In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens

by Alice Walker

  So, I brought in the grandfather. Because all along I wanted to explore the relationship between parents and children, specifically between daughters and their fathers (this is most interesting, I’ve always felt; for example, in “The Child Who Favored Daughter” in In Love & Trouble, the father cuts off the breasts of his daughter because she falls in love with a white boy; why this, unless there is sexual jealousy?), and I wanted to learn, myself, how it happens that the hatred a child can have for a parent becomes inflexible. And I wanted to explore the relationship between men and women, and why women are always condemned tor doing what men do as an expression of their masculinity. Why are women so easily “tramps” and “traitors” when men are heroes for engaging in the same activity? Why do women stand for this?

  My new novel will be about several women who came of age during the sixties and were active (or not active) in the Movement in the South. I am exploring their backgrounds, familial and sibling connections, their marriages, affairs, and political persuasions, as they grow toward a fuller realization (and recognition) of themselves.

  Since I put together my course on black women writers, which was taught first at Wellesley College and later at the University of Massachusetts, I have felt the need for real critical and biographical work on these writers. As a beginning, I am writing a long personal essay on my own discovery of these writers (designed, primarily, for lectures), and hope soon to visit the birthplace and home of Zora Neale Hurston, Eatonville, Florida. I am so involved with my own writing that I don’t think there will be time for me to attempt the long, scholarly involvement that all these writers require. I am hopeful, however, that as their books are reissued and used in classrooms across the country, someone will do this. If no one does (or if no one does it to my satisfaction), I feel it is my duty (such is the fervor of love) to do it myself.

  I read all of the Russian writers I could find in my sophomore year in college. I read them as if they were a delicious cake. I couldn’t get enough: Tolstoy, especially his short stories, and the novels The Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection, which taught me the importance of diving through politics and social forecasts to dig into the essential spirit of individual persons, because otherwise characters, no matter what political or current social issue they stand for, will not live), and Dostoevsky, who found his truths where everyone else seemed afraid to look, and Turgenev, Gorky, and Gogol, who made me think that Russia must have something floating about in the air that writers breathe from the time they are born. The only thing that began to bother me, many years later, was that I could find almost nothing written by a Russian woman writer.

  Unless poetry has mystery, many meanings, and some ambiguities (necessary for mystery) I am not interested in it. Outside of Basho and Shiki and other Japanese haiku poets, I read and was impressed by the poetry of Li Po, the Chinese poet, Emily Dickinson, E. E. Cummings (deeply), and Robert Graves, especially his poems in Man Does, Woman Is—which is surely a male-chauvinist title, but I did not think about that then. I liked Graves because he took it as given that passionate love between man and woman does not necessarily last forever. He enjoyed the moment, and didn’t bother about the future, My poem “The Man in the Yellow Terry” is very much influenced by Graves.

  I also loved Ovid and Catullus. During the whole period of discovering haiku and the sensual poems of Ovid, the poems of E. E. Cummings and William Carlos Williams, my feet did not touch the ground. I ate, I slept, I studied other things (like European history) without ever doing more than giving it serious thought. It could not change me from one moment to the next, as poetry could.

  I wish I had been familiar with the poems of Gwendolyn Brooks when I was in college. I stumbled upon them later. If there was ever a born poet, I think it is Brooks. Her natural way of looking at anything, of commenting on anything, comes out as a vision, in language that is peculiar to her. It is clear that she is a poet from the way your whole spiritual past begins to float around in your throat when you are reading, just as it is clear from the first line of Cane that Jean Toomer is a poet, blessed with a soul that is surprised by nothing. It is not unusual to weep when reading Brooks, just as when reading Toomer’s “Song of the Sun” it is not unusual to comprehend—in a flash—what a dozen books on black people’s history fail to illuminate. I have embarrassed my classes occasionally by standing in front of them in tears as Toomer’s poem about “some genius from the South” flew through my body like a swarm of golden butterflies on their way toward a destructive sun. Like Du Bois, Toomer was capable of comprehending the black soul. It is not “soul” that can become a cliché, but something to be illuminated rather than explained.

