Post #4: Schuyler and the Art of Predicting Technology

The aspect of George S. Schuyler’s two serialized novels, The Black Internationale  and Black Empire, which intrigued me the most were the inventions and science with which the followers of the insidious Dr. Belsidus conquered Africa and became a world power. The first of these is Hydroponic farming. 

The Black Internationale’s Sam Hamilton, a chemist, devised the means to grow crops without soil:

One can best describe it by calling it a mile-square rectangle of cement, gridironed by cement dikes a hundred yards apart. These gridirons converted the artificial lake or reservoir into contiguous pools, each about…four feet deep and half filled with greenish water in which plants were growing in serried rows. At intervals of about two feet, slender concrete posts were spaced across the pools and…On to these the plants clung. (48)

Hamilton, at Slater’s questioning, goes on to explain that the pools are kept at proper temperature through the use of steam and that the water is enriched with “chemical food, the same elements vegetables extract from the soil” (49). In the foreword, John A. Williams observes that “[hydroponic farming] was[n’t ] recognized as a viable method to grow food until the Israelis began to use it, mainly through the drip process, after 1948” (xiii).

However, it turns out that hydroponic farming was nothing new, by any means; the growingedge.com article “History of Hydroponics” cites Howard M. Resh: “The hanging gardens of Babylon, the floating gardens of the Aztecs of Mexico and those of the Chinese are examples of ‘Hydroponic’ culture. Egyptian hieroglyphic records dating back several hundred years B.C. describe the growing of plants in water.” But in modern terms, arizona.edu writes that “In the U.S., interest began to develop in the possible use of complete nutrient solutions about 1925” but that “While there was commercial interest in the use of such systems, hydroponics was not widely accepted due to the high cost in construction of the concrete growing beds.” In a different page from the samesource, variations on the hydroponic system are described, sounding shockingly similar to the fields devised by Schuyler’s Hamilton. The only substantial  difference is that the temperature is maintained by greenhouses as opposed to steam power.

In a twisted, contradictory sort of way, this recalls Carl Slater’s musings mid-flight en route to New York:

Physically, we live in the Twentieth Century; psychologically, we live many thousands of years ago. We come into this world made for a life as huntsman or herdsman and find ourselves in an environment of whirling machines, confusion upon confusion for the sake of order…” (94)

While this passage is actually Slater inwardly whining about the complications of courting an active, independent woman (which, naturally, brings up its own issues in context), I think it can also be taken as an overarching theme for the novel as a whole, and especially for this issue. While Schuyler is undoubtedly trying to make an anti-machine age statement with this quote, it also emphasizes the ancient elements of his future, from the historical origins of Hydroponic farming, the Egyptian themes evident in Belsidus’ opulent chambers and the spectacle of the Temple of Love to the cyclic nature of history and conquest.

Questions

1. How do we reconcile the repetition of history evident in Dr. Belsidus’ re-conquering of Africa? His role as dictator/emperor? His attitudes toward Fascism and how he also resembles a Fascist?

2. What other factors in Black Empire can be said to look back (historically) while also moving forward? What about in the other books we have read so far?

Just a Thought...

What with the themes of race mixing in both Imperium in Imperio and Of One Blood, this seemed really pertinent. It also has a lot to say about how identity is, largely, what you as an individual (and, of course, what other people) "see," as was brought up in class. Enjoy.

"Black and White Twins" by Joanna Moorhead

Blog Post #3: Un-Romance in Of One Blood

One of the aspects which struck me the most about Pauline Hopkins’ Of One Blood was the use of Romantic or Romantic-adjacent devices in the story.

One of the first devices I noticed was the use of the weather. Right from the first page, the use of the weather mirrors the attitude – or, as Hopkins might have it, the ‘temperament’ – of the main character: “It was the first week in November and it had rained about every day the entire week; now freezing temperature added to the discomfiture of the dismal season. …Briggs could have told you that the bareness and desolateness of the apartment were like his life…" (1). Hopkins even goes so far as to acknowledge this fact. In chapter II, one of the concert goers jokes about just that: “Great crowd for such a night,” observed one. “The weather matches your face, Briggs; why didn’t you leave it outside? Why do you look so down?” (12). This direct acknowledgement is unusual for such a device, and I can’t recall Hopkins using it again in the rest of the novel. In light of that, the use of the weather and its acknowledgement almost seems like a literary joke.

