function. In centering these themes on the self and the generation and function of the self, my work will make use of Du Bois’ notion of double consciousness and how, for those in marginalized groups, a doubled sense of self can cause a distorted generation of simulated versions of oneself as the result of the “longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge […] double self into a better and truer self” (DuBois). In this I will make use of the variety of texts we’ve read for this class to demonstrate the creation and dynamic struggle of the self on the page. I will also use works from outside of the class to reinforce the points I’m making. I have provided here a list of texts I plan on consulting during the research of this project. This list may change during the writing and research of this project.

In demonstrating the illusory phenomenon of the self, I intend to highlight the absolute threat that forces of oppression have over human lives. If the self can be constructed by social forces, then we can understand the severity and absolute control both physical and social marginalization can have over a people since it penetrates down to the deepest foundation of a human psyche: one’s own seemingly private sense of self.

Outside sources:

Baldwin, James, et al. The Fire Next Time. Taschen, 2017.

Barthes, Roland, et al. Mythologies. Hill and Wang, a Division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013.

Baudrillard, Jean, and Sheila Faria. Glaser. Simulacra and Simulation. Univ. of Michigan Press, 2014.

Graeber, David. Utopia of Rules. Melville House, 2016.

McQueen, Steve, et al. 12 Years a Slave.

We, He, She, They: Inscription and Liberty Through Pronouns

“The Garrison party, to which he still adhered, did not want a colored newspaper—there was an odor of caste about it” (Douglass).

“And when he adopted the pronoun we—an echo of “We the people,” transcribed from the Constitution’s first line to the top of his own blank page—he engaged in an act of political representation: he defined a community and dared to speak on its behalf” (Hager).

“Identity definitely is important, but it’s also not the only thing that matters […], pronouns belong to the social world of language, not to individual psychology” (ContraPoints).

Hager’s introduction to the early writings of African American concerns the anecdote of an unnamed man engaging in what is described as an “act of protest” (Hager 1). What Hager notes is so powerful about this is not only the way in which the author actively criticizes the hypocrisy of the Constitution’s alleged inclusion, but that it is done so through the “[adoption of] the pronoun we” (Hager) This kind of language allows the author to inscribe his identity and the identity of countless African slaves who had suffered, died and survived under slavery onto the page in a way that hijacks the power of the Constitution and turns its words on itself.

Our contemporary discussions about pronouns often circle issues of representation for transgender and non-binary peoples. Such discussion has been fraught with controversy as the very demand of a people to be represented by a pronoun which they believe is most representative and respectful of their identity and their place is society is something which challenges the very harmful, gendered structures that are demanding silence in the first place. The struggle for representation in the transgender and non-binary communities concerns gendered pronouns which, as ContraPoints argues, plays a significant role in the sociopolitical nature of language—how we relate to and signify each other. Though her argument is distinctively focused on issues of gender, I believe it intersectionally translates to the concept of racial identity in a way that echoes the need for a minority subject people to adopt a pronoun which situates them in society and challenges who the pronoun represents in the first place. As ContraPoints often argues in her videos, her adoption of the “she” pronoun represents the fact that she lives her life as a woman, that she experiences life as a woman. Therefore, “she” becomes the necessary way for her to inscribe herself through language. Similarly, the unnamed author in Hager’s example argues that if he is to live his life as a free person, then the act of adopting the pronoun “we” is in fact necessary and revolutionary.

We see a similar demand amplified in the actions of Frederick Douglass as he fights for the establishment of a “colored newspaper” which would not merely “represent” the issues of African Americans, but would become the published voice for them, the defining published voice which careers the same audacity as the adoption of a collective pronoun so that at once a people can be included in the language of the Constitution (Douglass). And though we can be open to a conversation concerning any fractures or rifts brewing among a revolutionary movement, the resistance against Douglass starting an African American paper is, almost directly, a refusal to allow the pronoun “we” to be transferred from whites to blacks. To establish the North Star is to open “the social world of language” and allow the “we” to be redefined (ContraPoints). It is an effort to move beyond an individual, psychologically-based feeling of freedom; it’s to march toward a linguistically and politically free existence as “we.”