  The poetry of Arna Bontemps has strange effects on me too. He is a great poet, even if he is not recognized as such until after his death. Or is never acknowledged. The passion and compassion in his poem “A Black Man Talks of Reaping” shook the room I was sitting in the first time I read it. The ceiling began to revolve and a breeze—all the way from Alabama—blew through the room. A tide of spiritual good health tingled the bottoms of my toes. I changed. Became someone the same, but different. I understood, at last, what the transference of energy was.

  It is impossible to list all of the influences on one’s work. How can you even remember the indelible impression upon you of a certain look on your mother’s face? But random influences are the following.

  Music, which is the art I most envy.

  Then there’s travel—which really made me love the world, its vastness, and variety. How moved I was to know that there is no center of the universe. Entebbe, Uganda, or Bratislava, Czechoslovakia, exist no matter what we are doing here. Some writers—Camara Laye, and the man who wrote One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Márquez)—have illumined this fact brilliantly in their fiction. Which brings me to African writers I hope to be influenced by: Okot p’Bitek has written my favorite modern poem, “Song of Lawino.” I am crazy about The Concubine by Elechi Ahmadi (a perfect story, I think), The Radiance of the King, by Camara Laye, and Maru, by Bessie Head. These writers do not seem afraid of fantasy, of myth and mystery. Their work deepens one’s comprehension of life by going beyond the bounds of realism. They are like musicians: at one with their cultures and their historical subconscious.

  Flannery O’Connor has also influenced my work. To me, she is the best of the white Southern writers, including Faulkner. For one thing, she practiced economy. She also knew that the question of race was really only the first question on a long list. This is hard for just about everybody to accept, we’ve been trying to answer it for so long.

  I did not read Cane until 1967, but it has been reverberating in me to an astonishing degree. I love it passionately; could not possibly exist without it. Cane and Their Eyes Were Watching God are probably my favorite books by black American writers. Jean Toomer has a very feminine sensibility (or, phrased another way, he is both feminine and masculine in his perceptions), unlike most black male writers. He loved women.

  Like Toomer, Zora Neale Hurston was never afraid to let her characters be themselves, funny talk and all. She was incapable of being embarrassed by anything black people did, and so was able to write about everything with freedom and fluency. My feeling is that Zora Neale Hurston is probably one of the most misunderstood, least appreciated writers of this century. Which is a pity. She is great. A writer of courage, and incredible humor, with poetry in every line.

  When I started teaching my course in black women writers at Wellesley (the first one, I think, ever), I was worried that Zora’s use of black English of the twenties would throw some of the students off. It didn’t. They loved it. They said it was like reading Thomas Hardy, only better. In that same course I taught Nella Larsen, Frances Watkins Harper (poetry and novel), Dorothy West, Ann Petry, Paule Marshall, among others. Also Kate Chopin and Virginia Woolf—not because they were black, obviously, but because they were women and wrote, as the black women did, on the condition of humankind from the perspective of w
omen. It is interesting to read Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own while reading the poetry of Phillis Wheatley, to read Larsen’s Quicksand along with The Awakening. The deep-throated voice of Sojourner Truth tends to drift across the room while you’re reading. If you’re not a feminist already, you become one.

  There are two reasons why the black woman writer is not taken as seriously as the black male writer. One is that she’s a woman. Critics seem unusually ill-equipped to discuss and analyze the works of black women intelligently. Generally, they do not even make the attempt; they prefer, rather, to talk about the lives of black women writers, not about what they write. And, since black women writers are not, it would seem, very likable—until recently they were the least willing worshipers of male supremacy—comments about them tend to be cruel.