The other device which I noticed was that of the ideal form in parallel to the ideal being. Two examples especially stand out in my mind. One is of Briggs:

Mother nature had blessed Reuel Briggs with superior physical endowments… No one could fail to notice the vast breadth of shoulder, the strong throat that upheld a plain face, the long limbs, the sinewy hands. His head was that of an athlete, with close-set ears, and covered with an abundance of black hair, straight and closely cut…the nose was of aristocratic feature…his skin was white, but of a tint suggesting olive…His large mouth concealed powerful long white teeth which gleamed through lips even and narrow, parting generally in a smile…indeed Briggs’ smile changed the plain face at once into one that interested and fascinated men and women. …His eyes were a very bright and piercing gray, courageous, keen and shrewd. Briggs was not a man to be despised—physically or mentally. (3-4)

Though there are parts of his description which would render him less of the Romantic “ideal,” like the long teeth and the large mouth, or the fact that his face is “plain,” Hopkins concludes her description with the positives: that his smile makes him remarkable and that he is not to be despised. These are significant features because he turns out to be Ergamenes, the lost King of Telassar and Messiah of Ethiopia. He follows the Romantic assertion that beauty equals goodness. Period. But that’s not the end of what’s going on.

Aubrey Livingston should also be considered under this light. When he first appears, she notes “The voice was soft and musical. …The light revealed a tall man with the beautiful face of a Greek God” (6) and, later, says “…the beauty of his fair hair and blue eyes was never more marked as he stood there in the gleam of the fire…” (18). However, Hopkins also lets the reader know immediately that there’s something to be wary about: “…the sculpted features did not inspire confidence. There was that in the countenance of Aubrey Livingston that engendered doubt” (6). While Reuel’s description (and, arguably, Dianthe’s) mirrors the goodness and beauty device of the Romantics, Aubrey defeats it and does so immediately. The reader is given little concrete description of him except that he is Aryan-looking and is reminiscent of a Greek God, but Hopkins seems to bring it up often, as though the reader might forget: this is significant because of how awful he turns out to be. In doing so, she effectively both uses and subjugates this device.


Questions

1. How does the description of Dianthe Lusk (14) interact with the Romantic device of beauty and goodness? How does her being a soprano contribute to this image? What is the significance of Hopkins’ giving Dianthe the most prestigious position in the choir?

2. In what other ways could it be said that Hopkins is either employing or subjugating established literary devices or conventions? To what end?

Post #2 - Imperium in Imperio and and Examination of Mythic Language

While there is no doubt of its relevancy, there is some argument, and rightly so, of whether or not Sutton E. Griggs’ novel, Imperium in Imperio: A Study of the Negro Race, fits into the genre of sci-fi. While I would argue that for its time, Imperium was indeed a vision of an alternate or unbelievable future and is therefore a SF participant, that isn’t what intrigued me about this novel. In the first half (chapters I – X), there is a heavy sense of the novel as a series of episodic moral tales as well as mythic or fairytale-like language.

It was this language which intrigued me right from the beginning. In the prologue, entitled “Berl Trout’s Dying Declaration,” Berl states:

In the bottom of some old forsaken well, so reads our law, I shall be buried, face downward, without a coffin; and my body, lying thus, will be transfixed with a wooden stave. Fifty feet from the well into which my body is lowered, a red flag is to be hoisted and kept floating there for time unending, to warn all generations of men to come not near the air polluted by the rotting carcass of a vile traitor. (7)

This struck me immediately as a very folkloric sentence. In my studies of vampire folklore, it appeared more than once that it was practice to transfix the body of the alleged vampire into the ground. Doing so didn’t kill them – sorry, Buffy, no snarl and poof of dust – it just fixed them there, undead and still hungry, but unable to move. Treating a traitor in this same way shocked me, but it also has a powerful implication: if he is fixed down, he, and his way of thinking, are both unable to rise, but they still live. If his executioners didn’t fear that his treachery might return, why would they take such care to symbolically abolish it, going so far as to warn people away from the air he “polluted” like an infection? (It’s worth noting here that some cultures also thought vampirism to be catching, as a disease.) He is elevated to a kind of mythic status through these devices.

On a bit of a different note, Berl also asserts “I…pronounce myself a patriot” and cites the trope of a small evil for a greater good (7).  This is also folkloric in a general sense and recalls fairytale and myth.

