Tag Archives: Noah

Utilitarian Review 10/25/14

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On HU

Featured Archive Post: Shonté Daniels on cosplaying and race.

Paul Mullins with drawings of guys, dogs, and cars for the gay utopia.

Me on how British abolitionism was used in favor of racist imperialism.

Adrian Bonenberger on how Lovecraft influenced his war memoir.

Chris Gavaler on Ghost Rider and selling your soul to your corporate overlords.

Josselin Moneyron on forthcoming classic manga from Breakdown Press, including work by Maki.

Me on Philip Sandifer’s critical history of Wonder Woman, and WW and the male gaze.

Me on Hunger Games, Ann Halam’s lovely Dr. Franklin’s Island, and the best music you’ve never heard. (A sideways introduction to our upcoming roundtable on the Best Band You’ve Never Heard Of.)

 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At the Atlantic:

— I reviewed Jill Lepore’s Wonder Woman book.

—I talked about how gamergate is mirroring comics history (Sarkessian= Groth, sort of.)

—I talk about Annie Lennox and how sex and feminism is for white women.

At Pacific Standard I wrote about why men don’t read romance novels.

At Reason I talked to sex workers and experts to see if the U.S. should adopt Canada’s C36 bill on prostitution.

At Splice Today I argued that the GOP opposes Obamacare because Obama.
 
Other Links

Mistress Matisse on Seattle’s End Demand campaign against johns.

Mariame Kaba on Ferguson, justice, and applauding black death.

Dear Author on why pseudonyms are necessary.

Sara Benincasa on feeling unwelcome in games.
 

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Spare Them Our Good Intentions

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This first appeared in edited form in the Chicago Reader.
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We tend to think of imperialism as motivated by greed and racism, but the truth is that it is just as often actuated by altruism. Whether it’s Rudyard Kipling urging the U.S. to take up the white man’s burden and colonize the Philippines or Christopher Hitchens urging the U.S. to take up the white man’s burden and occupy Iraq, humanitarian concerns and foreign adventure are inseparable. As counterintuitive as it may seem, in case after case, “empathy” turns out to be another word for “invasion.”

Of course, many anti-imperialists like to argue that the conflation of empathy and invasion is simply cynical spin. From this perspective, talk of democracy is just to cover up a real obsession with (or example) oil. Imperial altruism becomes, then, a kind of complicated conspiracy theory. It is this conspiracy theory which Richard Huzzey meticulously dismantles in his new book Freedom Burning.

Freedom Burning focuses on British anti-slavery in the years following the abolition of the slave trade in 1833. Though the topic is fascinating, and certainly relevant to our own imperial moment, Huzzey is not an especially engaging writer. His book is a dry read, as it winds its way through a maze of Foreign Office policy, Parliamentary politics and long-past controversies. In many cases, Huzzey seems to go out of his way to avoid telling a good story; he references the British Niger expedition of 1841 as a disastrous result of anti-slavery ideology, but he repeatedly eschews the opportunity to explain even the outlines of that disaster, in which more than a third of the 159 Europeans died from disease.

But Huzzey’s bland delivery only emphasizes the bitterness of his conclusion — which is that anti-slavery was not a cover-up for British imperialism. On the contrary, it was a central engine of expansion, and the coherent consensus which made that expansion possible.   British determination to search all shipping on the high-seas, for example, was motivated in large part by the desire to prevent the transportation of slaves. When the British torched a West African settlement on the Gallinas River in 1845, they were not enslaving the people, but fighting for emancipation by punishing local leaders who had allegedly had dealings with slave traders. They were, sincerely, burning the village in order to save the people. (18-19)

Anti-slavery, then, became not just the excuse, but the motive for extending and exercising British power. As Huzzey says, “anti-slavery was the popular aspect of imperial expansion,” and “Anti-slavery ideologies were one of the principal ways that commercial, spiritual, and moral objectives could be combined.” (190) This didn’t mean, or didn’t just mean, that politicians couched their policies in anti-slavery terms in order to appeal to the public. It also meant, as Huzzey shows, that politicians, like their constituents, thought about, and conceived of, foreign policy against the background of an anti-slavery consensus to which virtually everyone, politicians and public, had to conform. Huzzey notes that it was basically impossible “to be taken seriously in public debates if an author defended slavery.” (46)   Thus, for example, some Brits advocated against the naval suppression of the slave trade. But they did so on solidly anti-slavery grounds, arguing that forcing the trade underground could worsen conditions for transported slaves, and even caused slavers to throw their cargo overboard when a British ship approached. (133)