I am including ContraPoints’ video which I quote from and reference here. Though her topic exclusively concerns gender and a different contemporary issue, I believe the arguments translate well, offer great insight on the function of language and unpack a somewhat difficult-to-understand concept in a thorough—if not eccentric—fashion.

What’s in a Name? Rebellious Language and the Prison of Words

The totality of slavery is poorly summed up with words such as bondage or concepts such as the theft of freedom and autonomy; they belie the vicious beatings, murder, rape and brutal efforts to keep enslaved people from being able to speak or think about their situation. How the horrors of this reality have become so easily forgotten, excused or obscured that portions of this country are willing to defend the right to glorify symbols of an attempt to keep this system in place through the statues of Confederate soldiers and the waving of the so-called “rebel” flag, is difficult to understand. Regardless, it is nothing new; in the very prologue of Fredrick Douglass’s narrative, Boston writes of the ignorance and “incredulous” perspective many of this time held about the horrors of slavery—enough to discredit such accounts as “libel.”

Douglass himself indicates that such disbelief was, remarkably, not exclusive to Northern whites, whose geographical positioning might offer at least some explanation for their ignorance. He recounts that a mistress of his, described as “a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings,” had somehow been “preserved from the blighting and dehumanizing effects of slavery” (Douglass). How is it possible that anyone alive in this period, especially those who were close to slavery as was Douglass’s mistress, were immune to seeing the brutal reality of what was going on? Furthermore, how is it possible that in 2019, this country still cannot face the reality of what slavery was? I believe the answer, at least partially, lies in the way we use language to construct a reality that obscures inconvenient realities and allows the reality and history to be reoriented to suit the needs of capital and the preservation of hierarchy.

Douglass describes Colonel Lloyd’s plantation as extensions of “the great business place” (Douglass). The word itself, “business” as well as “work,” which appear frequently throughout the text are essential in discussing my point, as perhaps one of the most fundamental reasons for enslaved labor is for the growth of business, market and capital. This is not to dismiss racism and the domination of othered human beings, but is instead to explain, potentially, how these constructs can manifest and remain hidden under the guise of such things—how people like Douglass’s mistress could remain so ignorant of the brutality of slavery. Like the young child saluting on the cover of a copy of Paris-Match, as noted by Barthes, greater, more essential concepts such as “business” (or in the case of Barthes, “French imperiality”) obscure the daily events which lead to its construction and a “whole new history [is] implanted” behind a more seemingly neutral image, word or concept (Barthes). Seemingly innocent words: “farm,” “business place,” “the seat of government,” and even “plantation,” to a degree, are a language which can be easily mobilized under the wheels of capital and racism to hide its inner-workings. “Slavery” is defanged under the guise of “work” and industry.

Douglass also speaks of the way in which the language of slaves becomes policed under the threat of relocation and violence, what Douglass describes as the “penalty of telling the truth,” to the degree that the appearance of reality changes (Douglass). These mechanisms of power prevent the answers to “plain questions” from being aired truthfully, and thus creates a realm where slaves only ever “say they are contented, and their masters are kind” (Douglass). This is a similar process to that of the veil and the hidden, invisible reality people of color must live in under white spaces, as discussed by Du Bois; it is a prison of language. It is, in many ways, a double-consciousness that each slave must undergo when asked about the conditions of the “farm”: Always knowing the brutal reality of the beatings, the killings, the rape and the torture, but always having to say the opposite as a means of survival, as Douglass writes, the slaves would come to believe that “a still tongue makes a wise head” (Douglass).