The strongest fairytale connection, however, comes with the introduction of Belton. His “costume” is carefully noted, calling attention to his mismatched trousers and his coat, which was “literally a conglomeration of patches of varying sizes and colors” (10). Both of these recall the figure of the fool, often represented as the two-tone jester, as well as images of the parti-colored ensemble of Commedia’s Arlecchino.

However, the real fairytale implication doesn’t arrive until the bottom of the page: “A man of tact, intelligence, and superior education moving in the midst of a mass of ignorant people, ofttimes has a sway more absolute than that of monarchs. Belton now entered the school-room, which in his case proves to be the royal court, whence he emerges an uncrowned king” (10). This concept of the fool-king recalls not only cultural rituals and holidays of social reversal (or inversion), but evoke the sort of fantastical transformation one expects of myths and fairytales.

This fairytale structure is reinforced by the episodic nature of the chapters, several of which have a sort of moral lesson to be learned by the characters. The end of the first chapter, for example, offers the proverbial ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ Chapter III’s ending suggests that only the difficult things are truly worth it (18). The end of chapter IV concludes in proverbial language of its own, “Sometimes, even a worm will turn when trod upon” (24). The end of chapter V teaches never to generalize a single group of associated people together (28). The most important lesson appears not at the end of a chapter, but rather in the middle of chapter VII and the beginning of chapter X, with the lesson on revenge (40, 57). These moral conclusions come with the understanding that the reader will take the same lesson away with them, after the manner of an Aesopian fable.


Questions:
1. If Imperium in Imperio does indeed bring fairytales into conversation with Sci-Fi as a genre, how do they mix? Or is there an inherent conflict between these structures? Is there anything else you have read that reflects a mix of this kind?

2. How does Imperium in Imperio come into conversation with the structure of the Hero’s Journey? Does this contribute to its mythic status, or does it contribute to its SF affiliations? Is it possible that it aids both?

Post #1 - Samuel Delaney and The Pretended

“…The flashing lights, the dials, and the rest of the imagistic paraphernalia of science fiction functioned as social signs—signs people learned to read very quickly. They signaled technology. And technology was like the placard on the door saying, “Boys club! Girls, keep out. Blacks and Hispanics and the poor in general, go away! … The miniature technology you cite is not a shiny, glittering, polished technology. Above all, it comes in matte-black, plastic boxes. From the beepers, the Walkmen, the Diskmen, through the biggest ghetto blaster—the stuff put forward as portable is not chromium. It’s black. With the exception of the silver CD (which, to become functional, must be slipped into its black-encased digital reader), this is a very different set of signifiers from the sparkling bus bars, the quivering dials, and the fuming beakers of science fiction.” (Delaney 188, 192)

In his interview with Mark Dery, Samuel R. Delaney argues that these social signals contained within the images of technology in Science Fiction are part of what used to keep, and potentially what still keeps, black readers, and therefore black writers, away from the genre. However, in the case of the short story “The Pretended” by Darryl A. Smith, he turns this dichotomy on its head and uses it for his own purposes. Rather than allowing the logic of technology to lock him out, he uses it to make his statements.

The future technology the short story focuses on is a sort of AI – or at least human-level intelligence androids. This is the only technology he spends time describing, so that is what I will focus on as his technology of the future, regardless of whether or not chromium ‘keep out’ technologies exist in the extended world of “The Pretended.”

First off, he makes it plain right away that the androids are meant to resemble black people and/or be black people depending on how far along in the story it is mentioned. Secondly, he eliminates even the possibility of a white technology by basing the creation of the robots in guilt and denial: so that humankind can keep pretending both that they never committed the atrocity they did, and so that they can continue to pretend that ‘black aint people.’ Creating white robots would be counterintuitive in this case. Mnemosyne drives this point home: “…White robots. Think of it! White skin over brains made of light. White skin over platinum bones, over crystal-clear blood wid sparkles! That would be so beautiful, Eve! You’d just have to touch a machine like that! …they wouldn’t have to pretend they was God. God’s just what they would be…” (367-8).

In a way, the inclusion of this passage plays into what Samuel R. Delaney is saying about the technology of Science Fiction: that white technology is the desirable technology, and a technology that therefore estranges readers of color. However, by playing with the concept of white technology being impossible in the world setup of a story, Smith relegates the technology of science fiction into the realm of the “matte-black, plastic boxes” Delaney refers to, in effect giving this denied access back.