Anti-slavery ideology was so flexible that it could even exist alongside open and vicious racism. Indeed, as Huzzey depressingly chronicles, anti-slavery actually provided white Britons with a strong rationale for hating their black countrymen. In the first place, the prevalence of slavery in African nations, and the complicity of African leaders in the slave trade, were attributed by white Europeans to black racial inferiority and immorality. (192)

Even more damaging, though, was the coalescence of anti-slavery and racism in the West Indies. There, freed British slaves were reluctant to return to the plantation system, preferring instead to work for themselves. This understandable desire for autonomy and self-respect was interpreted by white Britons as laziness and backwardness, and solidified racist stereotypes of black people. Even the anti-slavery argument that slavery was catastrophically dehumanizing was turned against black people. If blacks were dehumanized, then they shouldn’t be treated as human, the reasoning went — and so anti-slavery provided the foundation for coercive laws forcing black people back into virtual slavery on the plantations. (192)

An ideology of freedom, then, did not lead to an ideology of equality. On the contrary, a belief in freedom ended up justifying and enforcing inequity. Not only did British anti-slavery ideology encourage racism — it arguably encouraged slave-trading. Even as the British boarded the ships of other nations in search of slaves, their own vessels carried hundred of thousands of Indian laborers across the empire. These Indians were not technically “slaves,” but were instead indentured servants or people working under debt bondage or contract. There was some outcry against the treatment of these workers, who were certainly coerced in many cases. However, this coercion was not necessarily seen as incompatible with anti-slavery. On the contrary, since ex-slaves were viewed as lazy and irresponsible, it was generally thought that some form of forced labor was needed to secure a stable post-slavery economy. East Indians were brought to the West Indies to make blacks work without slavery. Thus, again, anti-slavery required (wage or contract) slavery. (201-202)

Huzzey points out that one of the main contributions of anti-slavery to imperialism is simple attention. The suppression of the slave trade provided much early interest in Africa where otherwise there would have been little or none.” (191) Thus, the very energy and focus that had allowed for the abolition of slavery within Britain flowed naturally, once that slavery was abolished, into a continued focus on, and meddling in, Africa, with devastating long-term consequences.

Were those consequences worth the abolition of slavery? If slavery had been abandoned earlier, might there have been a more thorough and rapacious imperial presence in Africa? If slavery had been allowed to continue for longer — say, till after the American Civil War — would Africa have been subject to shorter and less crippling European colonization?

Huzzey raises these questions, but is too careful to attempt to answer them. Still, I wish every would-be do-gooder, whether of left, right, or center, would read his book — and not just because turning pages might briefly distract them from their violent schemes of world-betterment.   Huzzey’s book suggests not just that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but that the road to hell is paved specifically with our good intentions. Freedom, democracy, empathy, even equality — all America’s ideals are WMDs waiting to be armed and detonated wherever our attention happens to alight, whether it’s in Africa, Kosovo, or Iran. U.S. humanitarian efforts throughout the world are, of course, laudable, and do enormous good. But even so, it’s hard to read Freedom Burning without wondering whether it might be better for everyone else if we cared about them a little less, and minded our own business a little more.
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Utilitarian Review 10/17/14

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On HU

Featured Archive Post: Subdee on Homestuck as metatext of doom.

Me on what happens when you take racism out of Gone with the Wind and H.P. Lovecraft.

Me on how Columbus was a genocidal monster.

Ng Suat Tong on how Snowpiercer the film is cheerier than Snowpiercer the comic.

Alex Buchet with a collection of his favorite TCJ covers.

Kim O’Connor on comics crit and solipsism.

Brian Cremins on curating a show featuring work by Edie Fake, John Porcellino, and Marnie Galloway.

Chris Gavaler on fictional Bath, past, present and future.
 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At Pacific Standard I wrote about the right-wing whackos who think Michelle Obama is a trans woman, and how black women are denied femininity.

