Remembered Rapture

by bell hooks

  Significantly, black women writers of the twenties and thirties, Zora Neale Hurston, Nella Larsen, Ann Petry, whose books attracted a large reading public when first published, had long been forgotten by mainstream audiences. Feminist presses took the lead in uncovering and reclaiming this material. Almost singlehandedly Alice Walker used her literary power in feminist circles to call attention to Hurston’s work. Luckily, feminist efforts to recover women’s history, lost life stories and fictions, helped shine a contemporary spotlight on the works of little-known black women writers of the past. The demand for women’s words led to greater focus on contemporary writers who had already been publishing before feminist movement.

  In the early seventies many young women readers first read Toni Morrison’s work in classes taught by feminist professors. The Bluest Eye, followed by Sula, was on every reading list. Long before mainstream audiences collectively celebrated the work of Toni Morrison, before her writing was extolled and canonized in academic settings, she was chosen by feminist readers. I was one of those readers. As an aspiring young writer from a working-class background looking for ways to articulate the life I most intimately knew, I found affirmation and inspiration in Toni Morrison’s work. Her writing influenced me more than other women writers whose work emerged more directly from the feminist world because she was obsessed with craft. It was clear that she used language with a precision and skill that made a mockery of any attempt to dismiss this writing as merely a pale imitation of “great male writers.”

  In the late seventies mainstream culture was definitely changing its perceptions of women writers and their work. While traditional English departments began to include Toni Morrison’s fiction on course syllabi, there was still a degree of ambivalence. Indeed, when I made the decision to write my dissertation on her first two novels, my advisors were not wholeheartedly supportive. At the time they expressed concern that she did not yet have the literary stature that would merit concentrated scholarly attention culminating in a book-length manuscript. Also they were worried that it would make me a less desirable candidate on the job market to focus on a contemporary writer, and more specifically a black woman writer. I was eager to take the risk because my engagement with Toni Morrison’s work was so intense. It was not the unproblematic engagement of a fan, wanting to celebrate her favorite writer. I loved Morrison’s writing style even as I believed that her work demanded the same critical evaluation and interrogation that we were giving Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, James Joyce, or a lesser-known writer like Kate Chopin. All useful critique must necessarily do more than celebrate.

  I wish I could say that my choice to write on Toni Morrison’s work was prophetic. It was not. I chose to write about her novels simply because I loved the work and believed it deserved a level of sophisticated critical attention it was not then receiving. I focused on the earlier work because I believed it to be both in style and content much more daring than the work she produced later. Since I was choosing to pursue both an academic career and the path of becoming a writer, there was a twofold purpose in my concentrated study of Morrison’s work. She had become for me via her work a literary mentor—a guiding light. Had The Bluest Eye never been published it would have taken much more effort for me to write a memoir of black girlhood more than twenty years later. Speaking about the concerns that led her to write her first book Morrison commented: “I wrote about a victim who is a child and adults don’t write about children.… I did not think it would be widely distributed because it was about things that probably nobody was interested in except me. I was reading a kind of book I had never read before.” When The Bluest Eye was first published in 1970 I was a senior in high school. I was among the first generation in our family to attend college. Raised in a working-class family where the mouths to feed and the needs to be met were much greater than the income my daddy brought home from his hard work as a janitor at the post office, I knew firsthand what it was like to long for material objects that could never be possessed.

  Reading Morrison’s novel I felt the reality I had come from was recognized. It was not the sexual exploitation of the little girl Pecola that captured my attention. I could not identify with this experience. In the cosseted world of my southern black extended family girls were protected. It was Claudia’s longings that captured me. Her desire to know the how and why of everything. It was her desire to confront and leave behind the shame of not having enough money that resonated with my girlhood experience. A continuum of longing to read books about little black girls exists between Morrison’s reasons for writing this book and my reasons for reading it. In the introduction to my girlhood memoirs, I pay tribute to Morrison for charting this journey, for daring to place little working-class black girls and their welfare at the center of the literary landscape.

  In the more than twenty years since the publication of The Bluest Eye the trajectory of writing about girlhood has expanded. During that time, Morrison’s literary career blossomed, culminating in her receiving a Nobel Prize for literature. Her acceptance of this honor was an incredible triumph in that it let the world know that great writing emerges from diverse locations, that it is not the province of any one race or gender. Hopefully, such recognition means that it will never be possible to push writing by black women into the shadows, dismissing it as lacking in merit or value. Historically, black women writers have had to write in a cultural climate where racism and sexism had already put in place a set of assumptions about the nature of “great” writing that automatically excluded black females. Historically racist/sexist stereotypes about the nature of black womanhood meant that the literary establishment was convinced that black women writers were incapable of creating serious imaginative writing.