  In Nathan Huggins’s very readable book Harlem Renaissance, he hardly refers to Zora Neale Hurston’s work, except negatively. He quotes from Wallace Thurman’s novel Infants of the Spring at length, giving us the words of a character, “Sweetie Mae Carr,” who is allegedly based on Zora Neale Hurston. Sweetie Mae is a writer noted more “for her ribald wit and personal effervescence than for any actual literary work. She was a great favorite among those whites who went in for Negro prodigies.” Huggins goes on for several pages, never quoting Zora Neale Hurston herself, but, rather, the opinions of others about her character. He does say that she was “a master of dialect,” but adds that “her greatest weakness was carelessness or indifference to her art.”

  Having taught Zora Neale Hurston, and, of course, having read her work myself, I am stunned. Personally, I do not care if Zora Hurston was fond of her white women friends. When she was a child in Florida, working for nickels and dimes, two white women helped her escape. Perhaps this explains it. But even if it doesn’t, so what? Her work, far from being done carelessly, is done (especially in Their Eyes Were Watching God) almost too perfectly. She took the trouble to capture the beauty of rural black expression. She saw poetry where other writers merely saw failure to cope with English. She was so at ease with her blackness it never occurred to her that she should act one way among blacks and another among whites (as her more “sophisticated” black critics apparently did).

  It seems to me that black writing has suffered because even black critics have assumed that a book that deals with the relationships between members of a black family—or between a man and a woman—is less important than one that has white people as primary antagonists. The consequences of this is that many of our books by “major” writers (always male) tell us little about the culture, history, or future, imagination, fantasies, and so on, of black people, and a lot about isolated (often improbable) or limited encounters with a nonspecific white world. Where is the book by an American black person (aside from Cane) that equals Elechi Ahmadi’s The Concubine, for example? A book that exposes the subconscious of a people, because the people’s dreams, imaginings, rituals, legends are known to be important, are known to contain the accumulated collective reality of the people themselves. Or The Radiance of the King, where the white person is shown to be the outsider he is, because the culture he enters in Africa itself expells him. Without malice, but as nature expells what does not suit. The white man is mysterious, a force to be reckoned with, but he is not glorified to such an extent that the Africans turn their attention away from themselves and their own imagination and culture. Which is what often happens with “protest literature.” The superficial becomes—for a time—the deepest reality, and replaces the still waters of the collective subconscious.

  When my own novel was published, a leading black monthly admitted (the editor did) that the book itself was never read; but the magazine ran an item stating that a white reviewer had praised the book (which was, in itself, an indication that the book was no good—so went the logic) and then hinted that the reviewer had liked my book because of my life style. When I wrote to the editor to complain, he wrote me a small sermon on the importance of my “image,” of what is “good” for others to see. Needless to say, what others “see” of me is the least of my worries, and I assume that “others” are intelligent enough to recover from whatever shocks my presence or life choices might cause.

  Women writers are supposed to be intimidated by male disapprobation. What they write is not important enough to be read. How they live, however, their “image,” they owe to the race. Read the reason Zora Neale Hurston gave for giving up her writing. See what “image” the Negro press gave her, innocent as she was. I no longer read articles or reviews unless they are totally about the work. I trust that someday a generation of men and women will arise who will forgive me for such wrong as I do not agree I do, and will read my work because it is a true account of my feelings, my perception, and my imagination, and because it will reveal something to them of their own selves. They will also be free to toss it—and me—out of a high window. They can do what they like… .

  When I take the time to try to figure out what I am doing in my writing, where it is headed, and so on, I almost never can come up with anything. This is because it seems to me that my poetry is quite different from my novels (The Third Life of Grange Copeland and the one I am working on now); for example, Once is what I think of as a “happy” book, full of the spirit of an optimist who loves the world and all the sensations of caring in it; it doesn’t matter that it began in sadness; The Third Life of Grange Copeland, though sometimes humorous and celebrative of life, is a grave book in which the characters see the world as almost entirely menacing. The optimism that closes the book makes it different from most of my short stories, and the political and personal content of my essays makes them different—again—from everything else. So I would not, as some critics have done, categorize my work as “gothic.” I would not categorize it at all. Eudora Welty, in explaining why she rebels against being labeled “gothic,” says that to her “gothic” conjures up the supernatural, and that she feels what she writes has “something to do with real life.” I agree with her.