At Esquire I wrote about Jose Alaniz’s book Death, Disability and the Superhero, and superheroes as disempowerment fantasy.

At the Atlantic I wrote about gender, race, and the Snoop/Iggy twitter beef.

At Splice Today I wrote about

— a great electronica/dance label, Soulection.

— politicians spouting nonsense and the press spouting more nonsense.
 
Other Links

Ambrose Bierce on Columbus.

Sean T. Collins interviewed Anita Sarkeesian.

Ben Casselman on why 538 doesn’t cover markets.

Victoria Law on the failures of carceral feminism.

Mary McCarthy on paying to buy twitter followers.
 

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The Real Meaning of Columbusing

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This first ran on Splice Today; thought I’d rerun it here for Columbus Day.
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To Columbus. It’s a verb meaning to discover something (especially if you’re white) that’s already been discovered.  The term was coined by College Humor last month, and it’s useful. Miley Columbused twerking; Elvis Columbused rock ‘n’ roll; Richard Burton Columbused the source of the Nile; the protagonist in that College Humor video Columbuses a mostly non-white bar. Columbusing—everybody’s doing it.

Still, for all its benefits, the term is also a bit misleading. “To Columbus,” suggests that the funny/icky think about Columbus was cultural appropriation. The problem with Columbus, “Columbusing” tells you, is that the guy, Columbus, took credit for stuff that he didn’t do. And taking credit for something that you didn’t do is unpleasant, there’s no doubt. But it’s not really as unpleasant as murder, slavery, torture, and genocide. Which is what “Columbusing” should actually mean if we wanted to be honest.

Christopher Columbus, the great explorer, is one of the monsters of history. That’s not because he claimed to discover something that he didn’t discover. It’s because he was a vicious, evil murderer. When he first landed in the Bahamas, Columbus met the Arawak Indians (or the Taino), and commented on their generosity and friendliness. He also ominously said, “[T]hey would make fine servants…. With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.” And sure enough, right off the boat he kidnapped a number of them and took them back to Europe.

Most of the kidnapped Arawaks died from disease and mistreatment, but Columbus was not deterred. He returned to the Bahamas, determined to get precious metals. He commanded all Arawaks over 14 to bring him a quota of gold every three months. Those who didn’t were, according to Columbus’ son, “punished by having their hands cut off,” and left to bleed to death. Since there wasn’t much gold in the Bahamas, few people could bring Columbus what he wanted. Some estimates suggest that the Spaniards, in their greed, maimed and killed as many as 10,000 people.

Historian and priest Bartolome de las Casas recorded additional atrocities. The Spaniards turned their hunting dogs loose to tear Arawak apart; de las Cases says “Arawak babies were killed for dog food.” Children had their legs cut off when they attempted to run away; some Arawaks were roasted on spits. Columbus rewarded his men for their services by giving them Arawak women and girls of as young as nine and 10 years old to rape.

Thanks to these atrocities, the Arawak population dropped from as many as a million to only 60,000 by 1507, and less than 500 by the middle of the 1500s. Many of these deaths were from disease, but given the evidence of Columbus’ widespread spree of murder and cruelty, it’s fair to call this a vicious genocide. Columbus’ crimes were so glaring that he was arrested and sent back to Spain, where he was convicted… only to receive a royal pardon.

Ideally, then, “to Columbus” would not mean, “to claim to have discovered twerking.” It would mean, “to enslave people and amputate their hands,” or “to rape 10-year-olds,” or, more generally, “to commit a genocide.” Columbus shouldn’t be a cute term for cultural appropriation; he should be a synonym for Hitler or Stalin or Pol Pot.

I don’t mean to dismiss the problem of cultural appropriation altogether. People borrow from each other all the time, and that’s not a bad thing. Unless, as Brenda Salinas notes, you borrow only bits and pieces while continuing to indulge in racist contempt for the people from whom you’re borrowing. “It seems like a paradox to relish your fajitas,” Salinas says, “while believing the line cook should get deported.”