  As a consequence every black woman who takes pen in hand must be a resisting writer—one who does not let these assumptions inform her work. She must continue to believe she is as capable of becoming a great writer as those who have always been deemed capable of greatness, the largely white and male members of the American literary canon. All too often aspiring young black female writers abandon a concern with serious writing because they believe their work will not receive a fair hearing or just rewards. It astonished many readers that individuals within the mainstream literary establishment, which had for some time praised Morrison’s work, were more than ready to express doubts about its value after she was awarded the Nobel Prize. It is a testimony to the strength of sexist/racist assumptions about “greatness” that the excellence of Morrison’s writing would be called into question only as it was being recognized globally as having lasting merit and value. Her literary achievement was an outright challenge to old assumptions.

  That her presence in the company of Nobel laureates threatened institutionalized structures of racism and sexism became most evident as individuals attempted to undermine her moment of glory by seeking to discredit her work. Significantly, individual black male writers were among those who sought to diminish its value. Writers who had never before felt the need to critically evaluate the merits of any chosen Nobel laureate suddenly felt called to “discredit” Morrison, revealing how deep the need is to reinscribe old structures of domination when those structures are being fundamentally challenged.

  Beyond her writing, which is her marvelous gift to world culture, Morrison clearly realized the radical political significance of her receiving this honor—that the recognition of her value as a writer intervenes on racist and sexist assumptions about whose work can and should be seen as valuable. She knows that she has broken new ground. In her acceptance speech she spoke of eagerly anticipating the work of writers to come: “Those who, even as I speak, are mining, sifting, and polishing languages for illuminations none of us has dreamed of. But whether or not any one of them secures a place in this pantheon, the gathering of these writers is unmistakable and mounting.” Significantly, by evoking the presence of gifted, though not yet heralded, writers, Morrison skillfully deconstructed any attempt to represent her work
as an anomaly.

  A popular magazine asked me to write a short piece about the impact of Morrison’s Nobel Prize, particularly its impact on black women writers. They wanted confirmation of their assumption that the increased interest in popular writing by black women, pulp fiction and the like, was a direct result of her success. My response did not interest them. I pointed to the historical fact that lone individual black women writers had always written popular books that were incredibly successful. Throughout our literary history this work has garnered both audience attention and monetary reward. The momentum that black woman writers of popular fiction, like Terry McMillan, thrive on is quite different from the cultural currents that determine the reception of writers who are concerned more with craft and literary excellence than mass appeal. Without in any way diminishing the value of popular literature both black women readers and the entire reading public need to acknowledge the diversity of black women’s writing. We can enjoy and appreciate the success of popular writing and the pleasure this work brings without taking it too seriously.

  No doubt the reading public, which could appreciate Morrison’s depth and complexity when reading her novels yet sought to diminish her work in the wake of the Nobel Prize, is far more comfortable imagining that a continuum exists between this work (i.e., popular fiction by black females) and her work rather than that of other Nobel laureates. Sadly, Morrison’s success did not lead publishers to encourage and search for aspiring young black women writing serious fiction. There are still way too many editors in publishing who never read works by black women. And mass media is much more interested in limiting the scope of black female literary imaginations to the writing of popular fiction. The success of the already bourgeoning market in popular fiction by black women was often used to deflect attention away from the cultural significance of Morrison’s triumph. Graciously and wisely she repudiated accolades that would represent her as an anomaly, as an exception to accepted racist and sexist stereotypes that imply that women, and especially black women, cannot do great writing. Still, embedded in the publishing world’s tacit refusal to seize the moment and encourage aspiring young women writers, especially black females, to seek publication of their work is the assumption that this writing simply does not exist. This assumption subtly implies that Morrison is the grand exception. Usually those few contemporary black women writers whose work is deemed “serious” by the literary establishment are immigrant writers, mostly of Caribbean descent. Despite the success of diverse fiction by Jamaica Kincaid, she is not seen by critics as pandering to a taste in popular literature, nor does anyone question her capacity to do serious work. Nor does anyone question the writing skills of younger immigrant women writers following in her wake. And there is no reason why they should. Many of these young writers cite Toni Morrison’s work as a literary influence. It is more than unfortunate that no such critical respect is given the aspiring indigenous black female writer.

  While serious writing by aspiring young black females is mostly ignored or poorly underpublished by the publishing world, sensational popular works that are rarely skillfully crafted are projected as personifying the scope and trajectory of black women’s writing. Such thinking feeds racist and sexist biases and simultaneously dissuades aspiring writers from focusing on serious writing. Writing imaginative work that is visionary and well crafted takes discipline and time. The aspiring black female writer who is encouraged by the possibility of huge advances to put forth work that is sensational, incomplete, or poorly crafted is done a disservice by the publishing industry. When such work receives instant attention and reward, the incentive to work at developing skill and craft is removed.