But it isn’t really as simple as that. Smith has also chosen black technology to make a point, to parallel what “Last Angel of History” termed social reality. It is only through this choice that his point comes across, as it is by grace of the fact that the main characters are robots that they can see the situation clearly: not only is Mnemosyne automatically privy to information about the implied genocide dubbed the ‘Methodote’ because of some kind of glitch, Diva Eve insists, “...You pretend you’re black and people at the same time. They tried to make it so you couldn’t do that. But they couldn’t. You always doin both. Cause they the same thing. Can’t no robot pretend two things is different when they aint. But people? People can pretend two things is different when they aint sure enough” (362). By stripping the situation of its emotional connotations, by technologizing it, Smith lays his thoughts out in fairly direct terms: if the world (read: America) doesn’t stop pretend that ‘black aint people,’ the results can, and will, be catastrophic.

Questions:

How does Delaney’s distinction between black technology and white technology interact with Nisi Shawl’s “Deep End?” Does it play into Delaney’s setup, or does it subvert it after the fashion of “The Pretended?”

How does the concept of the lullaby factor in to Smith’s scheme of dehumanization-through-technology? Does it seem out of place? Is it appropriate?

And an off-topic question, just for fun: Both Nisi Shawl and Darryl A. Smith reference Greek mythology heavily (the Psyche Moth, Mnemosyne, the myth of Galatea). What do you suppose makes these ancient stories vital to pieces set in the future? Does this have anything to do with the concept that “[one] can be backward-looking and forward-thinking at the same time” (Dery 211)?

Christina Van Dyke's The Hunger Games and Philosophy: Discipline and the Docile Body

Dr. Christina Van Dyke of Calvin College, whose interests range from medieval philosophy to the philosophy and politics gender, visited my university today to present her paper "The Hunger Games and Philosophy: Discipline and the Docile Body." Recently published in the book The Hunger Games and Philosophy: A Critique of Pure Treason, she began her presentation with the disclaimer that her discussion would indeed involve spoilers (as will this blog, be warned), and that she agreed to write this paper on a dare. For a dare, I'd say it turned out pretty well.

Van Dyke lectured primarily on social norms, how they come about, and how they control people, as well as the systems of social norms in the Captiol of Panem, Katniss' District 12, and of the militant District 13.

The main parallel she drew was that the way the Capitol controls its people ultimately has the same effect as the way District 13 controls its people. While the Capitol conditions its people to channel self-expression and individuality through lavish fashion trends, parties and entertainment, District 13 accounts for every moment of every one of its citizen's time, forcing its people to channel their individuality through habitual adherence to the rules and regulations of the compound. In both cases, the citizens are rendered 'docile,' unable or unwilling to make their own choices in life. Neither of these systems is, therefore, acceptable to Katniss, who wants to live her own life outside of the social and political ends she has been used for throughout the trilogy.

Ultimately, this is not quite a stretch. In Mockingjay, a substantial amount of time is spent on the fact that Katniss, after she has run her course of usefulness, is considered a threat to the revolution precisely because she doesn't fully support District 13's President Coin. It's even hinted at that Katniss might have been assassinated by Coin's soldiers once her time was up, in order to make a martyr out of her and therefore to be able to continue to use her face and story to inspire support in Coin's regime. There is a running parallel in the novel that Katniss is still a part of the games - even if she is out of the arena, other people are still keeping her in the dark, using her as a pawn to act out their own plans and schemes. There's a parallel between Presidents Coin and Snow from the get-go, so why shouldn't their regimes have the same effects? It makes sense with the themes of Mockingjay, even culminates with Katniss' choice to assassinate Coin rather that Snow when she had the chance: Coin's regime was no better, and Katniss knew it.

One of the things she didn't touch on - probably didn't have room to - was that the Capitol and District 13 are, essentially, in a Cold War. The only reason District 13 survived was that it was the District which produced nuclear weapons, and they armed them and pointed them at the Capitol, so the Capitol did the same. The degree to which the Capitol has control over its people through the aforementioned pursuits/distractions must be monumental, to miss not only a state of Cold War as well as active bombardment of District 13 and deployment of "Peacekeepers" to the rebelling districts.

As it happens, the concept of alienation and estrangement is a central theme to this story. As Van Dyke discussed, Katniss and the other people of the districts seem at the very least abnormal, probably subhuman to the heavily modified and fashion-obsessed people of the capitol in the same manner that the people of the capitol seem like strange, colorful birds to Katniss. Despite the fact she volunteered, it could easily be said that hers, too, is a story of abduction: she is reaped by the socioeconomically dominant culture, thrust into a culture so foreign it might as well be on a different planet, and is finally made to fight for her survival to the death, becoming both a sacrifice and a pop culture icon in that alien culture. Her story ultimately has an end which is nothing less than idyllic, but these themes are still, arguably, the core of her story.