It is through the use of innocent words that reality can be obscured, defanged and repurposed. And it’s through writing such as Douglass’s narrative that we can get a sense for how these constructs are built. What is perhaps most disturbing about reading this narrative isn’t merely how such brutality can be forgotten well over a hundred years after its writing, but how many whites of the time are described as being ignorant of the contemporary reality they were situated in. As Boston describes in the prologue, inherent to the abolitionist movement wasn’t merely the changing of laws, but it was also the fight against ignorant perspectives and disbelief that such horror was a daily reality. The act of rebellion against slavery was firmly tied to the reorientation of language; it was rebellious to call out “murderous cruelty,” to reassign the reality of slavery as a “crime.”

Revealing the Veil Through Writing

“Blacks and other people of color could not write […] it was a violation of the law.”

  • Henry Louis Gates Jr.

It is my responsibility to believe the voices of people of color, of women and those in a minority subject position and, for the present age, it is through communication, often writing, that I can hear these words and stories, using my education to expand my perception of the world and understand the weight of oppression on these souls in the most productive and effective ways that I can. For this reason, it is clear why, as Gates observes, economic and legal punishment was levied against those who would dare to teach slaves to write. Gates documents the legal construction of oppression, the repressive state apparatus which leads directly to physical punishment carried out by labeled positions of authority that physically prevent these stories from flourishing, from leaking out (Gates 9). Du Bois, however, speaks to the ideological state apparatus which forces people of color to be “shut out,” and pushed behind “a vast veil” through cultural perspectives and gestural mechanisms which construct a dimension of repression like that of Marilyn Frye’s patriarchal bird cage (Du Bois). Without Du Bois’ writing, it is hard to understand what the “glance” is, the “swarthy spectre” which outlasts the legislative victory of emancipation (Du Bois). It is through this medium of writing that we can understand the plight of “the freedman [who] has not yet found in freedom his promised land” and can begin to see the ways in which generationally devastating mechanisms of exclusion can culminate in the “suicide of a race,” leaving a people with nothing more than “the power of the ballot” to hopefully avoid “a second slavery” (Du Bois).

I find The Souls of Black Folk to be a strong reminder of what harm has been done in the clever lie believed by whites and those in ruling positions that oppression is history’s problem—that the “old cry for freedom” has been answered (Du Bois). The right to vote has been given, the laws which prevented slaves from learning to read and write have been repealed (though in our current era, these are being reinstated through mass incarceration, gentrification and gerrymandering among other apparatuses), but what remains is a cultural barrier which makes it impossible “for a man to be both a Negro and an American” (Du Bois). This is the construction of the Veil, the place where “the kingdom of culture” is inaccessible; we see the reinforcement of the Veil through the inability for whites to directly describe the “problem” people of color are presented with by a racist society, choosing to use soft language to ask about “Southern” problems and to speak of “excellent colored [men]” instead of speaking to the actual needs of the oppressed, willingly or unwillingly (Du Bois); without writing of the kind seen in Du Bois, how does this voice get through? There is a gravity that writing like this displaces into society, a transferable weight which may be invisible to those who cannot directly understand it, but can believe and create a brighter, unshackled space necessary for the eradication of the punishing “shadow” Du Bois describes (Du Bois).

Du Bois writing reminds me of an animated short created as a tie-in to science fiction universe of The Matrix films. “World Record,” a piece in the greater collection of The Animatrix, tells the story of Dan, a black athlete who, under the stress of an attempt to discredit his achievements, and through his own physical exertion in a final race to prove himself—to “be a co-worker in the kingdom of culture”—begins to see the constructed reality which imprisons him—the Veil (Du Bois). He races under the gaze of nameless figures of white supremacy desperate to use their authority prevent him from literally “waking up” and realizing a path to freedom. Alone and without the support of his only white “ally,” Dan reaches a kind of different freedom, a recorded, numerical victory which, for all its glory and visibility, now resides in the shadow of his physical, and likely drug induced, imprisonment at the end of the story. The Veil remains.