  While it is evident that Morrison’s literary achievements have opened a previously closed door, aspiring writers must rise to the challenge. Any black female who chooses to devote herself to craft, to serious writing, is far more likely to gain a wider public hearing now that the world has made known its longing to hear such voices via its celebration of Morrison’s artistry. The success of her writing has intensified that longing. However, racist and sexist assumptions about who is capable of “good” or “great” work will rule the day until a body of serious writing by diverse black women appears. Those individuals who refuse to let these assumptions go will remain as dismissive of Morrison’s work as they are of work by any writer from a marginal group. These narrow-minded readers will always be more eager to praise popular writing by black women, which they see as necessarily substandard (i.e., who can fault a group for not creating serious fictions when they are already deemed incapable of performing well on this terrain). They turn their backs on black female literary genius. Or if they do not completely devalue serious writing by black females, they try to convince the reading public that such writers are merely exceptions.

  When I was a young writer striving to create serious work, I learned the importance of craft by reading and studying the work of gifted writers from all walks of life. Morrison’s work was not the only guiding light, but it was one of the most valuable. Her fiction, interviews, essays all taught me to take the craft of writing seriously, to understand that it requires discipline and hard work. My admiration of her work has led me to be a rigorous reader, critical yet always respectful. Teaching her work in literature courses I watch the way the lyrical intensity of her words grips the reader, compelling them to ponder both the text they are reading and the creative process that made the writing possible. Early on in her first novel Morrison reminds readers that imagination without skill is not enough, that critical fictions must be carefully orchestrated. While we do not need work that is a poor imitation of her writing, we do need to let that writing inspire us to create artful fictions.

  Toni Morrison’s work is uniquely her own. She is an exceptional writer by any standard. She is not the only gifted black woman writer. Knowing this, she has adamantly resisted tokenization that is demeaning and patronizing. In the closing remarks of her Nobel Prize acceptance speech she informed the world, “It is, therefore, mindful of the gifts of my predecessors, the blessing of my sisters, in joyful anticipation of writers to come that I accept the honor the Swedish Academy has done me, and ask you to share what is for me a moment of grace.” That grace embraces the historical legacy of black women writers, the writing that is being done now, and the writing to come. Like all acts of grace, it is everlasting.

  writer to writer

  remembering toni cade bambara

  Toni Cade Bambara edited the anthology The Black Woman in 1970. It was groundbreaking. Together, a body of black women writers, critical thinkers, and/or activists were discussing the intersection of race and gender. Articles critically interrogated the sexism within black liberation struggle. Black women spoke about the pain and power of parenting, about poverty, about the devaluation of black womanhood. I was a senior in high school when this anthology was first published. Commenting on her decision to edit this work in an interview with Louis Massiah, Bambara acknowledged that she wanted to do a groundbreaking book that would refute the common assumption that black women were not engaged with thinking about gender roles or challenging sexism. Remembering the difficulty of finding a publisher she shared: “We began running around to the publishing houses and I began running into a lot of people I used to go to school with, white folks. They are saying things like, ‘I’ve seen fabulous manuscripts from Black women, but they wind up on the sludge pile because there is no market for Black women’s works.’ So then I got this idea: Never mind the papers from the Panther party women; let me do a book that will kick the door open.… My attention at that time was on kicking the door open so that other Black women’s manuscripts could get a hearing and they certainly did.” Singlehandedly, the anthology The Black Woman placed black women at the center of various feminist debates. It legitimized looking at black life from a feminist perspective.

  It was groundbreaking because Toni Cade Bambara’s powerful essay “On the Issue of Roles” broke traditional taboos precludin
g public discussions of gender conflict between black women and men. This piece was one of the first essays on feminist theory that looked at the interlocking relations between race, sex, and class. Bambara’s perspective was revolutionary for its time. Had she become a major spokesperson for black liberation struggle, had her insistence that black men critique their sexism been taken seriously, the more militant dimensions of black freedom struggle would have transformed the lives of black people everywhere. This essay did transform the lives of individual black women readers. It inspired me to explore more deeply the impact of sexism on black life. Even though everyone active in feminist movement was reading this anthology when it was first published (it was so rare to have the diverse voices of black womanhood represented), mainstream white feminist thinkers were not eager to promote Bambara because the revolutionary feminism she espoused included a critique of racism and capitalism. Her perspective, which included resistance to imperialism, threatened reformist feminist focus on attaining gender equality within the existing social structure. Toni Cade Bambara wanted to challenge and transform the existing structure.

  The publication of this anthology not only helped compel the publishing industry to recognize that there was a market for books by and about black women, it helped to create an intellectual climate where feminist theory focusing on black experience could emerge. Without the publication of this anthology, later feminist works focusing on black life might never have been written. The existence of this anthology certainly was a catalyst for my early feminist work. It was a beacon light. Whenever I became discouraged that there would be no audience for the feminist theory I was writing, I simply recalled the worn and tattered copies of this anthology that were passed around. It was a reminder that there was an audience eager to hear news about our lives.