For a post on the Hunger Games series and as a phenomenon, please see tangential's big sister: Hyperbole.

Layered Question Redux: Response

"How does Harry Bittering react to being stranded on Mars and to the gradual assimilation of his friends and family? discuss how his reaction relates to the concept of "the other." What might his reaction suggest about the social climate of the United States in 1949 (postwar culture)?"

In the beginning of Ray Bradbury's short story "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed," harry Bittering is filled with dread, fearing the loss of his identity, soul, intellect, and past (131) - in short, fearing change. This fear is introduced by his panic when confronted with the behaviors of the Earth plants growing up in Martian soil. He clings to these fears throughout the majority of the story, and his reaction to the carefree men in the town exemplifies it: "Bittering wanted to cry. "You've to work with me. If we stay here, we'll all change. The air. Don't you smell it? Something in the air..."" (135).

Bittering's fears are also grounded in the concept of "otherness" or "the other." As a character, he identifies strongly as an earth man - "...We don't belong here. We're Earth people. This is Mars. It was meant for the Martians. For heaven's sake, Cora, let's buy tickets for home!" (131) - and the foreignness of Mars causes him to fear the loss of that identity. Rather than fearing the other in and of itself, he fears becoming the "other," fears being assimilated into the "other". This quality strikes me as odd: it wasn't a dynamic I was expecting. It becomes even stranger as the other characters are assimilated around him, introducing a duality to the qualities of "otherness" in the story - even before the people of the town are 'dark and golden-eyed,' Bittering is the only one who seems to be bothered by the turn of events in the war. He has effectively become the "other" as far as the town is concerned, but in his eyes the 'foreign' entity is the majority.

This story seems, to me, to have a lot to say about McCarthyism/the Second Red Scare. "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed" was published in 1949, in the second year of the decade-long event, which fostered an atmosphere of fear and nationalism in the United States. But before I continue in that vein, there's one bit of housework to do: where are the Bitterings from? Other than identifying as "Earth people," there is no explicit comment on where the family comes from. On 132 it's made clear that the Rockets in New York are destroyed and that the family  is therefore stranded on Mars, and on 140 Cora asks her daughter, "What about your New York dresses?" implying that they at least passed through that city. However, based on the names chosen by the settlers for the landscape (Hormel, Roosevelt, Ford, Vanderbilt, Rockefeller) it's probably safe to say that all of the Martian settlers are Americans.

I think that the family's origin is important because this story comments on McCarthyism in more than one way. The concept of immigrating to another location (country or planet) and fearing the forces already in place recalls the heavy suspicion automatically placed on immigrants to America in this time. This concept is demonstrated by  Bittering's conception of "ghosts" and his bidding the hidden Martians to "Come down, move us out! We're helpless!" (134). By making the Americans the immigrants causes a reversal in this construction. They are no longer staunch in their right to the place they are in.

The name-changing scene on 139 is quite the contrast. After Dan asks his parents if he can go by the name "Linnl" instead, Bittering "...thought of the silly rocket, himself working alone, himself alone even among this family, so alone." This is significant because throughout the story Bittering is convinced that it's Mars itself, a climate or atmosphere, which is slowly changing the people around him, which recalls the feared 'inevitable' spread of communism which extended from the end of WWII until at least the end of the Vietnam debacle. Additionally, his sense of loneliness recalls the atmosphere caused by the second Red Scare and the presence of the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC): effectively, no-one could trust the people around them, because communists are everywhere. In "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed," Bittering cannot trust anyone around him because none of them feel the threat of intellectual and spiritual annihilation which he perceives.

The element of this story I find most intriguing is that Bittering's resistance is eventually overcome by a kind of tranquility. There are lots of words which contribute to this feeling: "He was too tired to be afraid" (138), "peace" (138), "Slow, deep, silent change" (138), "refreshing" (139), "...lazy in the heat" (140). The question which this brings up for me is: was this tranquility designed to instill horror at the character's submission, or incorporate the reader into it, effectively obliterating the need for fear of change? Personally, I was made calm as Bittering calmed, probably aided by the use of these soft, decidedly non-panicked, non-menacing words. Hopefully it was able to have the same effect in 1949.