The issue then, isn’t cultural mixing, but cultural mixing in a context of racism and systematic disproportions of power. And the irony is that the term “Columbusing,” which is supposed to highlight those disproportions of power, actually works to erase them. Columbus isn’t a hero; he’s not a joke. He’s the genocidal rapist and murderer who our government has decided to honor as the iconic founder of our country and polity. Imperialism may work in part by giving people credit for things they didn’t do, but it works even more insidiously by conveniently forgetting to give people credit for the unpleasant stuff they did. Maybe that’s really what “to Columbus” should mean—to forget the atrocities you’ve committed so thoroughly that you don’t even know when you’re joking about them.
 

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Theodor de Bry, illustration for Bartolomé de las Casas, A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies (1552)

The Shadow Done Gone

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Wind-Done-Gone-RandallAlice Randall’s “The Wind Done Gone” is superior to the Margaret Mitchell novel it is based on in many respects. Though Mitchell’s prose is quite good, Randall’s is better , earthier and more poetic at once (“It’s a pissed bed on a cold night to read words on paper saying your name and a price.”) Randall’s economical, short book also avoids Mitchell’s tendency to ramble. But perhaps most surprising in a sequel/parody, Randall’s book makes more sense.

It’s a staple of fan fiction to fill in the blank spaces and plot holes. Still, Randall manages to do so with unusual grace. Much of Mitchell’s drawn out plot and her surprise twists are built on her characters lack of self-knowledge. Rhett is so afraid of giving power to Scarlett that he won’t tell her he loves her, even after they marry — and then, finally, he falls out of love with her, thump. Scarlett, for her part, thinks she loves Ashley and hates Mellie, until Mellie dies and she realizes, no that was all a mistake. Ashley has a similar storyline; he loves Scarlett until he realizes he doesn’t and never did. Mellie thinks Scarlett is her best friend even though Scarlett spends most of her life loathing her. Everyone seems utterly severed from their own emotional life. It strains credulity that one character could be this gob-smackingly dumb; but two? three? four? It starts to seem like carelessness.

In Randall’s book the source of the stupidity isn’t carelessness. It’s racism. The main characters in Gone With the Wind can’t know themselves, because if they knew themselves, they’d have to know about black people, and then their world would collapse. Mitchell’s characters, as seen by Randall, aren’t dumb; they live in a society of secrets and lies, in which not knowing is the basis of their existence. So Rhett doesn’t just fall out of love with Scarlett; rather, he always was in love with her half-sister, Mammy’s daughter Cynara, and his vacillations in love are the result of his painful uncertainty about marrying, or loving, a black woman. Ashley, for his part, never declares for Scarlett not because he’s a dishmop, but because he’s gay; Mellie has his black lover whipped to death at one point. And Scarlett, so set on not knowing herself, is not just stubborn, but has a real secret or two — a lifetime spent refusing to think about the fact that her beloved maid and surrogate mother slept with her father, and a lifetime spent refusing to think about her sister.

You’d think that looking unflinchingly at the racism in Gone With the Wind would make the white characters unsympathetic. In fact, though, Randall’s Scarlett, and Rhett,and Ashley are all significantly less awful than Mitchell’s. In Mitchell’s version, they’re all just horrible people, indecisive, whining, opaque to themselves, and fighting ceaselessly on behalf of slavery because they suck. Randall, in contrast, grants them the context that has deformed them. Rhett’s decision to become a Confederate soldier at the last minute, for example, is seen in GWTW as a triumph, and is therefore unforgivable. In Wind Done Gone, it’s portrayed as a painful lapse; a mark of how much racism touches even a man who, in many respects, has been able and willing to get beyond the prejudices of his society. (“R. fought and tried to die in a Confederate uniform to save this place,” Cynara thinks of her lover, and later husband. “I have tried to forget this, but I remember.”) Scarlett’s blank self-centeredness becomes more understandable when we see her parents’ marriage as loveless, and lack of self-knowledge seems more understandable when we learn her life was in no small part a lie. Her mother was partially black,and concealed her past and her own emotional investments from family, and especially from her daughter. GWTW famously (and counter-intuitively for a romance) concludes in bitterness and the break-up of a marriage; Randall’s is the book with the not exactly traditional, but still happy ending. The Wind Done Gone can manage forgiveness because it is able to talk about what needs to be forgiven; GWTW is filled with too much hate to arrive at love.