  I like those of my short stories that show the plastic, shaping, almost painting quality of words. In “Roselily” and “The Child Who Favors Daughter” the prose is poetry, or, prose and poetry run together to add a new dimension to the language. But the most that I would say about where I am trying to go is this: I am trying to arrive at that place where black music already is; to arrive at that unself-conscious sense of collective oneness; that naturalness, that (even when anguished) grace.

  The writer—like the musician or painter—must be free to explore, otherwise she or he will never discover what is needed (by everyone) to be known. This means, very often, finding oneself considered “unacceptable” by masses of people who think that the writer’s obligation is not to explore or to challenge, but to second the masses’ motions, whatever they are. Yet the gift of loneliness is sometimes a radical vision of society or one’s people that has not previously been taken into account. Toomer was, I think, a lonely, wandering man, accustomed to being tolerated and misunderstood—a man who made choices many abhorred—and yet, Cane is a great reward; though Toomer himself probably never realized it.

  The same is true of Zora Neale Hurston. She is probably more honest in her fieldwork and her fiction than she is in her autobiography, because she was hesitant to reveal how different she really was. It is interesting to contemplate what would have been the result and impact on black women—since 1937—if they had read and taken to heart Their Eyes Were Watching God. Would they still be as dependent on material things—fine cars, furs, big houses, pots and jars of face creams—as they are today? Or would they, learning from Janie that materialism is the dragrope of the soul, have become a nation of women immune (to the extent that is possible in a blatantly consumerist society like ours) to the accumulation of things, and aware, to their core, that love, fulfillment as women, peace of mind, should logically come before, not after, selling one’s soul for a golden stool on which to sit. Sit and be bored.

  Hurston’s book, t
hough seemingly apolitical, is, in fact, one of the most radical novels (without being a tract) we have. Although I am constantly involved, internally, with religious questions—and I seem to have spent all of my life rebelling against the church and other people’s interpretations of what religion is—the truth is probably that I don’t believe there is a God, although I would like to believe it. Certainly I don’t believe there is a God beyond nature. The world is God. Man is God. So is a leaf or a snake … So, when Grange Copeland refuses to pray at the end of the book, he is refusing to be a hypocrite. All his life he has hated the church and taken every opportunity to ridicule it. He has taught his granddaughter, Ruth, this same humorous contempt. He does, however, appreciate the humanity of man-womankind as a God worth embracing. To him, the greatest value a person can attain is full humanity, which is a state of oneness with all things, and a willingness to die (or to live) so that the best that has been produced can continue to live in someone else. He “rocked himself in his own arms to a final sleep” because he understood that man is alone—in his life as in his death—without any God but himself (and the world).

  Like many, I waver in my convictions about God, from time to time. In my poetry I seem to be for; in my fiction, against.

  I am intrigued by the religion of the Black Muslims. By what conversion means to black women, specifically, and what the religion itself means in terms of the black American past: our history, our “race memories,” our absorption of Christianity, our changing of Christianity to fit our needs. What will the new rituals mean? How will this new religion imprint itself on the collective consciousness of the converts? Can women be free in such a religion? Is such a religion, in fact, an anachronism? So far I have dealt with this interest in two stories, “Roselily,” about a young woman who marries a young Muslim because he offers her respect and security, and “Everyday Use,” a story that shows respect for the “militance” and progressive agricultural programs of the Muslims, but at the same time shows skepticism about a young man who claims attachment to the Muslims because he admires the rhetoric. It allows him to acknowledge his contempt for whites, which is all he believes the group is about.