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Ruthanna Emrys’ novella “The Litany of Earth is version of “The Wind Done Gone” for evil fish-creatures. Where Randall presents GWTW from the perspective of the slaves and freed blacks, Emrys looks at H.P. Lovecraft’s mythos, particularly his Innsmouth stories, from the perspective of the monsters — and from the perspective of Lovecraft’s own vile racism. The main character, Aphra Marsh, has had much of her family hunted down and killed by the authorities, who also subjected them to brutal medical testing. Innsmouth people are still regularly policed by government spies; the parallels to the U.S. Japanese concentration camps, and to Hitler’s genocide, are drawn explicitly.

In discussions of Lovecraft, I’ve often seen fans argue that the horror in his stories is not linked directly to the racism. Instead, they say, the terror is tied to his atheism — to the apprehension of an infinite, indifferent cosmos, which was not built for humans and does not care about them.

Emrys keeps the cosmic emptiness in her story. Marsh’s people repeat a litany, in which they number the people of earth, from the distant past to the distant future, who have lived and will live and will all pass away. ““After the last race leaves, there will be fire and unremembering emptiness. Where the stories of Earth will survive, none have told us.” But the emptiness and meaninglessness don’t lead to horror. Instead, “In times of hardship or joy, when a child sickened or a fisherman drowned too young for metamorphosis, at the new year and every solstice, the Litany gave us comfort and humility.”

I think that’s right; knowing the universe is alien isn’t a horrible or fearful thing unless you first believe, as Lovecraft did, that the other and the alien are terrifying. The cosmic horror is horror not because the cosmos is intrinsically horrible, but because Lovecraft was racist. The indescribable gibbering darkness, the unnameable monstrosities; they’re indescribable and unnameable for the same reason that Scarlett and Rhett are irritatingly dense — because racism means you’re not allowed to know those other people, over there, which means you also can’t know yourself. Racism poisons Gone With the Wind, and it poisons Lovecraft’s world too. In Lovecraft and Mitchell that’s the shadow that can’t be named, and that neither wind nor war can blow away.

Utilitarian Review 10/11/14

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On HU

Featured Archive Post: Allan Haverholm on comics definitions.

A few of us talked about the best music of the year so far.

Me on Nick Cave’s The Boatman’s Call.

Nicholas Labarre on the history of the history of meta-Godzilla.

Me on Alexis Coe’s book about a lesbian murder in Memphis, Alice and Freda Forever.

Ng Suat Tong on the crappiness of the Dishonorable Woman.

Christopher Lehman on warnings about racist content on Tom and Jerry episodes.

Chris Gavaler on Les Mis, superheroes, and the closet.
 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At Reason I wrote about how Internet activism helps sex workers.

At Pacific Standard I wrote about

—Emma Watson being wrong about Beyoncé performing for the male gaze

— Steven Salaita and how the university doesn’t care about teaching

At Splice Today:

— I finally saw the Avengers and it sucked.

— I finally saw the Game of Thrones pilot and it wasn’t so great either.Center for Digital Ethics I argued that it’s unethical to look at stolen celebrity nudes.

At the Chicago Reader, a brief review of Marketa Irglova.

A short music mix for Publik Private.

 
Other Links

A comic on stripping and stigma.

Samantha Field on Buffy and Riley’s abusive relationship.

Jamie Nesbitt Golden on grieving for her mom.

Olga Khazan on Nickelodeon and white guys.
 

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Alice and Freda Forever, Whoever They Are

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51pnwOH6kIL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_Identities are made out of stories, and stories are made out of identities. That’s certainly the case in Alexis Coe’s new book, Alice and Freda Forever, about 1892 century Memphis murder of Freda Ward by her lover and fiancé, Alice Mitchell. Alice and Freda were both well-to-do young women; they’d met at the Higbee School for Girls. Freda had agreed to marry Alice, but their families had discovered the plan and put a stop to it. Alice feared Freda would forget her and perhaps marry a man. So she stole her father’s razor and slit her ex’s throat; she was stopped before she could kill herself as well.

The murder was a massive story at the time — the O.J. Simpson trial of its day — precisely because of the identities of the killer and her victim. “Journalists knew that the story would be far less consequential to readers if the murderer and victim had been male, not white, or of lesser economic means,” Coe says. Identity for the public at the time was the story — as it is, in a different way for us. Would Coe, or her readers, be interested in this particular trial if it weren’t for the fact that Alice and Freda were lesbians?

Alice and Freda planned a same-sex wedding before the term, or even the concept, existed. As a result, it’s easy to identify with them; they seem like they’re part of a familiar story. But that familiarity can be deceptive. A firm lesbian identity didn’t really exist for Americans in the 1800s. As Sharon Marcus says in her book Between Women (focusing on England, but the general argument seems to apply to the U.S. as well), passionate same-sex relationships between women in the Victorian Era were accepted and even encouraged as part of a normal, mainstream heterosexual identity. Those relationships could include kissing, hugging, passionate declarations of love, and even, on occasion (as with Freda and Alice) sex. But people at the time didn’t organize any of those actions into an identity. Same-sex relationships between women were not policed, or codified. As a result, for most practical purposes, they were invisible.

If Alice had murdered someone in the 1950s, when homophobia was widespread and virulent, her violence probably would have been blamed immediately on her dangerous deviant lesbianism. But in the 1890s, Coe reports, people seemed to have difficulty even understanding the relationship between Freda and Alice. Their plan to marry was seen as impossible. One psychological expert, foreshadowing future anti-marriage-equality argument asked her incredulously how she could think of marrying Freda when the two of them couldn’t have children.

Those psychological experts were there in the courtroom less to evaluate Alice than to make sense of her; they weren’t figuring out if she was sick so much as they were figuring out what to do with her. Just as the Oscar Wilde trial a couple of years later solidified homosexual identity in England, the Mitchell trial — haltingly, hesitantly — took steps towards creating and defining a lesbian identity. That definition, at this point, was medical and marginal. The defense argument, which prevailed, was that Alice’s love for Freda was a sign of insanity. To buttress that argument, the lawyers made her love for Freda into her identity, playing up her childhood interest in sports and her later lack of attachment to men. She was masculine, disordered, and wrong. The argument was that her identity was not (jealous) murderer, but (lesbian) madwoman. The jury bought it — and so gave her a story that ended, not on the gallows, but in an insane asylum (and a few years later, in death, though whether by tuberculosis or drowning suicide remains unknown to this day.)

Coe is very sensitive to the ways in which Alice’s identity and her story wrap around one another. As an upper-middle class white woman, Alice’s range of movement and actions were extremely limited. Her plot to dress and pass as a man to marry Freda seems, from what Coe could determine, to have had little to do with a trans identity, and much more to do with economics. White women of Mitchell’s class weren’t supposed to, or allowed to, work, and Alice and Freda needed an income if they were going to live together as a couple. On the other hand, Alice’s race and resources ensured high powered lawyers and a sympathetic jury — luxuries which certainly wouldn’t have been afforded to anti-lynching activist Ida B. Wells, who, as Coe discusses, was forced to flee Memphis at around the same time as Alice’s trial. White Memphis found it easier to empathize with a white killer than with a black opponent of murder.

Even as she points to the ways in which Alice’s race and class shaped her story for her contemporaries, though, Coe can’t help but write her own narrative around our current reading of Alice’s identity. Very near the end of the book, Coe describes how Alice, before being sent off to the asylum, asked to be allowed to visit Freda’s grave.

We will never know what Alice was thinking at Elmwood that day, and neither did the journalists who watched from afar. But they did report what they saw, and what they wrote seemed believable: Alice dropped to her knees and, for the woman she loved without shame, wept openly.

It’s a moving scene — not least because, in that reference to “without shame”, Coe connects Alice to the current gay rights struggle, and its narrative of pride and identity. There’s no question that Alice was a startlingly brave young women, willing to own her own love and work towards a life that her family, and society, could barely conceive of or imagine. She was heroic. And yet, at the same time — she murdered her lover out of jealousy. If she were a man, she would be seen as participating, not in the narrative of gay rights, but in the long, ugly, misogynist narrative of domestic violence, in which the infidelity of a wife (and Freda was to be a traditional wife, Alice’s letters make clear) gives the husband the right to kill. That’s not to criticize Coe, who certainly doesn’t downplay or excuse Alice’s crime. It’s just a reminder that people often don’t fit neatly into the identities we use to tell their stories, nor into the stories we use to create their identities.